Part 3- "Quincy Jones - A Morning Light" by Raymond Horricks

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

3

“I examined Quincy's leather travelling grip when we met in London in 1957. As if in defiance of the grey July day, it was bright with colour: stuck over with labels of all sizes and shapes from the different countries where music had taken him. There were so many of them that at first I thought the grip had served several musicians. However, this wasn't so. They all tied in with Quincy's movements, and little by little, pausing over first one and then another, I followed the pattern of his working life.

The American cities he'd passed through with Hampton as a musical apprentice of seventeen. Canada and Mexico, Paris and Western Europe, the Scandinavian countries, and then North Africa: the extent of his 1953 touring with Hampton. Athens, the Middle East and on to Pakistan with Dizzy Gillespie's band; then back to New York before setting off on a South American tour with Gillespie. Each told of something achieved, of some new experience befallen the musician. The last batch of labels proclaimed his return to Paris, as staff arranger for Nicole Barclay, and with the intention of studying composition privately under the aged Nadia Boulanger, intimate associate of Igor Stravinsky and musical and spiritual leader for several of the world's finest composers.

It was while I was examining the grip, and inwardly reflecting that at twenty-four Quincy was already one of the most-travelled musicians in jazz, that he said I didn't look like a writer.

"You know," and his smile was disarming, "I've always imagined a writer as someone — well, someone kinda fat, who peers out at you from behind thick-lensed glasses, and has a lot of awkward questions for you."

I straightened up at that, fast. Any second now, I thought, and he's going to say how spare I look. I'd better change the subject. So I pointed at the grip, and said — if a little obviously — that he'd collected more travel labels in the few months he was with Dizzy's band than he had in the rest of his life.

He said "yes" to this, and then, almost without realizing it, I had a load of questions for him about this band. Not awkward questions, as it happened, because Quincy has a retentive memory — and he is an easy conversationalist, with an alert way of speaking and an almost Max Beerbohm-ish sense of humour. Questions, though, that let him lead me 'backstage' where this unique band was concerned; to learn, if posthumously, of the part he had played as its musical director.

In recalling the conversation we had then, I find there are a few facts with which I need to preface it. In the first place, the 1956 tour of the Middle East by the Dizzy Gillespie big band was sponsored by the United States Government.

The State Department, recognizing that jazz music was an important cultural export — perhaps a means of improving international relations—authorized The American National Theatre Academy to send a sizeable jazz unit overseas as part of its $2,500,000 propaganda programme.

It was Professor Marshall Stearns, founder of The Institute of Jazz Studies in New York, who suggested building a big band about Dizzy Gillespie, the greatest modern trumpeter, and at that time without a band of his own. This was ultimately approved, and Stearns himself was retained as a lecturer to go with the band. Plans went ahead for the band to leave New York in the late spring of 1956.

Because the State Department had agreed to underwrite the difference between the tour's cost and its receipts the band had a sure start. It missed meeting those characters, straight out of the pages of Scott Fitzgerald, who usually get their hands on a big band venture. The money was there to pay for arrangements, uniforms, travel tickets, everything. Salaries for sidemen were to be generous, and this too was important, for it meant that the band would have noted soloists which the normal big band (Ellington and Basie apart) cannot afford. But there was one problem: the non-availability of Gillespie himself at the time the band was to go into rehearsal.

Though overjoyed at the prospect of fronting a big band (and at a salary rumoured to be near that of the U.S. President) the trumpeter was contracted to tour Europe in the spring of 1956 with Norman Granz's "Jazz At The Philharmonic" unit. After much debate it was finally agreed that Dizzy should make the tour with Granz — and in his absence the actual organization of the new band be entrusted to a deputy, Quincy Jones. Though already arranging for the band, and busily practising trumpet after hardly touching the instrument in two years, he had to find time to hire the musicians and then go down and rehearse them.

RH. Those must have been the busiest few weeks of your life, even more than when you were in Europe with Hampton.

QJ. So right. I was kept as busy as a one-armed wallpaper hanger with lice. I scored Jessica's Day, Rocking Chair, The Champ, School Days, I Can't Get Started, Night In Tunisia and Hey, Pete (which we used to play with the stage lights off during the Middle East tour).

RH. Ernie Wilkins also scored for the band. Dizzy's Business adapted

from a movement of The Drum Suite was one of his, I remember. And Doodlin’ the Horace Silver blues. Was he able to take charge of any rehearsals for you ?

QJ. No. Ernie was busy making The Drum Suite and the Andy Kirk albums for RCA Victor. I was even lucky to get him to rehearsals. Up until a week before leaving, deep inside I was not sure about Ernie going — but he didn't let me down. I had the rehearsal headache alone for two weeks, planning two concert programmes, getting the music written and getting it rehearsed. Lorraine, Dizzy's wife, was of great assistance. She was behind me all the way too, in every decision I made.

RH. Where in New York did the band do its rehearsing?

QJ. At Ames' Studios on 52nd and 7th Avenue.

RH. Were the musicians paid by the State Department at this stage, or did they have to fit in the rehearsals between their other paid work ?

QJ. The rehearsals were paid for, fortunately — and this helped to get the full respect of all the musicians involved. But the payments were almost cut the last week—a misunderstanding on some official's part. Four days to go before the tour started and the money stopped! We made it though!

RH. Then there was the problem of several musicians you wanted for the band not being available at the time of the tour.

QJ. Well, the original band Dizzy and I decided on in New York had Idrees Sulieman and Ermet Perry as the other two trumpets; Melba Liston, Jimmy Cleveland and Frank Rosolino, trombones; Gigi Gryce, Ernie Wilkins, Lucky Thompson, Jerome Richardson and Sahib Shihab, saxophones; Walter Bishop, piano; Nelson Boyd, bass; Charlie Persip, drums; and a Cuban conga drummer called 'Potato'.

Anyway, it was a good idea — too damn good. Money, previous commitments, and a thousand and one other reasons prevented me moulding the band with these men. All kinds of guys were hitting on me to get places in the band, of course, and half of them were probably great but I had to be sure — there was no room for any chances. Lucky Thompson couldn't get back from Paris in time. Gigi Gryce changed his mind about going after he'd already called one replacement, who'd called another replacement. Finally, in desperation, I called Phil Woods long distance on the Birdland tour, and he accepted the alto solo book.

When the band was finally settled I had Ermet Perry, Joe Gordon, Carl Warwick and myself as the trumpets; Melba Listen, Frank Rehak and Rod Levitt, trombones; Phil Woods, Jimmy Powell, Ernie Wilkins, Billy Mitchell and Marty Flax, saxophones; and the same rhythm section as planned.

I happened on several of the men quite accidentally. Rod Levitt had played in my band in Seattle. I hadn't seen him in five or six years, and then one day I was walking home and met him in the street in New York. There and then I asked him if he'd go to the Middle East with Dizzy Gillespie. At first he thought I was crazy. But I knew he was a good bass trombonist and a wonderful musician too. So I asked him again. When he realized I was serious he agreed.

For tenor I first tried to get Budd Johnson. Then he became the contractor for Benny Goodman's band, so that was that. I tried to find Benny Golson, on tour in Florida with Earl Bostic—no luck. Jerome Richardson had accepted, but between times he was called by the Roxy house band, one of the first Negroes ever to be in the house band there. I couldn't halt that kind of progress, could I ? Finally, I thought of a guy I'd heard on records and at sessions at The Bluebird in Detroit. It was a long shot, but worth a try. Billy Mitchell, he was called. I sat down at the 'phone to call Thad Jones who'd played in Detroit with him and who I thought might have his number. Suddenly the 'phone rang on me, and who should it be but Billy! Cannonball Adderley had passed through Detroit with his band and told Billy about my problem. So he was hired.

Frank Rehak was working with his father as a plumber but wanted to play trombone again, so he was hired. Joe Gordon was with Herb Pomeroy's big band in Boston, and I stole him! Dizzy had set Melba Listen and the rhythm section before he left for Europe. And Carl Warwick too, who was an old childhood buddy of his. 

RH. Did you have to turn away anyone you'd have liked to have in

the band? 

Q.J. After it was too late, as you'd expect, I had offers from all kinds

of guys! Milt Hinton was one. Wow!

RH. That must have been a real disappointment, both for them and for you.

Another point, Quincy. With the kind of shouting brass figures

that Wilkins and Melba Liston as well as yourself were writing for the band, how exactly did you distribute the demanding lead trumpet parts?

QJ. Ermet Perry played most of the lead trumpet parts. He's like a rock. Joe Gordon played lead on Cool Breeze. I played lead on I Can't Get Started, My Reverie, Flamingo and Yesterdays — all the ballads, in fact, because my chops were tired. Rehak played all the trombone leads (great too!)

RH. I noted that Dizzy had all the trumpet section change to the 45-degree angle instrument he'd developed. With all its bells pointing upwards and outwards like that the section must have disseminated its sounds better.

QJ. I found the 45-degree angle horn better for reading too. And it added a 3rd to the top register. I got pretty used to it after a while.

RH. After hiring the right musicians — the men you knew would make it musically — you had to find out at the rehearsals if they got on together. What I mean is, a collection of great performers don't of necessity make a great band — not if they can't get on together as human beings. And yet you can't apply too much discipline, simply because they are human beings; if you try to hold down strong personalities you take the edge off their natural enthusiasms. And this starts to show when they play then. Did you have any conflicting temperaments to reconcile?

QJ. There were no tempers. The guys were on guard, and were the best disciplined band I ever fronted at rehearsals. I even remember most of the guys showing up for rehearsals at the height of the blizzard with arms full of injections. (No, not dope; we had no narcotics problems with the band, but shots for typhoid, etc.) We got an almost impossible job done, thanks to their enthusiasm.

RH. What route did you take when the band left New York?

Well, let's see now. We left New York, by air, and picked up Dizzy in Rome. He was there waiting at the airport with his 45-degree angle horn out—and playing Sweet Lorraine for his wife, who'd come with us. He had no idea who was in the band unt we got out of the plane. It was funny when he saw cats like Joe Gordon and Billy Mitchell — he was quite surprised. Once the tour began Dizzy solidified the band's morale. It was as if a flock of sheep had at last found its shepherd. And Dizzy's sense of humour knows no limits. 

RH.  And then it was on to work in the more intense heat of the Middle East.

QJ. Yes. So right. We balled all the way down to Abadan, Persia-Dacca, Pakistan—Karachi, Pakistan—Beirut, Lebanon—Damascus, Syria—one other city in or near Syria, I forget the name of it—Ankara, Turkey—Istanbul, Turkey—Belgrade, Yugoslavia— Zagreb, Yugoslavia—and finally, Athens. Flying all the way, of course.

RH. Was there anyone to look after the band while it was there? You know, the luggage, and that sort of thing.

QJ. Yes. Dizzy's cousin, Boo Fraizer (Boo's Blues). He was a disc-jockey in North Carolina and he took a leave of absence to be our band boy. He's a groovy little cat too. There wasn't a lot of work for him to do though. We hung out together a lot.

RH. Once in the Middle East the concerts brought you in contact with so many different peoples, each with its own traditions and way of life. On account of these, the audience reception must have varied perceptibly between the cities you visited. Often you were representing the culture of the newest civilization in the world in cities with cultural traditions of their own going back more than 2,000 years. And political attitudes too. When you played in Athens the anti-Western feeling over the Cyprus situation was at its worst.

Q.J. Well, thinking back, I'd say Athens was the most unmusical of the cities we went to. And our stay there wasn't too pleasant because of a cultural attache (an American) who didn't appreciate jazz—and who let us know it as often as he could.

On the other hand, Belgrade was a bitch. There was a wonderful radio orchestra there which we loved to listen to. The musicians were very warm and friendly. They reminded us very much of musicians in New York, which was surprising, because the Yugoslavs have only been allowed to dig jazz for the last eight years.

RH. Which reminds me of Marshall Stearns' story of the communist party member in Yugoslavia who, after meeting the band, exclaimed in wonderment, "But you're all so unorganized—until you begin to play." The band's team spirit and coordinated swing, without its keeping a tight rein on outstanding individuals, represented a new kind of freedom for him.

QJ.  Yes. In Yugoslavia we had some of our most enthusiastic audiences. Perhaps they spoiled us for Athens which came after them.

RH. And Persia ? How did you find it there ?

QJ. Persia was very, very crude. It was still like five hundred years ago there. The audiences were very warm though, once they caught on to what we were doing. When we arrived, we found they hadn't even heard of Louis Armstrong! We felt very close to them, and to the people of Pakistan, mainly because of a link we found between the rhythms in their native music and the rhythms in ours.

RH. U.S.I.S. had made all the arrangements for the tour, of course,

QJ. The lay-out of the tour made everything look good. We always had good hotels. But we all got 'Karachi tummy' when we were in Pakistan, and Charlie Persip went down so bad with it that we had to use a Pakistani drummer part of the time.

RH. Marshall Stearns, reporting on the poverty that was everywhere the band played, mentioned you giving away a suit of clothes.

QJJ. That was in Persia. Billy Mitchell and I bought a suit of clothes for a sailor — also shoes. The poor guy earned only $ 1.80 a month in the navy. When we told him how much an American sailor earned he wouldn't believe us.

Everyone was poor in Persia it seemed. The living conditions were quite nasty there. I remember, Ernie Wilkins' saxophone had been misplaced in New York, so when he reached Abadan he went out to borrow one. Wow! He found saxophone players there who had used one reed for more than a year!

RH. Were you able to do any arranging work while actually on the tour?

QJ. Ernie Wilkins was my room-mate after Syria, and we spent a lot of time together trying to force each other into writing. Phil Woods too. He was very interested in learning to arrange. He's a very talented little cat.

RH. Dizzy arranged his Tour De Force for the band in Athens, which surprised me because he must have been kept continually busy as diplomat-extraordinary, meeting people and so on. Still, I can't think of a better choice for this than Dizzy, with his brilliant, natural showmanship, and persistent sense of humour.

QJ. Dizzy was always with cobras or camels or something for personal reasons and publicity purposes, but really I think he enjoyed every minute of it. I expect you saw the famous photograph of Diz blowing the snake-charmer's pipe, and the snake draped around his neck. Well, I bought that pipe afterwards. I have it at home in New York. All kinds of native drums I bought too. My apartment in New York has all sorts of souvenirs from all over the world. It looks like a modern museum. My favourite is the 45-degree trumpet which Dizzy gave me. It was his personal, gold-plated one.

RH. Dizzy can clown, and yet, underneath it all, he manages to remain an idealist. As a man, as well as a musician. That incident in Ankara, when he refused to let the band play at a diplomatic garden party unless the poor children crowding outside the walls were let in. That's typical Dizzy. The band itself, of course, non-segregated, with eight coloured musicians and four white musicians, was designed to break through any colour barriers.

QJ. We certainly couldn't understand why the people in the street in Pakistan were segregated — because they all looked the same colour to us!

RH. That would be the caste system. Something perhaps even more difficult to break through than the colour bar.

QJ. I got slapped by a performing monkey in a Pakistan street. Had a scar on my forehead for a week. I couldn't get a reputable antiseptic so I had to put shaving lotion on it — and didn't it sting!

RH. After the tour, and after the band had returned to New York, it went into Norman Granz' studios, and recorded almost its entire concert programme at one free-wheeling session. Most of the time with first 'takes'. I know that these recordings have been criticized on account of imperfect balances, some internal ones too, but I feel that by letting the session run as freely as a concert the engineers caught something of the band's real life spontaneity, something of the spirit of its public playing. The men knew the scores well, and to have insisted on continual 're-takes' might have taken the edge off their spirit. Might have made the performances seem mechanical. Did you feel this way at the time of the session?

QJ. No. I was disappointed with the session, and having to record seventeen numbers in two hours, all 'first takes' and with no one there in the control room to supervise the session. I think 're-takes' would have improved these particular recordings without spoiling the band's spirit.

RH. I remember your own Jessica's Day, always an interesting score for me, with the small-group ensemble set within the larger ensemble, was one of these performances. Immediately after these sessions didn't Benny Golson at last come into the band?

O.J Yes, Benny joined the band prior to its leaving for South America. As soon as he joined he wrote Stablemates, Whisper Not and several other wonderful things for Dizzy — and he played the end!

Benny was the only change for the South American tour, after Ernie Wilkins had dropped out. I was out of the band for a while when we got back from the Middle East. I had some writing to do, and as the band was playing theatres, playing only two or three tunes at each show, the library wasn't really marred by a change of personnel. Ronald Jones Jnr. (son of Basie's former lead man) deputized for me then. I knew the South American tour was coming off though, and while I was out of the band I'd play a little trumpet at home each day just to keep my chops in order.

RH. Where did the South American tour take you ?

QJ. Quito, Ecuador—Guayaquil, Ecuador—Buenos Aires, Argentina —Montevideo, Uruguay—Rio de Janeiro, Brazil—Sao Paulo—and Bella Horizonte, Brazil, Again flying all the way. I met Villa-Lobos in Rio. Benny Golson, Father Crowley and myself all went to his house one afternoon. A profound individual.

RH. That meant you passed through several zones of climate. Did these affect your playing, or were they with you all the way ?

QJ. No, to the last. Exactly the opposite. The climate was all against us. In the Middle East it had been as hot as hell, but hadn't interfered with our playing. In the South Americas it was winter — and as cold as a whore's heart. In Quito we caught hell at an altitude of 5,000 feet. Bad intonation and bad breathing on account of the rarefied atmosphere. Dizzy was smart and let Joe Gordon show off on all the trumpet solos. Joe almost killed himself — he was really ill after the concert, and had to drop out of the band. In Buenos Aires we used a trumpet player called Franco Corvini, but after that we made do with the four trumpets.

RH. One last point, Quincy. Did you, on either one of the tours, come up against any difficulties on account of language?

QJ. No. No language problems at all. Our music acted like an international language, and people everywhere accepted us on account of it. I picked up about twenty words of each language, though, and was really confused at the end of the two tours!”