Philly Joe Jones - Live at Birdland - Fresh Sound FSR-CD 1139

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

“For most people the name of Philly Joe Jones immediately conjures up the classic Miles Davis Quintet/ Sextet of the mid-fifties, that oddly assorted collection of great individuals in which a driving, potentially overpowering rhythm-section was perfectly balanced against the musings of Miles and the still-searching Coltrane. To some people, it may bring to mind Miles's comment: "I wouldn't care if he (Philly Joe) came on the bandstand in his B.V.Ds, and with one arm, just so long as he was there." And I believe it was the late Wynton Kelly who said that, after Joe left the Davis group, his replacement Jimmy Cobb had to suffer Miles telling him repeatedly, in his typically tactful manner, "My favourite drummer is Philly Joe Jones."”

- Brian Priestley, insert notes to Philly Joe Jones: Mo’Joe [Black Lion BLCD760154]

Hi Steve,

Thanks for posting the Philly JJ CD. I hope your readers enjoy these recordings as much as I do. I have had these broadcast tapes from Boris Rose in my archive for over 30 years. I always thought that its quality was not enough to be released commercially. Finally, a few months ago I listened to them again, and I realized how important they were to better understand Philly JJ's career, and to be able to listen to him live, where he found the freedom as a drum master that he had not always achieved in the studio. Despite the shortcomings of the recordings, the result after an arduous restoration work, I think has been worth it, and the true fans of Philly Joe will be happy.

There were two possible options, save the recordings or share them, I chose the second.-You can include this text if you think it is appropriate

Best, Jordi

Radio broadcasts can be problematic and the ones from January 5, 1962 [there is some evidence to support the date of 1.5.1963], February 24, 1962, and March 3, 1962 that form the content for the newly-released Philly Joe Jones Sextet and Quintet Live at Birdland [Fresh Sound FSR-CD 1139] could serve as case studies for the pros and cons of using them as source materials for new, commercial recordings. [For order information go here.]

In this case, the plus side is the ability to hear the iconic drummer Philly Joe Jones at the height of his powers leading exciting small groups with his old running mate Elmo Hope on piano in a rhythm section was bassist Larry Ridley and a host of energetic newcomers to the Jazz scene including trumpeter Dizzy Reece, alto saxophonist Sonny Red, tenor saxophonists John Gilmore and Roland Alexander. The somewhat more experienced Bill Hardman assumes the trumpet chair on the February and March dates.

The downside is the less-than-desirable audio quality which requires some contending with but is worth the effort given the stimulating music produced at these in performance sessions.

In those days, it was unusual but not uncommon for drummers to head up small combos, witness Art Blakey’s Jazz Messengers and the various quartets and quintets led by drummer Max Roach. But these groups were permanent with fixed personnel and club and concert touring schedules whereas Philly Joe was so busy recording with everyone on the New York Jazz scene from c. 1955-1965 that he didn’t have time to head-up a regular group and market it to various venues in NYC and elsewhere in the country.

Unfortunately, too, due to the expense and the relative newness of the technology associated with them, on site recordings, although growing in number, were still relatively uncommon, especially for a pick-up band; one put together expressly for an engagement such as the bands that Philly JJ headed up at Birdland and which feature on this Fresh Sound recording.

Given the somewhat small discography with Philly JJ as leader, these Birdland-based radio broadcasts make a welcome addition to that catalog.

As a note in passing, although it’s listed as I Remember Clifford, Track Two is actually I Can’t Get Started. 

“PHILLY JOE JONES (1923-1985) carried his birthplace as part of his name throughout most of his jazz career in order to avoid confusion with the former Basie star drummer, Jo Jones, who was his first influence.

After performing alongside many of the top names in modern jazz, Joe started gaining widespread recognition for his contributions to Miles Davis's quintet and sextet during 1955-1958.

However, due to his forward-thinking concepts, Philly Joe may well be considered the most controversial drummer in jazz history. At first, Joe's fast-paced and busy intricacies seemed to defeat the ears of critics, but over time they began to recognize and value his approach. The amendment was given a boost, obviously, by Miles Davis's unstinting support.

Typical is Whitney Balliett's praise in an April 1959, New Yorker article, calling Philly "revolutionary," and "a master of silence, dynamics and surprise," and describing his solos as "careful, remarkably graduated structures, full of surprises, varied timbres and good old-fashioned emotion."

By 1962, having solidified his reputation, Philly Joe's foremost aspiration was to lead his own group in live shows whenever the opportunity presented itself.

This compilation unveils previously unreleased recordings from 1962, each capturing the essence of two live radio broadcasts held at New York's Birdland, hosted by the celebrated jazz disc jockey "Symphony Sid" Torin. Throughout these performances, Philly Joe seamlessly melded with a group of musicians who wholeheartedly entrusted their musical journey to his leadership. This synergy resulted in two solid gatherings, elevated by the strong solo contributions of the horn players, highlighted by several compelling solos by Elmo Hope, a piano player who left too few samples of his hard-bop chops, and enriched by Philly Joe's fiercely distinctive style as both a solo drummer and an exceptionally invigorating section player.

Philly Joe's intricate style reverberates through a whole generation of jazz drummers, leaving an indelible mark on their work.

PHILLY JOE JONES was born on July 15, 1923, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and was the youngest of nine children born to Lewis and Amelia Jones. Sadly, Joe's father passed away when he was just about a year old. His mother had to take on work as a domestic to support the family, and amidst these circumstances, Joe's upbringing took shape.

Raised in a racially segregated black neighborhood, Joe's childhood was marked by the supportive care of his sister and brothers. Determined to overcome adversity, Joe found himself contributing to the family's income at a remarkably young age— working as a shoeshine boy, early testimony to his work ethic and resilience.

As he grew up, with the guidance of his mother, he embarked on piano lessons — a modest yet pivotal stride that formed the bedrock of his musical talent. The shift to drums marked a fundamental turning point, driven mainly by his own determination and initiative. His initial artistic leanings even took him to tap dancing before the drums emerged as his passion. "I started playing the drums when I was about nine years old," he reminisces, encapsulating the inception of a musical odyssey that would span his entire lifetime. Even though he underwent formal training for a period, he was primarily self-taught. His unique style came from absorbing the rhythms of other drummers during gatherings in his childhood.

His first drumming influence was his namesake. "Jo Jones was merely a heck of an influence on me when I was a kid. But my mind used to go past Jo Jones because at the same time, the Savoy was hollering, and Chick Webb was playing. Chick was the drummer I used to listen to. I'd be listening to these broadcasts, and my mother used to really holler at me because I kept the radio on all night! I memorized the tune, it's in my mind right now, I could hum the tune the way he played it. I used to listen to the drum solos that he played in between."

At the age of 17, Joe left Central High School, and voluntarily enlisted in the Army on February 24, 1941. Throughout the wartime period, he served as a military policeman until his discharge three years later. By the summer of 1944, back in Philadelphia, he became part of the Public Transportation Company, notably becoming the first black trolley driver in Philadelphia.

"When I completed my service," Joe explained, "I became a streetcar driver. During that time. I managed to save up and purchase my very first drum set. I took them down to the cellar where I lived and practiced relentlessly until I believed I was prepared to make my debut on the scene."

"I was still working on the streetcar during the day and playing drums at night," Joe reminisced. "Eventually, the club owner I worked for decided to offer us a gig for an entire year. After around six months there, I left my streetcar job behind. I decided to take the leap into a professional music career and stay in the music industry. I was earning a decent income at that point. I continued down that path until I grew weary of Philadelphia. I sensed I was ready for New York, so I packed my bags and made the move."

"I left Philadelphia in 1947 and came to New York to live because during and before those years. Max (Roach] and Art [Blakey] used to come to Philly, and I'd be working in the clubs when they came to town, and I idolized them. They used to say, 'Why don't you come to New York?'... I loved Max and Art, and I wanted to be with them, and I couldn't because I was in Philly, so I used to buy a train ticket. I used to commute from Philly to New York and go to Max's house on Monroe St. in Brooklyn."

"When I got to New York, I became a part of the Joe Morris rhythm and blues band alongside Johnny Griffin, Elmo Hope, and Percy Heath. It was an eight-piece ensemble. We toured extensively across the country, covering destinations from Key West to Maine, all the way to California. I remained with the band for around three or four years. During that period, Joe Morris enjoyed numerous chart-topping hits. Back then, having a number-one hit on the charts wasn't as common as it is today; however, Joe Morris had three or four hits simultaneously. He was making good money because he worked all the time," recounted Joe. Morris's hits, now largely forgotten, included rhythmic tunes called "Chop Chop" and "Punch & Judy."

After long stints on the road, Joe was part of the star-studded but short-lived Tadd Dameron orchestra of the early 1950s but was having difficulty reading the charts. "My reading ability was fairly good at that time, but it wasn't up to par like it should have been. I knew I was going to get a lot of heavy dates with some complex music involved, so I went to Cozy Cole and started studying. He really opened my eyes to my faults and showed me how to develop strength in my hands. He was very demanding . Primarily, he helped me improve my reading, and I've never had any problems with it since."

While Joe was taking lessons, he heard some of the biggest stars in the drumming world, like Dave Tough and his idol Sid Catlett. "I learned most of my brush work from him. Sid Catlett used to sit down and teach me the things I wanted to know. He was one of the most exquisite drummers of all time. I wanted to shape myself in that way and be capable of performing in trios, bands, and small groups."

Around this time, Joe's drug addiction began to consume his life. Tenor saxophonist Jimmy Heath, his roommate and closest friend in New York, remembered Joe's apartment as a place where addicted musicians gathered. "Miles (Davis], [Sonny] Rollins, and everyone else who had been playing was coming to Philly Joe's. We were all in a tight-knit group." During these early 'junkie years,' Joe became the drummer for New York's Café Society. In this capacity, he performed with bebop greats like Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie. He also played a few gigs at the Down Beat Club in 1952, providing him with the chance to perform alongside Miles Davis, Lee Konitz, and Zoot Sims for the first time.

Joe also spent a significant portion of 1953 working as a member of Tadd Dameron's groups. Despite Joe's often disruptive reputation as a drug addict, his positive reputation as a drummer was also growing rapidly. The year 1953 would prove to be pivotal, as he finally ascended to the highest echelons of the jazz community. On January 30, 1953, at WOR Studios in NYC, he took part in his first recording for Prestige. This recording date featured luminaries such as Charlie Parker on saxophone. Miles Davis on trumpet, Walter Bishop Jr. on piano, and Jimmy's brother Percy Heath on bass.

The group would record three compositions that day, and those recordings would become legendary: "Compulsion," "Serpent's Tooth," and "Round Midnight."

Regarding the recording titled "Serpent's Tooth," author Jack Chambers states, ".. .the bop melody played over a medium tempo offers lots of opportunity for assertive drumming. Jones punctuates the phrases of the melody and the solos with resounding accents and yet somehow manages to remain integral and unobtrusive as well. He shows a rare combination of aggression and sensitivity." The recordings from this session would later be released under Miles Davis's name on an album called Collector's Items.

Joe now found himself working consistently with the likes of Tony Scott Quartet at Minton's and the Kai Winding Septet at Birdland, He began using "Philly" as part of his name, an emblem of his growing stature. Clarinetist Tony Scott advocated personally to Duke Ellington that Philly Joe Jones would be an outstanding choice to succeed Louie Bellson, who left the band in February 1953. Scott remembered an audition for the drummer took place at the Bandbox club in New York: "Joe came in on a Tuesday and auditioned. All the older cats in the band, like Harry Carney, Russell Procope, and Hilton Jefferson, turned around and looked at him. Joe played the hell out of the Ellington things and was really swinging. He was hired to come in on Thursday, but he didn't show. He'd gone home to Philadelphia and was arrested. The police were wrong. It was a false arrest, a mistaken identity thing. But Joe was in jail for a couple of days and couldn't make the gig. When he came back to New York, it was too late."

About that same period, Joe recounted, "I participated in an album alongside Lou Donaldson. Clifford Brown, Percy Heath, and Elmo Hope. That project truly kick-started my career in the recording industry. Following that, I began receiving numerous offers for recording sessions." This marked a significant milestone for Joe as it was his debut recording for Blue Note Records. Just nine days later, Joe contributed to Elmo Hope's trio recording for the label, with bassist Percy Heath.

In 1954, Joe embarked on a tour with Tadd Dameron's band during the early part of the year. Upon returning to New York, he reconnected with his friend Miles Davis, who was also dealing with addiction. Following this reunion, Miles started involving Joe in all of his performances. Joe remarked. "Miles Davis was the only band I ever left New York to go on the road with." Throughout that year, Joe refrained from recording due to his struggles with drug problems.

In 1955, Joe's musical journey took him on various paths. He played and recorded with the Ray Bryant Trio, the Art Farmer Quintet, and the Howard McGhee Quintet. Soon after, he became a pivotal part of the first Miles Davis Quintet, alongside John Coltrane, Red Garland, and Paul Chambers. Their collaborative journey began with their debut recording on October 27,1955.

In 1956, alongside his tours with Miles, Joe found himself immersed in recording sessions. He collaborated with the Paul Chambers Quartet, which included John Coltrane, Additionally, he contributed to recordings with Serge Chaloff, Bennie Green, Elmo Hope, Red Garland, Sonny Rollins, Phil Woods, Jackie McLean, Kenny Drew, Phineas Newborn, Lee Morgan, and Tadd Dameron, as well as with Miles's quintet. From then on, he maintained a continuous and intense relationship with recording studios, becoming increasingly sought after for his distinctive drumming style.

In January 1957, the Miles quintet set off for California, kicking off a series of performances from January 4 to 17 at the Jazz City club in Hollywood.

Following these Jazz City concerts, Philly Joe immediately participated in three recording sessions in Los Angeles during January 1957. The first session was with alto saxophonist Art Pepper, with his regular rhythm partners Red Garland on piano and Paul Chambers on bass. This collaboration resulted in the album Art Pepper Meets the Rhythm Section, a title that underscored the formidable reputation Miles's rhythm section had earned among musicians.

The second session involved French horn player John Graas, and the third was led by Paul Chambers. These sessions also featured renowned West Coast musicians including Bill Perkins, Jack Montrose, and Paul Moer. For the third session, Joe covered for drummer Mel Lewis, who was unable to participate on the second recording day. Following these recordings, the quintet headed to San Francisco, where they opened at the Black Hawk on the 22nd for a week.

Having collaborated with a myriad of iconic figures in modern jazz between 1957 and 1960 — including Clark Terry, Herbie Mann, Hank Mobley, John Coltrane, Sonny Rollins, Lee Morgan, Ernie Henry, Sonny Clark, Kenny Drew, Red Rodney, Warne Marsh, Wynton Kelly, Johnny Griffin, Thelonious Monk, Jimmy Smith, Red Garland, Bud Powell, Cannonball Adderley, Blue Mitchell, Chet Baker, Art Blakey, Benny Golson, Bill Evans, Kenny Dorham, Paul Chambers, Art Farmer, Freddie Hubbard, as well as the Miles Davis Quintet and Sextet, and his own groups — Philly Joe enjoyed widespread recognition. His contributions graced nearly a hundred albums between 1955 and 1960. making him arguably the most recorded American drummer across genres during that era. This rich musical tapestry ultimately led to his well-deserved worldwide acclaim.

Initially, Joe's fast-paced and intricate style intrigued his fellow musicians but still seemed to perplex the critics' ears. Nevertheless, as time passed, even the critics began to recognize and value his approach. The change can be seen in the acclaim from Whitney Balliett in an April 1959 article in The New Yorker, where he hails Philly as "revolutionary "and "a master of silence, dynamics, and surprise." Balliett goes on to characterize Joe's solos as "meticulously crafted compositions, filled with unexpected turns, varied tones, and sincere, heartfelt emotion.

Amid this evolving perception, Philly Joe reflects, "The most incredible experience of my life was with Miles, no doubt about it... I can never deny that - the most incredible experience of my life aside from the few times I collaborated with Charlie, meaning Charlie Parker. Working with Miles energized me because I knew that he gained all his insights from Charlie."

In 1960, as the dynamics of his musical journey continued to unfold, Philly Joe pointed out, "In Miles' group, he wouldn't allow me to play almost anything I felt like playing. He used to keep a tight rein on me. When I was with Miles, I was a sideman, and there were limitations to what I could do. He would guide me to play certain things and restrict me. preventing me from progressing. I believe that a drummer should be able to experiment on stage without disrupting the rhythm or bothering others; it's beneficial and helps you grow. However, Miles wouldn't let me experiment too freely because he thought it would interfere with the flow. In my own band, I have the freedom to experiment as I see fit, because it's my group! With my own band, I feel more liberated. If I sense something, I can delve into it. There were times with Miles when I had ideas that could have been quite spectacular, but I held back because I was afraid he would reprimand me."

Leonard Feather remarked about Philly Joe in March 1962 in Down Beat: "He might very well be the most controversial drummer in the history of jazz. During his tenure with Miles Davis last October at the Renaissance in Hollywood, I heard him praised more highly (for his extraordinary rhythmic complexity and unique solo and section work) and denounced more vehemently (for allegedly overpowering the rhythm section and the rest of the sextet!) than any other percussionist currently playing."

Despite occasional remarks concerning his volume or taste, not a single listener ever cast doubt upon his skill and technique. Philly Joe wasn't solely a brilliant drummer, but also a fairly proficient pianist (owing to early childhood lessons from his mother), a skilled composer, and an ardent student of the lineage of jazz percussion.

Philly emerged as a leading figure among the drummers who championed a role extending beyond mere timekeeping. The influence of his intricate style resonated across the endeavors of an entire generation of budding drummers, leaving an enduring imprint on their work.

While he indeed proved to be an imposing force when the tempo surged, Joe also demonstrated a considerably broader range of dynamics and nuances than those attributing him the label of a 'machine gunner' might imply. He stood as the foremost driving force behind a horn soloist ever to be heard. His style carries a truly distinctive power, and in his role as a drum soloist, he showcased a striking degree of originality. A genuine master of polyrhythms. he effortlessly hinted at and melded with the fundamental underlying rhythmic foundation. This ability to combine power and musicality was something Joe himself acknowledged: "Drums can be loud AND musical. I notice the public will accept them that way," he said. "But if a drummer is loud and NOT musical, he won't be accepted."

Expounding on his views, Joe believed, "Tricks are all right in their place. It looks very good with those sticks being twirled in your hands, but you should keep on the drums. You're supposed to be playing the drums and drums can be played with the bass drum, snare drum and ONE cymbal. I don't like to resort to tricks," he adds. "I try to do some things with the cymbal, but I want to do them in rhythm. It's a trick, but you hear it. I think you can do anything that has showmanship toil as long as you let the people hear it and don't play pantomime drums! Twirl the sticks and that's a trick you don't hear it!"

By 1962, Joe had firmly established himself as a leading figure in the world of jazz, attaining the coveted "star" status conferred by Miles Davis. Joe now enjoyed the liberating ability to select his performances and personnel on recordings, devoid of financial pressures. At the forefront of his aspirations was the ambition to lead his own group in live shows whenever the opportunity presented itself.

This compilation unveils previously unreleased recordings from 1962, each capturing the essence of two live radio broadcasts held at the renowned Birdland Club. These broadcasts were graciously presented by the celebrated jazz disc jockey "Symphony Sid." Throughout these performances, Philly Joe seamlessly melded with a group of musicians who wholeheartedly entrusted their musical journey to his leadership. This synergy resulted in two solid gatherings, elevated by Joe's fiercely distinctive style as both a solo drummer and an exceptionally invigorating section player.

Significantly, these performances highlight the presence of Joe's longtime friend, Elmo Hope, on the piano, with his dynamic mastery resonating through every note. On the tenor sax, John Gilmore's contribution within the first ensemble stands out; he masterfully balanced robust feeling with gentle subtlety, occasionally igniting moments of intense, almost blistering fervor. Trumpeters Dizzy Reece and Bill Hardman infused the performances with passion and fire, delivering notable solo work that ranges from good to excellent. Altoist Sonny Red's playing resonates with captivating emotion, consistently intriguing the listener. The full-toned tenor player Roland Alexander effortlessly swings and maintains continuity across medium and fast tempos. In company with Philly Joe, bassist Larry Ridley's ingenious work significantly enriches the overall potency of these performances.

While the sound quality of these historic recordings may not reach optimal standards, the depth of the music and the energy with which it was performed showcase the unwavering unity that Philly Joe sought to cultivate within his ensembles.

Philly Joe was among the American jazz musicians who explored opportunities in Europe. From late 1967 to 1972, he resided in London and Paris, engaging in performances and recordings alongside musicians like Archie Shepp, Mai Waldron, and Hank Mobley. Between 1967 and 1969, he also taught at a specialized school in Hampstead, London, although the Musicians' Union prevented him from further work in the UK. His 1968 album. Mo'Joe, also known as Trailways Express, was recorded in London with local musicians including Peter King, Harold McNair, Mike Pyne, Kenny Wheeler, and others.

Subsequently, Jones embarked on tours with Bill Evans in 1976 and 1978, leaving a resonating imprint in their musical collaborations. His presence also graced Galaxy recordings between 1977 and 1979, and he engaged in fruitful collaborations with Red Garland, showcasing his versatility.

In a pivotal turn in 1981, he became a driving force behind the inception of the Dameronia group, a musical collective passionately devoted to the compositions of Tadd Dameron. Jones nurtured and led the ensemble, infusing it with his distinctive rhythm and musical vision. Tragically, Jones' life was cut short on August 30, 1985, when he succumbed to a heart attack at 62, leaving a void in the world of jazz that continues to be felt.”

Notes compiled by Jordi Pujol.

Recordings captured from two different radio broadcasts live at Birdland.

hosted by jazz disc jockey 'Symphony Sid' Torin. Produced for CD release by Jordi Pujol This compilation © & <E> 2023 by Fresh Sound Records.

The song on this video is actually I Can't Started.

"Birdland" - From Ross Russell BIRD LIVES! -The High Life and Hard Times of Charlie 'Yardbird' Parker

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

Bird Lives! - and certainly Charlie Parker's influence always will. This is his remarkable and moving story.

But Bird Lives! is more than the biography of a wayward musical genius. It is also the profound study of a towering talent poorly rewarded by a society that has too long brutalised its black membership.

Bird was ahead of his time in many significant ways. Poor, black, addicted to hard drugs, mentally and physically ill for long periods of time, his problems were similar to those of contemporary talents among minority groups. The result - the way he lived his life and fought his fight against an all too often indifferent society - is at once magnificent and harrowing.

Why should a white man tell this story? Firstly, because - as Ross Russell points out - no black man has done it yet. And secondly, because this particular white man was often in the centre of the turmoil: as President of Dial Records, he recorded some of Parker's work, and was for two years his personal manager.

- Quartet Books, Press Release

First published in 1973 by Quartet Books with a paperback edition to follow in 1976, Ross Russell’s BIRD LIVES! -The High Life and Hard Times of Charlie 'Yardbird' Parker is largely an anecdotal treatment of Charlie’s Parker’s life by Ross Russell, President of Dial Records and for two years the saxophonist's personal manager.

Given the immense amount of research on Parker’s life that followed its publication, it has been superseded somewhat by Stanley Crouch, Kansas City Lighting: The Rise and Times of Charlie Parker, Gary Giddins, Celebrating Bird; The Triumph of Charlie Parker, Chuck Haddix, The Life and Music of Charlie Parker, Robert G. Reisner, The Legend of Charlie Parker, and Carl Woideck Charlie Parker: His Music and His Life.

But because the later works have access to more sources, this should not be taken to mean Ross’ Bird biography lacks legitimacy. The Russell bio remains an enjoyable and interesting narrative written by someone who knew Charlie Parker for much of his professional life, interacted with him in a variety of settings and who was in a position to offer personal observations about Bird’s life and times from a first-hand perspective.

I’ve always been fond of the chapter in the book about the origins of the famous Jazz club named after Bird contained in Russell’s book and thought I would share it with you in the following blog feature.

“Early in 1949 Billy Shaw, having built up a strong position in the booking business and acquired a following of artists rapidly rising in popularity, resigned as vice president of the Moe Gale Agency and launched Billy Shaw Artists, Inc. With him Shaw took those who had been under his personal management. For each of his stars Shaw had a New Year's bonus, a booking in a desirable spot at better money, a new record contract. For Charlie he had a special plum—an invitation to the International Paris Jazz Festival. 

"Stay with me, Bird," he told Charlie, "and tend to the store. I'll put your name in lights all over the world."

Charlie set about the tedious business of securing passports, visas, and smallpox certificates with boyish enthusiasm. When he recorded next for Mercury he titled two of the sides Passport and Visa. They were not particularly good sides, but that wasn't his fault. Granz had restored the Quintet to grace but could not stop meddling with its personnel. To the pure sound of the five original instruments he added the rambunctious tailgate trombone of Tommy Turk, a recent crowd-pleaser on the Jazz at the Philharmonic tour. Ensemble lines were hopelessly blurred, and the quality of the music coarsened. It was like adding a tuba to a Beethoven quartet.

For the trans-Atlantic plane trip the Parkers joined Howard McGhee, Lips Page, Flip Phillips, Tadd Dameron, and others invited to the festival. Tall, thin, looking rather out of it, Doris was seen walking several paces behind the men, carrying the saxophone on its journey back to its homeland [Charlie played a Selmer alto sax and these were made in France]. The party arrived a day before the concerts, and Charlie at once made the round of Montmartre jazz clubs. French jazz musicians received him warmly. They were familiar with his style from records they had imported. Charlie was lionized; he sat in, jammed with French jazz musicians, lost sleep, and sampled the French heroin willingly supplied by new friends. He was bearded in his hotel room by a reporter for Melody Maker, the leading British music magazine. The writer had a lengthy list of questions on Charlie's analysis of bebop, his opinion as to whether it was actually jazz (British tastes were still mired in pre-war concepts), his evaluation of various traditional jazzmen, Louis Armstrong, Sidney Bechet, and others. Charlie was charmed by the Englishman's accent and studied it closely during the interview. To each of the questions he answered by reading a stanza from The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. Finally the Melody Maker man gave up and wrote that Charlie Parker in person made no more sense than Charlie Parker the musician. English readers remained as ignorant as ever of the new style. When there-porter asked Charlie about his religious affiliation, Charlie replied, "I am a devout musician."

The concert took place in Salle Pleyel. Traditional jazz was represented by Sidney Bechet, the middle period by Lips Page. and the new wave by the Charlie Parker Quintet. Bechet was the hit of the festival. Playing nothing more harmonically advanced than seventh chords, sticking to such riverboat classics as High Society, filling the Salle Pleyel with his great skirling tone, the New Orleans veteran had the crowds dancing in the aisles. Lips Page was warmly applauded. Charlie's set was pure, definitive, almost private, too intimate for the huge music hall. It was warmly received by the avant garde clique and elicited from reviewers such comments as "formidable" and "Succès d'estime." [critical respect but not broad, popular support]

Charlie jammed after the concert at the Club Germaine, where author-musician Boris Vian was master of ceremonies. Jean Paul Sartre, then first reaching the height of his fame, visited the club, and Vian asked the existentialist philosopher if he wanted to meet Charlie Parker. "Yes, of course," Sartre replied. "He interests me." Introductions were arranged. Charlie told Sartre, "I'm very glad to have met you, Mr. Sartre. I like your playing very much," According to Vian, Sartre stared at Charlie with expressionless dark eyes. But he remained for two sets of the music. Such was the oblique encounter between two men who, despite wide differences in race and culture, were leading exponents of the existentialist way of life, one on a theoretical level, the other on a practical level.

When an admirer presented Charlie with a rose, he calmly ate the petals and stuck the stalk in his buttonhole. The next day Charlie met Charles Delaunay, son of the French painter, publisher of the world's first jazz discography (1938), and director of the French jazz magazine Jazz Hot. Charlie also met Andre Hodeir, then writing Jazz: Its Evolution and Essence. These cultured, intellectual men treated Charlie with the respect they felt was due an important artist. The reception given to jazzmen in Europe was far different from that prevailing in America. The music was taken seriously, not as mere entertainment. The critics who covered the festival for the Paris papers were the same critics who reviewed important recitals, symphony concerts, and operas. New jazz records were reviewed with the same seriousness as new books. In Europe dark skins were a mark of distinction rather than a cause for suspicion and contempt.

Charlie had a long talk with Kenny Clarke, who had established a permanent residence in Paris and was planning to become a French citizen. They had not exchanged anything more than a "What’s happening, man?" since the old days at Minton's. Clarke had matured, both as a man and a musician. He was doing well as a radio and recording artist. He conducted a school for young drummers, lived in a suburb of Paris with a beautiful woman, attended concerts and art shows. He had come to definite conclusions about the status of the black artist in America. America had no respect for the artist. There was no solution to the race problem in the foreseeable future. "Bird, you're slowly and surely committing suicide over there," Clarke told Charlie. "So are Billie Holiday and many others. Come over here and live. You can stay with me until you get straight. You may never make a hundred thousand a year, but you'll be around a long time and people will appreciate your music. Over here you will be treated as an artist. The French understand these things." Clarke asked Charlie to think it over carefully.

Charlie returned to New York with a new opinion of himself and his music, and a determination to return to Europe. His marriage to Doris was breaking up, and he was dating Chan Richardson again. Billy Shaw was delighted with the results of the trip and had the reviews translated and included in Charlie's press book. According to the agent, big plans were in the making. Shaw called them "colossal" but gave no hint as to their nature. For the present he wanted Charlie to reorganize the Quintet and mark time at the Onyx Club, where he could be pulled out on short notice. McKinley Dorham had left and the drummer's chair was open. Charlie hired a fast, young percussionist, Roy Haynes, and Red Rodney, a young trumpeter, excellent men who very nearly made good the loss of Miles and Max.

The Mercury contract was renewed under favorable terms. Granz had a new idea.* [* Norman Granz, Billy Shaw, and Charlie Parker himself are given various roles in hatching the Bird with Strings idea. Parker had toyed with the idea of a quasi-symphonic background for his improvisations ever since Dizzy Gillespie had divulged similar plans a year or two earlier. There was no doubt that Granz and Shaw welcomed the commercial possibilities of the format.]

For the next session he would back Charlie with a studio orchestra of strings and woodwinds. It would be the most impressive presentation of a jazz artist in the entire history of recording: Charlie Parker with Strings. On November 3 Charlie recorded in the Mercury studios with a chamber orchestra hand-picked from the best studio musicians in New York, among them Bronislaw Gimpel and Mitch Miller. The chamber orchestra consisted of three violins, viola, cello, harp, oboe, English horn, and a three-piece jazz rhythm section. Charlie was proud and pleased to find himself in such distinguished company. At once he began talking about his new group with "the cats from Koussevitsky's band" (the New York Philharmonic Orchestra, then under the direction of Serge Koussevitsky). Charlie recorded Just Friends, Everything Happens to Me, April in Paris, Summertime, I Didn't Know What Time It Was, and If I Should Lose You.

The ballads were well played, and the work of the men in the string and woodwind sections of a very high standard. Other aspects of the session were less favorable. The scores by Jimmy Carroll were glib and without distinction. Charlie was overawed by a display of musicianship that was nothing more than routine for good legitimate professionals. But he felt that he had achieved a peak, recorded his best session, and made jazz respectable.

Just Friends was the best of the several sides. The alto saxophone soars majestically over the lush background. Its tone is brilliant and its virtuosity compelling. Enough of the original melody remains to sustain the interest of the man in the street. But the strength that Charlie had drawn from Miles and Max, and the freedom that he had enjoyed within the intimate, flexible setting of the Quintet, so essential to inspiration and real improvisation, had been lost.

Soon after the Just Friends session Charlie was called into the Shaw office and given the news about a new Broadway jazz palace to eclipse all others. Licensing and financing problems had delayed its opening, originally scheduled for September, but now the obstacles had been overcome and all was ready for a gala opening the week before the Christmas holidays. The

new club was located at 1678 Broadway, near Fifty-third Street, and Shaw suggested that they walk over and look at it. The new club, on which finishing touches were being applied by workmen, was impressive. Carpeted stairs led from Broadway to a landing with a checkroom and ticket booth. 

The club would operate on an admission policy, like the Roost. Another short flight led to the main room. The new club would accommodate four hundred persons. It would be the biggest and finest jazz club in the world. There were tables, booths, a big bar, and a bullpen. The booths were covered in imitation leather. The stage was large enough for a full-sized orchestra. There was a new piano. At the back of the room a sound studio had been installed behind thick plate glass. The well-known disk jockey Symphony Sid Torin had been engaged to broadcast his popular show nightly from the premises. Each night thirty minutes would be broadcast live from the bandstand. The walls were decorated with huge oil paintings in oval frames. 

They were larger-than-life portraits of the celebrities of the music world — Dizzy, Sarah, Eckstine, Torin, Max Roach, Bud Powell, and, occupying a place in the center, Charlie Parker himself. It had been drawn from an old publicity photograph showing him smiling boyishly over the curved end of a saxophone. "Well," said Billy Shaw. "What do you think?" "It's out'a sight," Charlie said. "Do I get to play in here?" "We're going to open with six bands. I'm booking the entire package. Naturally you'll be here. And we'll do better than that! Did you see the bird cages?"

Charlie could see a number of empty cages hanging from the ceiling. There were twenty or thirty of them.

"There will be tame finches in every one of those cages," Shaw told him. "And a talking mynah bird in the one over the bar. Birds," Shaw said. Shaw took Charlie affectionately by the arm and led the way back upstairs. They crossed to the opposite side of Broadway. Now Charlie was able to see the large sign slung from a crane and about to be jockeyed into place over the entrance. The neon letters said: "BIRDLAND. THE JAZZ CORNER OF

THE WORLD."

It was a signal honor for a jazz musician. When the owner of Birdland contemplated the idea of naming the club after a practicing jazz musician, there had been no one else to consider. Big names of the past no longer held any box office allure. Of the contemporaries none, not even Dizzy Gillespie, possessed Parker's charisma, or could lend the weight necessary to launch a club that would in fact be the Jazz Corner of the World for two decades. 

Parker had dominated jazz since 1940, when he first appeared with the Jay McShann Orchestra, prompting veteran jazzman Cootie Williams to remark that Parker's influence as an innovator had exceeded that of Louis Armstrong. In Cootie's words, "Louis changed all the brass players around, but after Bird all of the instruments had to change — drums, piano, bass, trombones, trumpets, saxophones, everything." Before Charlie's time jazz had been heard in ballrooms as a music for dancers. With his advent jazz had moved from the larger arena of the ballroom to the intimate setting of the lounge. There it was no longer danced to, but listened to, and for the first time taken seriously as a musical genre.

Charlie's accomplishments were many. He had revealed new dimensions in saxophone playing, enabling the horn to complete its evolution from a fattener of orchestral textures to the most expressive of instruments. Charlie updated the timeless blues song, and contributed some of its finest performances. He had metamorphosed the Tin Pan Alley ballad into a tightly knit, often recondite composition based on the idea of the Kansas City riff, a repeated melodic figure underlined by a strong rhythmic pattern. With perfect taste and intuition he had abstracted the body of music before his time, purging it of anachronisms and irrelevancies, and endowed it with a compelling vocabulary. Almost every post-Parker innovation has been based on something of his own, for example the free-form passages heard on Bird at St. Nicks that lead to John Coltrane, and other musical signposts that point to the modal, jet-stream style of Ornette Coleman and the expanded tonal idiom of Eric Dolphy. A saxophonist, he was the inspiration of Clifford Brown, the most promising trumpeter after Roy Eldridge, killed in his twenty-sixth year in an auto accident. Parker's music was the alpha and omega of Miles Davis's trumpet style and musical system. Even recent, controversial, iconoclastic improvisers — Albert Ayler, Archie Shepp, and Sonny Simmons — have their roots in Charlie Parker. Russell Procope, forty-year veteran of the Duke Ellington Orchestra and a fine alto saxophonist in his own right, said, "A Bird comes along once every century." 

As the Forties ended with the opening of Birdland, the queen of jazz lounges, Afro-American music was about to extend its horizons and make its influence felt in the rest of the world. As a counterpoise to European art music, and the popular forms based on that tradition, jazz brought the world a new set of musical values: fresh melodies, an intoxicating sound, and the irresistible kinetic qualities that flowed from its polyrhythms.

Birdland opened December 15, 1949. The club was packed to capacity. The press, the public, and the entertainment world had turned out to hear the greatest convention of talent ever booked into a nightclub: bands led by the guest of honor, Charlie Parker, by Lester Young, Stan Getz, Lips Page, Max Kaminsky, and a new singing star, Harry Belafonte. There were tame finches in the bird cages, except for the cage over the bar. The mynah bird had not yet been booked. [Ed. note: The birds had to be removed as they couldn’t tolerate the amount of cigarette smoke in such close quarters.]

Pee Wee Marquette, a midget, dressed in a custom-made white dinner suit, acted as master of ceremonies, cranking down the microphone stand to suit his tiny frame, haranguing the crowd with florid announcements delivered in a flat, nasal falsetto. Miss Diana Dale, the artist responsible for the garish likenesses of show business celebrities adorning the walls, was in charge of the hat-check concession. 

Behind the thick plate glass at the back of the club, in the brightly lighted radio booth, like a goldfish in an aquarium, basked radio's Mister Hip, Symphony Sid. WJZ had given him a midnight-to-four schedule, direct from the Jazz Corner of the World, in which hourly shows of jazz records alternated with live broadcasts directly from the bandstand, both interlarded with jivey commercials for Broadway clothiers, retailers of hi-fi equipment, the Colony Record Shop directly across the street, hip florists, barbers, even morticians. The one for Sunshine Funeral Parlors went:

"When Fate deals you one from the bottom of the deck, fall by the Sunshine Funeral Parlors. Your loved ones will be handled with dignity and care, and the cats at Sunshine will not lay too heavy a tab on you. Now I'd like to play a request, Cootie Williams's great record, Somebody's Got to Go."

For live broadcasts Sid's microphone cut directly into the Birdland public address system so that he could carry on a dialogue with the jazz greats of the world. On opening night he called out, "Bird, Bird—A gentleman just called in from the Bronx. . . . The gentleman wants to know if you'd play for him  - White Christmas?" It was like asking Heifetz to oblige with Play Fiddle Play. But it was Bird's night. With the saxophone in the low register, sounding richly like a tenor, Charlie played the theme of I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas, then stretched out in a long, loving improvisation. The yuletide favorite played as no one had ever heard before. Big, buttery and luscious, the melody notes that everyone could hum, bubbled from the saxophone like good home cooking. 

On those rare occasions when Charlie played straight, coloring the original notes with only the slightest changes of pitch and the faintest inflections of blue modality, he was a sumptuous player indeed, and one capable of powerfully affecting the square and the man in the street. Everyone listening who was past thirty knew the Bing Crosby vehicle that spun in record store doorways each Yule season and perennially sold hundreds of thousands of records. That night the case-hardened habitués — who else would be in a nightclub on Christmas eve? — experienced an involuntary moistening of the eye and thought back about Christmas eves at home, long ago, in better days, and reordered drinks. Thus ended the most turbulent decade in the history of popular music in America.”