Oscar Peterson - Bursting Out [From the Archives]

 © -  Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

“If you think of the whole phrase you want to play, you shouldn't have to think about fingering at all. It should be that well integrated from your mind through your heart and soul to your hands. You shouldn't have to ask yourself whether to cross over or not. The conception and the physical transmitting of it should merge.”

- Oscar Peterson, Jazz pianist

The late pianist, George Shearing, was fond of saying that “one of the hardest thing about this music is getting it from the head and into the hands.”

When I listen to Oscar Peterson play piano with the extraordinary facility he has on the instrument I get the impression that he never had the problem that George describes.

Just listening to Oscar wears me out. I’ve never heard anyone [with the obvious exception of Art Tatum] come at a line from so many different directions [“a line” in this instance refers to an improvised phrase]. He makes it sound easy.

Oscar has so many tools at his command and he explains how he developed these skills in the following interview he gave to Len Lyons in The Great Jazz Pianists: Speaking of Their Lives and Music.

Introduction

More than any other pianist, Oscar Peterson has inherited the harmonic conception and awesome technique of Art Tatum, his mentor and early idol. The most abundantly recorded pianist in jazz, Peterson performs for live audiences only with the assurance of a tightly controlled setting. For a time he would appear in nightclubs only on the condition that no drinks would be served, nor cash registers used, while he played. I remember him playing a tender ballad in a now-dark Boston club called Lennie's on the Turnpike when a customer at the bar began whistling along with the melody. Oscar stopped abruptly, took the mike, and snapped at the audience, "Whoever's whistling has the worst taste in the world!" He walked offstage and imposed an unscheduled thirty-minute intermission.

But Peterson's regal manner disappears offstage. When we first met, which was in his suite at the Fairmont Hotel at the crest of San Francisco's fashionable Nob Hill, we discussed baseball, Oscar's children, his grandchildren, and his native Canada before I realized that we would never get around to the subject of Oscar Peterson unless I brought it up.

Peterson came to the States from Canada in 1949, thanks to a happy coincidence that brought him to the attention of impresario Norman Granz, who has managed Oscar's career ever since. Peterson's style is basically an amalgam of swing and bebop. There are critics who downgrade the effect of his glorious technical command of the keyboard, accusing him of an overly mechanized style and of indulging in virtuosity for its own sake. True, Peterson can be showy and rococo; but more often than not, his technique operates in the service of his art. I have heard him solo using a stride technique or a walking-bass line in the left hand. The music gathers momentum until the piano itself seems to be strutting across the stage; Oscar's husky, Buddha-like body works and sweats to put the instrument through its paces; and so I have trouble condemning Peterson as a mechanistic player. It is the spirit, more than physical dexterity, that drives him.

Peterson has been a nearly ubiquitous accompanist and collaborator, especially for the many legendary figures whose concerts and records were produced by Granz. Some of his best work in this role has been done with saxophonist Lester Young, Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong, trumpeter Roy Eldridge, vibist Milt Jackson, and Dizzy Gillespie. He is particularly well matched with guitarist Joe Pass, whose technical dexterity and style of harmonic development match Oscar's own. Amazingly, Peterson has had arthritis in his hands since high school. He said that the condition is a familial tendency, that it sometimes causes him pain when he plays and occasionally requires him to cancel a performance.

Peterson's virtuosity-his speed, articulation, and endurance-inspires and intimidates other pianists. His dexterity also enlivens his style, for Oscar has never varied the premises he inherited during the early 1930's from Tatum and Powell. Fortunately, though, his technique enables him to vary infinitely the way he implements those assumptions. And of course, he can always turn on the steam.

What were your very first experiences with the piano?

My first experiences were of not wanting to play it because I was interested in trumpet. In fact, I played trumpet in a small family orchestra, but after spending almost a year in the hospital with tuberculosis, I was advised by the doctor to give up wind instruments. I continued on piano, which I had begun along with the trumpet, though mainly at my father's insistence. The piano didn't start to appeal to me until my older brother Fred got into jazz, or whatever jazz was then, playing "Golden Slippers" or something like that. What I went through as a student was probably what everyone else grooming himself for the classical field goes through - Czerny, Hanon, Dohnanyi. All of these things just serve to broaden digital control. It was something I wanted to get behind me as quickly as possible.

How long did it take you to get it behind you?

Do you ever, really? You like to tell yourself so, I guess. Probably I started feeling comfortable around the age of sixteen or seventeen. That's when I started feeling that I could transmit to the keyboard most of what I conjured up mentally. Prior to that it was a scuffle. I'd be thinking something and then run into a snag on executing it. That used to bug me.

What were your early practice routines?

I'd start out in the morning with scales, exercises, and whatever classical pieces I was working on. After a break I'd come back and do voicings; I'd challenge the voicings I'd been using and try to move them around in tempo without losing the harmonic content.

I also practiced time by playing against myself and letting the left hand take a loose, undulating time shape while making the right hand stay completely in time. Then I'd reverse the process, keeping the left hand rigid and making the right hand stretch and contract. You know, practicing that way takes the urgency out of getting from Point A to Point B in a solo. It gives you the confidence to renegotiate a line while you're playing it. It gives you a respect for different shapes.

You must have been practicing the piano all day.

About eighteen hours a day. I got into that when I decided I really wanted to play. It was during high school, just before I got my first group together. I figured I’d have to get myself together first because there'd be enough questions in a group context. I couldn't afford to have any questions about my end of things. I'd practice from nine in the morning to lunch and from after lunch to seven in the evening. Then I'd go from supper until my mother pulled me off the instrument or raised hell.

After all that exacting practice how did you feel when you hit an occasional wrong note?

It didn't bother me too much. My classical teacher used to tell me, "If you make a mistake, don't stop. Make it part of what you're playing as much as possible. Don't chop up your playing by correcting things, even when you're playing for yourself. It's a bad habit, and it will make you a sporadic player." One thing I try to convey to my students when I'm teaching is the relativity of notes. From a melodic standpoint there are wrong notes. But from a creative standpoint there are no wrong notes because every note can be related to a chord. Every note can be made part of your line, depending on how fast you can integrate it into your schematic arrangement. Of course, if you're playing the national anthem and you miss the melody or hit a major chord wrong without its being a revision of the chord, then you've made a mistake. Playing on a theme, however, is a different kind of thing. I think this idea is the basis of a lot of the avant-garde music today, although I don't believe in making it quite as easy as they do. But there's truth to the idea that you shouldn't be thrown by a note.

It sounds as if you're more interested in the effect of the phrase than in each note within the phrase.

That's right. I'm an admirer of the beautiful long line which starts out and then reaches a point of definition. If you reach a point of definition, it validates all the other aspects of the line. I think we went through a period of short-phrase artists. I won't derogate them or get into names, but the hesitation and the short five-note phrase are not my bag. It makes me nervous to listen to it. I'm an advocate of the long line, but it's got to mean something.

Here's a list of long-line players: Art Tatum, Bud Powell, [saxophonist] Charlie Parker, [trumpeter] Dizzy Gillespie, [saxophonist] Eric Dolphy. Would you add to the list?

I'd add Hank Jones, Cedar Walton, and Bill Evans. Let me draw an analogy. I don't think you should speak until you have your sentence together in your mind. It's easier to listen to someone who knows what he wants to say than a person who stops, starts, picks up another idea, continues, and winds up with a series of chopped-up phrases. Well, to each his own.

What do you remember most about the pianists who were influences on you?

I remember one story about Nat Cole, who I think was one of the deepest time players ever. Ray [Brown] once told me he was with Dizzy's big band and they were playing the Los Angeles Coliseum. Nat's trio was on the bill, too, and Ray said the trio wasted them just because of the time factor. We've experienced that; when my trio's at its deepest point, when we get that far down into the time, we make it hard for a bigger band to operate. It swings that hard. That was the biggest influence Nat had on me: making time pop. When I play with Dizzy, Ray, Zoot [Sims, saxophonist], Clark [Terry, trumpeter], or [guitarist] Joe Pass, they're all aware that when I'm in the section, I deal with time, nothing else. For a rhythm section to give what it has to give, you have to deal that heavily with time. In fact, I'd recommend using time to combat these complaints you sometimes hear of stale playing. I'm a waltz freak personally. If you feel that a piece is getting stale, put it into 3/4 time. Generally I don't go past the 3/4 because many of the other signatures, like 9/ 8, have been overdone, and I think you inevitably come back to a 3/4 or 4/4 feeling anyway. From a listener's point of view, how far is 6/8 from 3/4?

Who influenced you in your appreciation of the long line we were discussing?

There's Teddy Wilson. From Teddy I got the beautiful long line, the interconnecting runs that tie together the harmonic movements in a ballad, the impeccable good taste of the right touch, and the idea of how to make a piano speak. I got that from Hank Jones, too.

When I asked about people who have influenced you, I was hoping for some stories about Art Tatum. He's a legend, but unfortunately very few of us had the pleasure of hearing him in person.

Do you know the story of when I first heard him? When I was getting into the jazz thing — or thought I was-as a kid, my father thought I was a little heavy about my capabilities, so he played me Art's recording of "Tiger Rag." First of all, I swore it was two people playing. When I finally admitted to myself that it was one man, I gave up the piano for a month. I figured it was hopeless to practice. My mother and friends of mine persuaded me to get back to it, but I've had the greatest respect for Art from then on.

How did you first meet Tatum?

In the early fifties, I was playing with the trio in Washington, D.C., at a club called Louis and Alex's. I used to kid Ray [Brown] about [bassist] Oscar Pettiford. We'd be playing and I'd say, "Watch it now, Oscar Pettiford's out there!" He'd say, "Hell with him. I'm going to stomp him." He'd do the same to me about Art Tatum because we both had tremendous love and respect for these men. On the third night of the gig we were playing "Airmail Special," and Ray said, "Watch it, Art's out there." "Hell with him," I said. "He's got to contend with me." See, he'd pulled that a dozen times, and I would always go into my heavy routine. "No, this time he's really out there," Ray insisted. "Look over at the bar." There he was! I closed up the tune immediately and took it out. The set was over. I froze. Ray took me over to meet him, and I still remember what Art said: "Brown, you brought me one of those sleepers, huh?" He told us to come by this after-hours joint and he'd see what he could do with me. I was totally frightened of this man and his tremendous talent. It's like a lion; you're scared to death, but it's such a beautiful animal, you want to come up close and hear it roar.

Did you make it over to this dub?

Yes, we went to the club, and Art told me to play. "No way," I told him. "Forget it." So Art told me this story about a guy he knew down in New Orleans. All he knew how to play was one chorus of the blues, and if you asked him to play some more, he'd repeat that same chorus over again. Art said he'd give anything to be able to play that chorus of the blues the way that old man played it. The message was clear: Everyone had something to say. Well, I got up to the piano and played what I'd call two of the neatest choruses of "Tea for Two" you've ever heard. That was all I could do. Then Art played, and it fractured me. I had nightmares of keyboards that night.

Did you and Tatum see each other much after that?

Yes, Art and I became great friends, but I had this phobia about him, and it lasted a long time. I simply couldn't play when he was in the room. One day he took me aside and said, "You can't afford this. You have too much going for you. If you have to hate me when I walk into the room, I don't care. I want you to play." I don't know how it happened exactly, but one night at the Old Tiffany in Los Angeles, I was into a good set when I heard Art's voice from the audience saying, "Lighten up, Oscar Peterson." I knew it was Art, but it didn't bother me. I got deeper into the music instead, and I knew I was over it. Both Art and my father died within a week of each other, and I realized in one week I lost two of the best friends I had. That's been the Art Tatum thing with me.

After all these years, can you tell me what got you started, what got your career off the ground?

It was Norman Granz, Jazz at the Philharmonic, and the concert at Carnegie Hall in 1949. Actually the first time Norman heard me was on a recording, under protest at the time, on RCA. I was playing boogie-woogie, and he detested it. The next time he was finishing up a promotional trip to Montreal and taking a cab to the airport. I was on the radio. He thought it was a recording, but it was a live broadcast from the Alberta Lounge. The cabdriver straightened him out on that point. The cab turned around and came down to the Alberta.

You owe it all to a hip cabby?

It hatched the beginnings.

Let's talk about the Oscar Peterson trios. Why did you start out with bass and guitar? Was the Tatum trio with Slam Stewart on bass and Tiny Grimes on guitar your model?

No. Of course, I heard that group, but they didn't do the kind of complex arrangements we did. The reason for the trio originally was that I wanted to write some things with contravening lines, something fuller than you could get with a bass. I used Barney Kessel for his obvious capabilities on the instrument. [The Peterson Trio with bass and guitar began in about 1952 and lasted through 1959. Irving Ashby was the first guitarist but was soon replaced by Kessel. Kessel was replaced by Herb Ellis in 1954.] The music was written very tightly, although we didn't want to lose the spontaneity in the improvising because you don't have jazz without that. I kept a firm hand on what was going on and didn't let anyone else write for the group. I didn't want them to change what we were doing.

Why did you replace your guitarist with drummer Ed Thigpen in 1959?

I must admit part of the reason was an ego trip for me. There was a lot of talk about my virtuosity on the instrument, and some people were saying, "Oh, he can play that way with a guitar because it's got that light, fast sound, but he couldn't pull off those lines with a drummer burnin' up back there." I wanted to prove it could be done. We chose Ed Thigpen because of his brush-work and sensitivity in general. I came across him in Japan, where he was stationed in the army. When he got out, we were ready for a drummer.

Your next steady partner was Niels-Henning Orsted-Pedersen, whom I first heard on a record he made when he was fifteen years old and backing Bud Powell at a Copenhagen club. How did you meet him?

I first heard him in Paris, in Montmartre. At the time we had George Mraz in the group. Later on we had a tour booked in Czechoslovakia, where George is from, but because of the way he left the country, which wasn't under the best of circumstances, he couldn't go back. We couldn't find any other bassists who wanted to make the trip except for Niels. I guess he was feeling a little suicidal. I was pretty rough on him and pulled out some arrangements without telling him. Niels is like having another soloist in the band.

I'd be interested in your reaction to something LeRoi Jones [Imamu Amiri Baraka] wrote about you in his book Black Music:

“I want to explain technical so as not to be confused with people who think that Thelonious Monk is ‘a  fine pianist, but limited technically.' But by technical I mean more specifically being able to use what important ideas are contained in the residue of history. . . . Knowing how to play an instrument is the barest superficiality if one is thinking of becoming a musician. It is the ideas that one utilizes instinctively that determine the degree of profundity any artist reaches. . . . (And it is exactly because someone like Oscar Peterson has instinctive profundity that technique is glibness. That he can play the piano rather handily just makes him easier to identify. There is no serious instinct working at all.) . .

Technique is inseparable from what is finally played as content." What's your impression of his idea that technique and content are separate?

My first impression is that he doesn't play.

What he'd realize is that technique is separated from playing. Thelonious Monk is limited technically. But let's not put Thelonious down. You can say that about me, too. I can think of a whole lot of things that I'm not technically capable of playing. Otherwise, what does the phrase "playing over his head" mean?

I'll tell you what I think technique is, and since I'm a player I think it has a little more validity.

Technique is something you use to make your ideas listenable. You learn to play the instrument so you have a musical vocabulary, and you practice to get your technique to the point you need to express yourself, depending on how heavy your ideas are.

Louis Armstrong is an example of a man who developed a technique of playing to the point he needed to pursue his ideas. If he had wanted to go further technically, he might have gotten into Dizzy's bag. He was capable of it. Roy Eldridge has fantastic technique on the instrument. But there's a case of using just what you need and no more. Roy's a very simple person. He's a very direct person. Now you'd never hear a simple solo from me; you'd never hear simple solos from Bill Evans or Hank Jones or McCoy.

But you would hear simple solos from Monk.

Monk is a very harmonic player, and that requires a special type of technique. As a linear player, well, I don't think Monk is a linear player. Usually someone who's not a linear player is hamstrung, so they don't come up with that [linear solos].

Do you think it's fair to say some techniques are better than others? Or is technique a relative concept? Does its value depend on what you use it for?

It's a selfish, relative concept. Selfish, because you use it only for what you want. When I teach, I teach technique because like raising kids, you want to give them the broadest scope possible so they can face whatever they come up against. The funny thing about technique is this: It's not a matter of technique; it's time. I'm talking about playing jazz rhythmically. You have an idea, and it's confined to a certain period in a piece on an overlay of harmonic carpeting. You have to get from here to there in whatever time you're allotted with whatever ideas you have.

I could have five guys sit down and play a line, and you'll get five versions of it. You won't like all five, but it's not because some guys missed it or couldn't play it. It's because rhythmically, jazzwise, it didn't happen. That gets into interpretation and articulation. It goes beyond the digital facility one has on the keyboard. I know pianists who have ten times the technique I have - I won't call any names, though - but they can't make it happen. Rhythmically and creatively they don't have that thing, whatever that thing is.

Can we get into some explicitly technical questions? For example, in your concert last night, were you trying to create countermelodies in the left-hand chord voicings?

No, it wasn't a matter of countermelodies. It was a matter of comping as if I were playing for a soloist, comping without having the voicings break down. I didn't want to sound like I just came up with a chord to get myself out of a situation or to get myself to the next chord. Voicing is putting something down for your right hand to play off of. See, you really play off your left hand. Most players think of themselves as playing off the right hand because there's so much activity there. What's really happening is that the right hand is determined, although that's probably too strong a word, by the left-hand formation. The left hand can add tonal validity, too, by augmenting with clusters what the right hand is playing. But it's the left hand that starts the line off and determines its basic movement.

In other words, the harmonic structure determines the melodic content?

Yes, I believe it does. It's also true that the left hand punctuates the line.

Do you recommend practicing voicing* in all the keys?

By all means. I used to do that. Things take on a different shape in a different way. It's not a matter of easy or hard keys. They just have different shapes because the fingering is different.

What other piano exercises did you do?

After the movement of the voicings, I'd go to the right-hand lines alone. I'd try to play the melody with real feeling, as if I were playing a horn, pedaling and controlling the touch so it wouldn't sound staccato. Then I'd duplicate the right-hand linear playing in the left hand. I figured I'd develop a lot of control that way. Sometimes I'd play fours with myself to give the left hand more dexterity. ["Playing fours" involves trading four-bar improvisations between players or, in Peterson's context, between hands.] That comes in handy after you finish a right-hand line and you want to move down to a different pedal tone. You're not relegated to simply hitting it. You can move down or up, tying things together, walking.

Do you finger the octaves in a parallel way?

No, because they're played by two different hands. Each hand is constructed differently, and you'll never make them play the same way. My theory is to have the phrase under your hand with whatever it takes to do that. If you find yourself reaching awkwardly, you know that for your hands there's bad fingering there somewhere. At this point the fingerings just fall under the hand for me. Each finds its own. If you think of the whole phrase you want to play, you shouldn't have to think about fingering at all. It should be that well integrated from your mind through your heart and soul to your hands. You shouldn't have to ask yourself whether to cross over or not. The conception and the physical transmitting of it should merge.

You've used walking tenths in the left hand to great effect in much of your playing. Since your hands are so large, you can play them fluidly with alternating 1-4 and 1-5 fingering. Do you have any advice for pianists who don't have the reach to play them smoothly?

There is a way to convey the same musical picture if you can't reach that in the left hand. It's not a deception, but it's a way of establishing the theme in the listener's mind. Just play the walking tenths with two hands at different times during a tune and people will swear they're present all the time. Of course, you can't do that when you're way up in the treble register, but you can stop everything else and let the tenths walk. I've done that, too. Once you've established the theme, the listener hears it through the piece.

Your arpeggios are very fluid as well. Do you have any tips here?

Most people tend to accent every fourth note, although exercise books never denote accents. Students interpret them that way, though, and their teachers seem to accept it. I don't. If you play me an arpeggio, I want to hear it up and down with no accents and no divisions. A way to practice this is to intersperse scales and arpeggios. Go up with an arpeggio and come down with a scale, and then vice versa. Retain the same feeling in each.

You seem to use the soft pedal as a rhythmic device, especially during stride playing.

I employ the soft pedal to tie a lot of things together, especially rhythmically. I use it on descending tenths or stride jumps to get more of a smooth, undulating effect than sharp breaks every time you hit a bass note.

Do you feel that some of the outstanding young jazz multi-keyboardists have damaged their piano technique by playing electronic instruments?

Without getting into names, I heard two pianists who have been using the electric piano recently, and it does take a toll when they switch back to acoustic. Their fluidity has been lost, not just technically but in terms of sound. That answered some questions for me. It's easier to go from acoustic to electric than from electric back again to acoustic. They're going to have to work to get their touch back. This is not to say that the electric doesn't have validity in certain contexts, though. I have to add this about the Rhodes: It's beautiful for certain types of things. I wrote for a TV series called Crunch, and played the Rhodes for the two initial shows. For some reason, it was never released, but you might see it some night on a late-night special. I also did an album with Basie on which we both play electric piano. It sounds fantastic. Also, Gary Gross, a dear friend of mine, must be one of the great keyboard players in the world. We teach together occasionally, and when I have him play the electric, I listen to him with the greatest respect in the world. He's that talented.

To take up another recent development in jazz, are you drawn to modal, or tonality-based playing as an alternative to playing on the chord changes?

I'm a product of my own procedures. Tonalities affect me in a different way from the way they affect someone who's exposed to them in a different musical time period. Chick [Corea] and players like him came in when the tonality thing was very big and important. It's a different era.

Would you say the era began after Coltrane?

After Coltrane, Ornette, Eric Dolphy, too. And certainly Cecil Taylor. I'm an extension of the things I've been involved with over the years. My roots go back to people like Coleman Hawkins, harmonically speaking, certainly Art Tatum, which you can hear, and Hank Jones, too. I approach solo playing from that angle.

I don't have anything derogatory to say about any of the solo playing I've heard from, say, Keith [Jarrett], because I enjoy it. It's a different scan of the piano. Pianistically I feel differently about it. I feel a deeper approach is required from the standpoint of accompaniment of one's self within the harmonic structure. Having been furnished a background by other instruments like bass and guitar, I have a natural, innate desire to supply that type of [harmonic] feeling in my playing.

That is, to express your ideas within a framework of changes within a key or keys.

Right.

Are there other pianists you listen to? Evidently you've heard Keith and Chick.

Well, I spend a lot of time listening to recordings, like Herbie Hancock's.

Hancock of the sixties?

All of Herbie Hancock. I have a feeling about Herbie. Although he's into another sphere right now, when you talk about soloists among the current pianists, he's the guy I'd vote for as the best among the younger pianists. That is, he could play the best solo piano. I think he has the most equipment and the most creative incentive.

You don't mean electronic equipment, do you?

No, I really mean musical equipment— and not just technique. I mean inventiveness. I sense in the span of Herbie's playing that he'll eventually get into it. Let's be realistic. What he's done musically speaks for itself, and now he's following a particular direction that's brought him into the public eye But none of us are irrevocably set in one groove. Though I think Herbie has the best mind around in terms of the younger pianists, I don't always agree with the means he uses to project these ideas. [In 1982, five years after this interview was taped, Peterson and Hancock began performing as a piano duo.]

Is there anyone else you especially admire?

If I had to choose the best all-around pianist of anyone who's followed m chronologically, unequivocally-were he able to do it and hadn't had the misshaps he has had - undoubtedly I would say Phineas Newborn, Jr. As At Tatum said to me, "After me, you're next." That's how I feel about Phineas. He definitely had it, and when he decided to blossom, that would be it. If had to choose after Phineas, I'd say Herbie, and after Herbie, Keith Jarrett.

Has playing solo opened up any new possibilities?

In one aspect. I use certain harmonic movements with modulating root tones while I'm playing the melody, which I couldn't do with the trio. The bass player would always wonder where we were going. Another thing that my solo playing has brought out more predominantly is those double-handed bass lines. They stand out a little better now. I use them to connect very harmonic parts of a piece to other segments of it.

You think of these double-octave lines as transitions?

Right. It's the most direct playing possible. It's barren, as if the piece had been stripped down to a line. Phineas was using this quite a bit. Subconsciously I guess I dropped a lot of the double-octave things for a while because I didn't want any controversy over who started what.

What albums do you think should appear in a selected discography of your recording?

I'd have to cite The Trio album in Chicago (on Verve) and the new Pablo album called The Trio. The Night Train album because we accomplished what we wanted to in terms of feeling. I'd cite the West Side Story album because it was a departure in terms of material from what the trio was doing at the time. Then there was My Favorite Instrument, the first solo album I did for MPS.

Are there albums you're dissatisfied with?

I won't be coy with you. In all the years I've been with Norman Granz, I've always had the option to kill something if I didn't like it.

I wanted to ask you about West Side Story and the other show music albums because many people consider it a commercial departure and criticized it on those grounds.

To the contrary, that album is one of the biggest challenges I've taken on musically. I said no to the idea at first for the exact reason you're citing. I didn't want to get into the Showtime U.S.A. bit. But as I listened to the West Side Story score over and over, I realized it represented a new challenge. It was one of the roughest projects we tackled, and it came off differently from the other show albums.

Leonard Bernstein's compositions impressed you?

That's right. I don't consider him to be the same type of jazz writer as Benny Golson or Duke Ellington. I don't think we have anything in the jazz world comparable to that, structurally speaking.

I've never considered Bernstein a jazz writer at all. I've always thought of those compositions as show tunes.

I feel they have a jazz context.

You have a reputation for being skeptical of the seriousness of jazz audiences.

Well, I really started to take aversion to one aspect of the jazz world, and that was the general conception that if you come into a club, you don't necessarily have to pay attention. Occasionally, when people are noisy, I'll turn to them in anger and say, "Would you act this way at a classical concert?" It would seem like a form of snobbishness on my part, but I don't think there's any need for different outlooks toward the different forms of music. It doesn't matter whether you're going to hear jazz or [violinist] David Oistrakh at Lincoln Center.

McCoy Tyner - The Len Lyons Interview

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

The editorial staff at JazzProfiles posted an earlier feature about pianist McCoy Tyner which you can locate by going here. It was based on “Tyner Talk: John Coltrane’s pianist discusses his musical background, beliefs and goals - as told to Stanley Dance.” Downbeat - October 24, 1963.

Here’s another early-in-his career piece from approximately 1975 drawn from Len Lyons’ The Great Jazz Pianists [1983].

As of this writing, McCoy who was born on December 11, 1938 is still performing and has to be considered one of the most influential pianists of his generation.

It’s fun to look back at the early years in the career of those destined to become what is today referred to as a “Jazz Master” or as an “iconic Jazz figure.” The sincerity, genuineness and naivete remind us that artistic life is always one that is in progress. One is either busy being born or busy dying.

Introduction

“When I visited the Tyners in rural Connecticut, they had recently moved from Newark, New Jersey. Woodlands bordered their spacious Colonial-style home and backyard. Aisha Tyner, McCoy's wife since their teens, was concerned about how their three boys, who were still in school, would adjust to the new setting. There were few black families in the district, and, as Aisha noted, "there's no sense of neighborhood. After school all the kids go home to their own little worlds." McCoy seemed content with their new house and his new studio, where he keeps his Steinway grand and modest record collection.

McCoy is an unpretentious and basically private person. He is most relaxed puffing on a pipe in quiet conversation, much of which typically revolves around his family. Backstage, before a performance, he is tense and preoccupied. At the keyboard his broad-shouldered, powerful frame hunches over, and he attacks the keyboard with the strength and determination of a pit bull. Tyner has a prominent religious streak in him, at least for the spirit of Islamic belief, if not for its institutionalized practice. Although he answers certain questions about his musical background in down-to-earth terms, he looks at other issues as spiritual or emotional.

McCoy discusses his career in detail in the following interview, but it is worth keeping its broad outlines in mind. After a brief tenure with the Benny Golson/Art Farmer Jazztet in the late fifties, Tyner played a historic role during the 1960's as part of the John Coltrane Quartet, which also included drummer Elvin Jones and bassist Jimmy Garrison. Tyner's use of modes (or scale-patterns) developed quickly under Coltrane's influence. But during the 1970's Tyner himself had a lasting impact on jazz piano when he began to use a more complex modal-harmonic system in conjunction with a fierce, distinctly percussive keyboard attack. Tyner has led his own quintet since 1973 and recorded one of the great solo piano achievements of the seventies on the album Echoes of a Friend, which comes from a period of his music that is examined in the interview ahead.

Part of the McCoy Tyner interview was taped immediately following the recording of the LP Trident in 1975 at the Fantasy Records studios in Berkeley, California. The conversation about his philosophical and religious outlook occurred later over dinner at a restaurant near McCoy's hotel. The segments of the interview that concern Tyner's composing and the role of the piano in larger ensembles come from the visit to his Connecticut home.

The Interview

What have you found helpful in developing technique?

Technique depends upon what you need to express at the time. If you're able to express yourself, that's all that's important. The need has to be there first, and then the acquisition of technique comes. You see, I consider music a form of self-expression. A lot of people can play an instrument, but whether they're using it to express themselves is a totally different thing. Personally I'm just not the technical, analytic type. I'm not like a lot of players who sit down and plan things out. Herbie Hancock might be an example. Of course, you have to do a certain amount of planning if you use synthesizers. I like to keep things on a spontaneous level because that's the type of performance that's most effective.

But didn't you work on technique at some point, say, at the Granoff School? 

At Granoff, I just studied theory and harmony, which amounted to basic eighteenth-century composition. But when I was young, I practiced scales a lot and a few compositions, though not many exercises. Most of my technique comes from scales and actual playing experience. I did use Hanon, Czerny, and MacFarren, which are all fine. When you're acquiring the tools of your craft, you have to put in a lot of time. I'd spend hours practicing after school until I was politely asked to stop. I would advise young musicians to practice as much as possible and consistently, if not for long periods of time. Twenty minutes a day is better than four hours one day and ten minutes the next. I used to practice at the neighbor's because we didn't have a piano until a year after I started.

Were there any particular musicians you were listening to at the time? 

Well, I didn't have a record collection. I couldn't afford it. I had a string quartet on a seventy-eight [rpm] record, and somebody gave me a Miles Davis record. I had some seventy-eights of Charlie Parker, and as soon as I found out who Bud Powell was, I bought some of his records. But these were things I picked up when I got older. I started off just playing pieces. 

What motivated you toward improvising?

I had a little group I formed when I was about fifteen. There were seven pieces, whenever I could get them to practice. We used to have sessions in my house or in my mother's shop - she was a beautician. I started realizing that I had to give these guys notes to play, and most of it came from trying to play tunes I heard on records or the radio.

How did you meet John Coltrane and become part of his quartet?

I met him in the summer of 1955, when I was seventeen. It was at [trumpeter] Cal Massey's gig with Jimmy Garrison and [drummer Albert] Tootie Heath. Cal and John were close friends. Coltrane struck me as very quiet and serious. At that time he was at the inception of his style. He hadn't blossomed yet, but there was something about his sound and approach to improvising that was captivating. We kept in touch when John came back to town, especially during this period when Miles had let him go [during 1957], I was working as a shipping clerk in the daytime and as a musician at night. John and I played together, and he had improved quite a bit. I think he was working on some of the ideas that went into Giant Steps, Coltrane went back with Miles again, but we had sort of a verbal understanding that if he ever got his own group, I would play piano.

By the time John had his group going Art Farmer and Benny Golson had come through town [with the Jazztet], so I joined them. I think that I heard, while I was with the Jazztet in San Francisco, that John had a group. Steve Kuhn was playing piano. I don't think John wanted to ask me to leave the Jazztet because he was friendly with Benny Golson, but I believe Naima [John's wife] encouraged him. John left it up to me - he asked me what I wanted to do. It was a hard choice, even though I knew what I wanted to do. There were probably some bad feelings at first with the Jazztet, but I think they understood better later on. John's group was where I belonged.

Aside from the obvious musical influence, could you assess the importance of your years with the Coltrane quartet?

When I began with John, I accepted the responsibility of being an accompanist. I figured if I did the best I could in that role, I'd have to learn something. I wasn't interested in telling John what I wanted. I wanted to find out what he had to say. So I submitted to leadership, although the submission didn't take the form of his telling me what to do. I think the saying is true that you have to be a good follower before you can be a good leader. In any business you've got to have enough experience to stand up in front and say, "Okay, I'm ready to take charge." In a sense I was in the first stages of preparing for leadership.

How do you feel about your first recordings for Impulse as an individual artist during those years?

I tried to record some things that made me sound different from the I group, not realizing that the way I played with John was really the way I played. We just happened to be able to play together. Our personalities complement each other. We were that compatible. 

What prompted you to leave the group in 1965?

Well, I felt if I was going to go any further musically, I would have to leave the group, and when John hired a second drummer [Rashied All], it became a physical necessity. I couldn't hear myself. John was understanding. In fact, I think he admired my courage. 

What happened next?

There wasn't enough interest in me as an individual artist at Impulse, so I left them and began doing sessions for Blue Note, though only a few as leader. But I didn't work consistently enough to really be working on anything. I wondered whether it was meant for me to continue playing music. I was actually considering working during the day I had reached that point. It's funny, though; along with the pressure, it was also one of the happiest times of my life. I didn't travel much. I became very close to my family. It renewed my faith in the Creator. Despite the adversity, this was a fulfilling period because it was a test of my ability to survive, personally and as an artist. I had a chance to compromise, and I didn't do it.

You mean you were going to quit, or play pop, or what?

I was thinking about hacking, you know, driving a cab. The guy I went to see about the job couldn't believe it. He used to drive me to the airport when I was working with John's band. He just didn't believe I needed a job, and he never called me back. Also, I had offers to go on tours with Benny Goodman. A lot of guys I knew were going electric or into rock to become more commercial-I just couldn't.

Who was it who said, "It takes pressure to create diamonds"? Sometimes you can only learn through adversity. If a man's faith isn't tested, I don't think he'll learn anything. You can see it in people who have achieved some margin of success in life - meaning peace of mind and happiness, at least some of it. They have struggled to get it and sacrificed to learn. Faith in the Creator is what brought me through, and my wife. She's really a jewel. It takes a special kind of woman to live with a musician, especially a musician, or any artist really, who's not making it. We went through some pretty tough economic times. I had a log-cabin bank full of pennies  -I still keep it.

It seems that about 1971, just before you left Blue Note for the Milestone label, your music acquired a new character and identity. What was the breakthrough?

It's very difficult to pinpoint a particular period when you take that big step. All you know is, you're there. Once you've dedicated yourself to something and you work at it, it takes shape and grows.

A specific difference is your use of the piano as a percussion instrument. Theoretically the piano is a percussion instrument, but there are few jazz pianists who explore that dimension. Do you think you play percussively?

Yes, I suppose I do. When you reach a certain point, you look for something else in the instrument to express your emotions. The piano became more of a rhythmic instrument to me, more like a drum, I guess. You see, after all these years, the piano and I have really become friends. I can truthfully say I have a friend there. It's like an arm or a leg, part of me. I can use it for almost total expression.

Would you say that your style of playing the piano has had an influence on others?

I'd like to believe that what I'm doing makes a difference. It takes that type of belief in your music to give you the firm belief that it's meaningful in terms of what's happening today. To me, influence is an indication that what you're doing is valid for the times. It's meaningful if people hear the music and get some beautiful feelings from it, or inner emotional release, or just learn something. Music can educate people, too, not in the ordinary sense of education. You take people on an excursion. The artist should be able to convey his adventures musically to the people. You can entertain, and you can also broaden people's perspectives through music. If your ideas mean something to you, you should be able to communicate them. Some of the simplest things are the most beautiful, and simplicity is coupled with complexity. That's the way life is, simple and complex at the same time.

How do you view your own music historically speaking? Is it derived from bebop, from modal music, or do you think of it as black American music?

My music is an extension of bebop, but all these other things are interconnected. You really have to be aware of the interrelationships and of the roots of the music in order for it to have its identity. Historically, though, there are different ways to look at this. The music had its roots in the black community. Music played a very important part in self-expression within the black community. The form of the music is very expressive of how black people felt, especially with bebop because it was such a major change in that particular idiom. I'd say the selection of music now is very commercial, while back then it seems people really liked good music. But the music has grown, and it's become an individual experience, which is another level from just historical categories. You might hear Indian music in it, or Stravinsky - I happen to like Stravinsky's orchestration. The thing is that the roots of the music must be felt for it to be truly what it is. If you look at the top of a tree, it can be blowing in many different directions, but once it's broken off from its roots, it's dead. 

What's the connection for you between religion and music, or religion and your I music?

Jazz started as religious music. Music, generally, started out as a form of praise to the Creator. That was the original purpose of it. In fact, the church was about the only place the [early] black Americans would make music, which was an indication of the seriousness of the music and how it was taken by our people. Religion is not in the church or mosque or synagogue, at least in my opinion; it's in the person. Religions should make you conscious of what you are in relationship to the Creator. 

Why do you say "Creator" instead of God?

I believe that the idea of man was conceived out of love. I like the word "Creator" for that reason, because instead of something sitting in judgment, it denotes a deity that loves His creation. I've been with this since I was a teenager, and I feel I really understand the function of religion in life. It's just a word unless you've lived through enough to know what it means. In a sense it has to be tested, like a marriage or faith, so you know whether it's served its purpose so far as your life is concerned.

Do you consider your music religious music in some sense? 

I hope it's on that level, though it can be other things at the same time. 

What about composing? Are you doing much of it now?

I'm approaching some new concepts in my writing, but I think the best is yet to come as far as composition is concerned. I'm hearing more motion, more mode changes in my solos, so I want to compose in that framework. What I really want to do is write things that complement my mood when I'm soloing.

Can you describe the role composition has played in the history of your musical endeavors?

My interest in it goes pretty far back-to when I was a teenager with a seven-piece band. We were just a group of guys going to school together. I liked that band sound, and I tried to pull everything together into a tighter sound, which was the most I could do at the time. We went so far as to tape a few things.

It got more serious when I was with John [Coltrane]. He tried to get me to do some writing and orchestrating for larger groups around the quartet setting. But I was so engrossed with what we were doing in the small band I didn't pursue it heavily. The only thing from the early sixties was "Greensleeves" from the Africa Brass album, where we used my orchestration involving French horns and a trumpet. I guess I did feel a lot of voices in my music, and my own [pianistic] style reflects it. I remember John saying that he heard it in my approach to comping [accompaniment]. Incidentally, the tune "Africa" was written from my voicings by Eric Dolphy. He asked me to show him what I was doing so he could get the same sound I was getting from the piano.

Even though the seeds of orchestration and composing were planted many years ago, I feel they've just begun to take root. It's like another horizon for me. It's been a challenging one, too, and I think it's always a good idea to have a new venture.

Song for the New World actually preceded Fly with the Wind as an album of significant writing for you. Did you feel a lot of progress had been made between the two of them?

I look at it this way: Piano is my instrument, but in writing I'm beginning to use the orchestra as another instrument. You have to learn a lot by trial and error,

So you're taking up a new instrument?

Exactly. And it's an especially exciting one to me because I always look forward to hearing how things sound after I write them. At this point I really can't tell until the music is played. So in answer to your question [about my progress] I don't feel Fly with the Wind is the ultimate in terms of depth. I was a little bit cautious when I wrote it. It was successful for what it was, but it's not the epitome of what I could do with strings. I'm looking ahead. I'd rather look ahead to see what my potential is than look back to see whether I've fulfilled it already. It's important to look at your music and feel you can do better.

While Fly with the Wind was being recorded, I remember you telling me you had consulted a book on orchestrating for strings.

Yes, and it was valuable in that I had a reference for the instrument's capability - its capability in normal circumstances, taking into consideration who was playing it. If you don't write for strings all the time, it's very helpful to have that kind of information available. I was using Walter Piston's book [Harmony], but Forsythe has one which also seems to be very good [Orchestration].

Hadn't you studied orchestration at Granoff?

No, I never did. Looking back on my life in music, I can see that things happen in stages, by development. I like that. I'd rather see how I've grown in the past ten years than feel I've reached some sort of pinnacle. In other words, I hope I haven't climbed the highest mountain. Fly with the Wind let me know that what I hear can be translated into forms other than piano and brass, that I can use the orchestra, that I can be less conservative when I write. Incidentally, I wasn't afraid of what the record was going to sound like, but I think I was surprised. I didn't realize how powerful strings could be when they're used properly. Many people assume that strings have to be used very commercially, as a sweetening track, but that's not so.

Did you compose "Fly with the Wind" at a table or at the piano?

I always use the piano when I write because it helps me to hear the weight of certain tones in developing chords. You can tell more easily which colors in the chord stand out and then use the elements you find most important. Personally I like to use the piano not for the security of it, but because I can relate so easily to the sound of the instrument.

After hearing it on the piano, were you surprised at all by how the orchestration sounded played by other instruments?

Yes, but pleasantly. The weight seemed so balanced. There's a real science of balance. Notes that are strong on one instrument in a register have to be checked by notes on a different instrument. You have to be aware of the weights of tones. One of the surprises was that the simpler things sounded stronger than the more sophisticated chords. It's a very mystifying aspect of writing. Right now I'm thinking of a particular chord on the title tune, Fly with the Wind; it comes in just before the main theme during the introduction.

You once mentioned that Stravinsky impressed you very strongly. Do you think his work has influenced your sense of orchestration?

Stravinsky and Debussy are two of my favorite composers. Stravinsky was definitely inspirational. I should also include Duke [Ellington] in there because he was so heavy into the harmonic concept of the orchestra. Producing a sound with an orchestra is a unique talent. Just like I listen to Art Tatum to get inspiration at the piano, it's nice to be able to be inspired by composers. It's not that I want to copy them, but it's a stimulating thing. I think it's good to listen, but I don't think it should be too deliberate. Then you'll be inclined to copy. The inspiration is good, but it should be left at that level so that your own creative emotions can flow. You don't want another creative individual to overshadow you. That's not the purpose of listening. To me, its purpose is to be inspired, not stifled.

“Fly with the Wind" had a captivating theme to me. It gave me the same feeling as Gershwin's "American in Paris" in terms of (he lightness of the strings. Is this a valid impression from your point of view?

Well, I know what you mean, because I was in a happy mood at the time.

At times in my career I have felt heavy and gone into heavy things harmonically. But there are times when I feel light, and I think I should express that side of me musically, as well as the very serious side.

What can you tell me about the album for voices that you're about to record?

I'm using four trumpets, five saxes, trombones, and an acoustic guitar [played by Earl Klugh], and then the voices. Bill Fischer, who did Fly with the Wind, will conduct and work with the voices. He's a very flexible musician, which is important to me because I want to work with different contexts. Actually that's why I'm writing. I don't write music because I want to be popular. I write because I want to experiment with different settings.

Do you think there is also a presumption that voices-like strings - are a sweetener?

Yes, I suppose so, but I don't think my material will reflect that.

How can you expand the seriousness with which voices are used as an additional color?

Well, the way I'm using them they will be like instruments. I don't anticipate any words being used.

Why voices?

It seemed like the next step for me. Orrin [Keepnews, his producer on Milestone] and I work very well together. He often suggests things for me, which we then discuss. For example, the last trio album which used different rhythm sections [Supertrios] was his idea. It was a way of making that album different from Trident. After we expanded the number of players involved, we thought about the next thing we could do with a larger size group. He suggested voices, and I had been considering it myself, so that's how it came up.

Did you listen to any vocal music for inspiration or to stimulate your ideas?

I did pick up a couple of religious pieces written quite a long time ago. One was a record of church chants sung in Greek by a choir of priests. It was just to get the sound of the voices in my ear, although what I'm writing has nothing to do with that music. Yet I am going to do some a capella things, some with piano accompaniment, some voices with the larger group. Actually it will be a mixture of formats.

We'll probably use about twelve singers, but there will be some overdubbing of voices, too, for a bigger sound. We're overdubbing for technical reasons; it's not economical. The voice is so delicate that in a studio you have to be careful. A chorus has to be working together a very long time before it can succeed in a studio. As an alternative to bringing thirty singers into the studio - they wouldn't be able to hear each other in a situation like that - we felt that we'd get better tone quality and definition by overdubbing.

How do you feel about performing your orchestral compositions live, as you did with "Fly with the Wind?”

I played it once with a professional orchestra which was right in the middle of an internal dispute, and I think they had had some bad experiences collaborating with jazz groups, too. We really walked into the middle of something there, and I wasn't very happy with the result. But the Oakland  Youth Symphony performance and the performance at Newport this summer were both very exciting. I'd want to do a live performance with voices, too, but right now I have to concentrate on recording the music.

Can you foresee functioning strictly as a composer, writing an album of music on  which you wouldn't perform?

Well, I'd rather be involved with what's going on. I don't think I could orchestrate for a living because I enjoy performing too much. It's an important part of my makeup as an individual. Performing is a wonderful release of my emotions. Performing is like emptying the cup in order to fill it again. That's the joy of it.

Considering Chick [Corea], Herbie [Hancock], Keith Jarrett, and a few others, it seems that composition is becoming a more important part of a player's repertoire. Do you see that as a trend, too?

Yes, composition is taking a larger role, which is a good sign for the

music. It means that we're hearing other forms. When changes take place in

the music, it often happens compositionally. Guys start to write differently,

and pretty soon you'll hear a concept change. Of course, it depends on the

artist. John created a change through his playing. His writing complemented

his style. In a way I think that's true in my own case. I write my own music

best, as a complement to my style as a player.

Some players seem to have a very good understanding of form. Even though Chick and Herbie are involved in the electronic thing very heavily, I have to admit that they are very fine writers. In Herbie's case, I'm thinking of his more interesting compositions, not the commercial ventures. I guess I'm still growing as a writer. I've yet to put down all the things I hear. I need to spend more time at the piano writing. 

Do you have a writing schedule?

No, it's whenever I can fit it in. The same is true of practicing. I haven't had a practice routine since I was a teenager.

When you speak about "form" in music, are you distinguishing it from the content of the piece?

The advantage of writing your own music is that you can create a form that you enjoy playing on. You know, I sometimes feel that I have to learn my

own music - that is, the ideas that are in it. A song is like a good book. It takes a while to get familiar with it. Of course, you can always play it, but after you've played it for a while, it becomes more revealing. It becomes like a good friend. You can get more deeply into the material. Then the form begins to flex a little bit more. Look at the wall over there. At first it looks like one solid mass, but you can get down to looking at the particles on a microscopic level, the atomic structure, and so on. A piece of musk can look like one entity, too, but then you learn it better and you can break it down into an abundance of things that are happening.

Remember "My Favorite Things," which I played with John? I didn't like the song at first. But after we played it for a while, the song began to flex and become part of the group. It's a very good thing at times to take a standard and shape it to your own needs as a player. Of course, the whole process is easier with your own music, your own compositions, because you are writing them to complement your style. And I don't mean the writing of them is easy, but only that it's more integrated with your playing.

Is there anything else you'd like to add on the subject of your writing?

Well, I haven't exhausted all the things I hear. Frankly I hope I never do.

It was surprising to hear you using a harpsichord on Trident [on Milestone], How did that happen?

I was trying to find a keyboard instrument that would be different from the piano and yet have a good sound. The first time I saw one was in Europe with John. I plunked away at it, and the sound stuck in my mind. The action is different. You have to lay on the key. If you jump off it, the tone will disappear. The harpsichord I used on Trident had two keyboards on it, and there were certain gadgets you could push to get both keyboards playing in unison, as well as a staccato button. I didn't use any of these devices on the recording.

What kind of piano do you prefer?

Generally the Steinways. I have one myself. I especially like the European Steinways. The studio at Fantasy Records [in Berkeley] has a Yamaha, though, which is very fine. Echoes of a Friend [a solo album on Milestone] was recorded on a Steinway in Japan. When I go to Japan, I get Steinways. They gave me one Yamaha, and they apologized.

While we're on the subject of keyboards, what's your feeling about electric pianos?

To me, electronic instruments have more of an artificial sound. Emotionally I couldn't function on them. It's too easy, physically, to play, and it weakens you. You can push a button and get a gigantic sound. I think it interferes with some of the human vibrations.

What kind of music do you listen to now?

I like Stravinsky, especially the way he orchestrates- The Rite of Spring and Petrushka particularly. I also listen to music from different parts of the world, from Japan, Turkey, North Africa, Central Africa. At a certain stage you have :o listen to good music, no matter where it comes from. But I enjoy jazz more than other forms.

Do you listen to jazz?

Very little nowadays, because there's so much electronic stuff. I'll go back and listen to Art Tatum's collection, that Pablo series [Tatum Solo Masterpieces], or I'll listen to Leadbelly, Sarah Vaughan, and Billy Eckstine. I like a lot of different things.

Are you practicing anything new on the piano?

Well, I've reached the point where I want to do some practicing. In the group with John, we were always able to give each other inspiration, but it's hard to find a setting like that. Now I have to do it all by myself. Practicing won't solve that problem, but I do want to do more playing on the piano. I know everything doesn't lie in the practicing, which is just limbering the muscles and so on. Music doesn't lie in that. It helps, though. John even practiced between sets in the back room. He worked hard, like a person who didn't have any talent. As great as he was, he practiced constantly. So who am I not to?

Have you considered teaching? Would you do that one day? 

A friend of mine asked me to lecture to his class at the University of Santa Barbara. I couldn't. About what? I don't look at music like that. Music is a form of self-expression to me. Music is a part of nature — it's sound. I don't stop to analyze. I play from sound, from what I hear in my head and from what I feel.

Why do you think jazz has such a hard time getting played, distributed, and supported in America?

Because there's a lot of junk-manufactured music that's not personal - that has been thrust upon people. Art is placed on a much higher level in other countries, where symphony orchestras and jazz are supported by the government. It's disappointing. But I don't think the American public has poor taste. They've just been misled.”