Clifford Brown on The Left Coast: The Origins of the Max Roach - Clifford Brown Quintet ;From the Archives]

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

“Rumsey's real coup, however, was in bringing bebop legend Max Roach to the club as Manne's replacement. For the next several months Roach served as the unlikely drum-keeper of the Lighthouse flame — a period that proved exciting not only for inimitable percussion work, but also for Roach's many friends who sat in with the band. "When Max Roach came in from New York to take over Shelly Manne's drum chair," Rumsey relates, "he drove up with Charles Mingus and Miles Davis in the car with him."' Roach's arrival signaled a reversal of compass points from west to east. During the drummer's brief tenure, the Lighthouse hosted some of the brightest jazz stars from the East Coast scene. Rumsey continues:

Miles was just starting to play again after a long sabbatical back home in St. Louis. He hung around for a while, stayed at my home for a week, and did a couple of guest shots at the club. . . . Mingus never played bass for me, but he sat in several times as intermission pianist. As for Max, he set the whole town on fire. Out of his stint I developed long-lasting friendships: Dizzy, Sarah Vaughan, Charlie Parker. …”

- Ted Gioia, West Coast Jazz: Modern Jazz in California 1945-1960

Max Roach came to California in the fall of 1953 to replace Shelly Manne as drummer with Howard Rumsey's Lighthouse All-Stars.

He arrived by car with Miles Davis, who, due to his heroin addiction, was looking for a change of venue, and bassist Charles Mingus, who was originally from Los Angeles.

At the time, Max and Mingus were business partners as co-owners of the Debut recording label which they left in the capable hands of Mingus’ wife Celia who remained in New York to oversee its operation while they sojourned to what geocentric New Yorkers disparagingly refer to as “The Left Coast”.

Many Jazz fans are not aware that one of the forerunners of the Hard Bop style of Jazz - the Max Roach - Clifford Brown Quintet - a style of Jazz usually associated with New York City - had its origins in sunny, southern California

In his definitive treatment of West Coast Jazz: Modern Jazz in California 1945-1960 [pp. 308-311], Ted Gioia offers the following narrative about how the Max Roach - Clifford Brown Quintet became a reality, albeit, tragically, a short-lived one.

“Despite his growing reputation as the outstanding exponent of modern jazz drumming, Roach had been working almost exclusively as a sideman. He had recorded as a leader for Debut—the label he had founded with Charles Mingus—but, by his own admission, had not yet "got seriously involved in bandleading." In California, he was asked by jazz impresario Gene Norman to start a group of his own. Promised an extended booking at the California Club, Roach agreed to form a quintet. His next move was to send for a young trumpeter from back east named Clifford Brown. These two musicians, one already famous in the jazz world and the other soon to be so, were about to become the most prominent members in one of the finest — if not the best — jazz combos of the early 1950s.

Brown's work in jazz was as striking for its architectonic structure as for its emotional immediacy. And this quest for order was as much a part of Clifford's life as it was integral to his music. Studies of highly gifted youngsters have revealed that in three areas of human endeavor — music, mathematics, and chess — talent becomes apparent at an especially young age. Clifford Brown's biography (as well as those of many other jazz musicians) substantiates the view that these three highly structured ways of seeing the universe may be correlated. Brown showed early ability in all three disciplines. Born in Wilmington, Delaware, on October 30, 1930, he revealed, first and foremost, a prodigious musical talent. In addition to quickly mastering the trumpet, which he began in his early teens, he pursued studies in piano and arranging while still in high school. When he entered Delaware State College, he started as a mathematics major, only switching to music after transferring to Maryland State. Brown's complementary skills as a chess player have been attested to by, among others, his bandmate Max Roach. And Roach should know: He was a fine player in his own right, who made the all-city chess team when still back in Brooklyn. By his late teens, Brown's career as a promising musician had come to overshadow these subsidiary interests. Even so, the ordered universe of mathematics and chess may have found its way into the trumpeter's music. At its best, his playing combined the raw passion of jazz with the precision and logic of composed music.

In a macabre foreshadowing. Brown was injured in an automobile accident in June 1950. For almost a year his promising musical career was placed on hold. His comeback was slow at first, and his first record date, with Chris Powell and His Blue Flames, did not take place until March 1952, almost two years after the accident. Only six weeks later, however, Brown was back in the studio again, this time with a much finer band consisting of Lou Donaldson, Elmo Hope, Percy Heath, and Philly Joe Jones. From this point until his tragic early death in a second auto accident in June 1956, Brown would record and perform regularly with the finest musicians in jazz. His few recordings are among the most important jazz legacies from the 1950s.

By the time of his fateful journey to California, he had already impressed many with his precocious skills on the trumpet. Both Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie were strong supporters of the young musician: Parker's glowing recommendation had convinced Art Blakey to add Brownie to his band for a brief period earlier in 1954, while Gillespie had been among the first to tell Max Roach about the extraordinary talent of this future colleague. In addition to these illustrious connections, Brown had already gained valuable experience recording and playing with Tadd Dameron, Lionel Hampton, J. J. Johnson, and Gigi Gryce. These early sideman sessions, as well as a few dates as a leader from this period, demonstrated that Brown had already achieved a mature, poised style and a polished virtuosity well before his twenty-third birthday.

Perhaps the most striking element of this provocative trumpet style was Brown's distinctive sound. When many aspiring bop trumpeters were willing to sacrifice tonal clarity in order to play fast, Brown proved that it was possible to have it both ways: One could (or at least Brown could) play complex, rapid-fire melodic lines while still maintaining a warm, well-rounded tone. Building on the legacy of Fats Navarro, Brown could boast of the purest, cleanest sound of any of the young bebop trumpeters.

One could well imagine Brown playing the classical trumpet repertoire — much as Wynton Marsalis would do a generation later — without having to alter his basic musical conception. (Nor is it a coincidence that Marsalis's earliest jazz work showed the strong influence of Clifford Brown. Brown was the perfect role model for this latter-day master of both the classical and jazz idioms.) This keen sense of sound provided the foundation for Brown's other musical virtues: his melodic creativity, his speed of execution, his sense of phrasing and dynamics.

The Brown/Roach group was perhaps the strongest working jazz band of its day, the ensembles of Parker and Gillespie notwithstanding. At first, however, the personnel of the band underwent a number of changes. Roach's initial choice for the saxophone chair. Sonny Stitt, made the trip out west with Brown, only to leave the band after a few weeks. Stitt's replacement was Teddy Edwards, a powerful tenorist who had made a name for himself on recordings with Howard McGhee and Dexter Gordon a few years before. Edwards was playing in the San Francisco area during the summer of 1954 but returned to Southern California when Roach asked him to finish out the group's engagement at the California Club. … “

Although Edwards did not remain with the group when it went on the road a short while later—by then Harold Land had taken his place— he participated in the group's first recording for Gene Norman. … , by the time the Brown/Roach group returned to the studio in early August, the side-men had changed to the very successful combination of Harold Land, Richie Powell, and George Morrow.

In the interim, Brown had participated in a very different session for Richard Bock's Pacific label. Tenor saxophonist Jack Montrose was called in as an arranger and proceeded to create a distinctive setting for Brownie's horn, one very different from the hard bop orientation of the Roach group. Montrose's tight, medium-groove arrangements were typical of the "West Coast sound," but to counterbalance this tendency toward the cool, Montrose wisely drew on some of the more hard-swinging musicians in the area to complement Brown's energetic style. Zoot Sims and Bob Gordon both proved to be compatible front-line foils for the young trumpeter.”

These Pacific Jazz recordings by the Roach - Brown 5tet are included in Clifford Brown: The Complete Blue Note and Pacific Jazz Recordings [CDP 7243 8 34195 2 4] for which its producer, Michael Cuscuna provided the following notes about Brownie and the tracks he cut for Pacific Jazz.

“It was just four years. One presidential term. The interval between Olympic contests. No time at all. Virtually everything we know about trumpeter Clifford Brown — who at age 26 was killed on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, in an accident that also claimed the life of pianist Richie Powell — comes from what he recorded in one incredibly narrow four-year window.

Of course Brown's storybook transformation took a bit longer: In less than a decade, he went from semi-unknown to jazz royalty, from student to master stylist. With the methodical dedication of a professional athlete, he established himself on the jazz scene of his hometown, Wilmington, Delaware, and then nearby Philadelphia, and then the world. Before he'd finished his first year of college, the network of musicians on the East Coast were buzzing about this unusually proficient young talent—Charlie Parker was so enamored, he told Art Blakey not to bother bringing a trumpet player to a gig in Philadelphia. How quickly did Brown ascend? One year he was making his recording debut with R&B bandleader Chris Powell and his Blue Flames, the next he was doing sessions with established

bebop trombonist Jay Jay Johnson and leading a date that featured MJQ pianist John Lewis, By 1954, when the Downbeat critics poll identified him as the new trumpet star, he was already co-leading the group with Max Roach that ushered in and helped delineate the bebop-derived music that became known as hard bop. Two years later, he was dead. Jazz artists traditionally expect to get a few years to develop; Duke Ellington, Sonny Rollins, Miles Davis and others established their musical identities over decades. Listening to Clifford, any Clifford, it's obvious he never counted on that. Every solo was the one for the books. His phrases carried an irrepressible fight-to-the-finish urgency, and his tone practically demanded attention. A mathematician and chess player, he cared about clarity more than any jumble of notes. He did develop in the short duration of his recording career, but even his early solos sound poised, carefully thought-out, complete.

Everyone who heard Clifford Brown in the early '50s remembers him being fully ready, even as a very young man. Jimmy Heath, active in Philadelphia jazz at the time, says he can still hear the way "this shy kid" sounded when Brown sat in with Heath's group at Wilmington's Two Spot in the late '40s: "He came in and wiped everybody out. He was already polished. It was pretty unexpected coming from this gentle introverted person."

It is this unexpectedly wise-beyond-his-years attitude that makes "early" Clifford Brown—the first few years of his recording career, as opposed to the last few—so important. These discs, which collect his contributions to Blue Note as both sideman and leader, suggest new angles from which to view this firebrand. They're the oft-overlooked back pages of a man who's influenced everyone who followed him in jazz trumpet. More than footnotes, they're the stuff he recorded in the midst of building his reputation, and as such, they capture an artist laying the foundation, developing the vocabulary, and beginning to test the limits. Like many who sought to utilize the language of bebop, he worked out on its difficult slalom courses nightly, and understood that mistakes were part of the cost of doing business. If 1955 and '56 represent Brown's mature zenith, then 1953 and '54 were his crucial formative time, a period of explosive growth and near-constant financial worries. Brown could scarcely afford to turn down work, as the critics understood: writing about Brown's first date as a leader (disc one, known as the Clifford Brown Memorial Album), Down Beat's Nat Hentoff ended his 4-star rave by announcing "Brownie has really arrived; now let's hope he can get some steady gigs."

In 1953, the Blue Note stable was a logical point of entry for jazzmen in pursuit of steady work. After signing Thelonious Monk in 1947. the label somehow missed bebop's other pioneers, and played catch-up by documenting the work of a large group of younger, bop-influenced players. The leaders changed depending on the day, but the quality of musicianship and the spirit of the sessions remained consistently high. It made sense for an emerging artist like Clifford Brown, then just entering the close-knit circuit of New York musicians, to get a call from Blue Note. Alto saxophonist Lou Donaldson, who co-led a June 9 session with Clifford that was the trumpeter's first appearance on the label, remembers the atmosphere this way: "Everybody was real compatible, both personally and musically. It just happened that in New York at that time, there were a lot of like-minded musicians — situations where it almost didn't matter who you got, everybody could play."

By the time Brown got his first call to record, he could certainly play. Born in Wilmington on October 30, 1930, he became fascinated by the look of a trumpet his father, a multi-instrumentalist, had around the house. He started playing at age 13, when his father bought him his own horn. While in junior high, he studied music with Robert Lowery, a musician whose clinics and jazz band rehearsals were well-known in the community. Lowery remembers Brownie as a "serious" student: "He really wanted to get out of it everything he could, that's why he stood out more. Not right off the bat, after he learned exactly how to hear. I have a method, and when you learn that method you can actually hear what you're going to play. He got it."

Marcus Belgrave, who followed Brown through Lowery's classes, often heard Clifford practice. "When he played, everything was scientifically laid out. He was into writing ideas down, he would always tell me to write things down. He'd play everything through the keys." Belgrave remembers that even after Brown began playing jazz gigs, he'd still show up at this weekly community marching band whenever he could. "I asked him why he bothered to show up to play these circus-type tunes, and he said "I like all kinds of music," and from that point on, I delved into everything I could get my hands on. That one thing he said really turned me around."

By the dawn of bebop. Brown had already identified his inspiration: He loved the crisp articulation and intricate phrases of the ill-fated trumpeter Fats Navarro, Max Roach recalled that in every interview situation, Brown would always mention Navarro first. He met his idol in 1949, on a gig in Philadelphia, and was encouraged by the bebop master, who died the next year from tuberculosis that was complicated by narcotics addiction. After attracting the attention of Dizzy Gillespie and others, Brown then had his own trouble: He was in a car accident in June 1950, and spent most of the year in the hospital, recovering. Among his visitors was Gillespie.

When he was back in action, he played with Bud Powell in Philadelphia, then with bandleader Chris Powell (no relation), and then in 1953, landed a job with Tadd Dameron's band playing the summer season in Atlantic City. That summer he also managed to record twice—with Jay Jay Johnson and in his first date as a leader. In the fall of that year, he did a European tour with Lionel Hampton's band, where he met, among others, the trumpeter and arranger Quincy Jones—who contributed some compositions to his first date, and supervised some recordings Brown made while in Europe with Hampton. In November, Brown found himself in New York, employed by Art Blakey; the two Live At Birdland discs were recorded in February 1954, and featured future Jazz Messenger Horace Silver on piano.

Later that year, Max Roach, who was leading a group at the Lighthouse, flew East to propose a partnership. Brown accepted, and that summer, the group worked the L.A. circuit while Brown was engaged by producer Richard Bock  play on a West Coast-style date—the Jazz Immortal Featuring Zoot Sims session found on disc two. A week later, the Brown/Roach band hit the studio, and one of the great Synergies of jazz was born: From the summer of '54 until Brown's death in '56, there was no band that more skillfully combined the breakneck tempos and harmonic excitement of bebop with more relaxed and musical textures that would become hard bop. (This music, as well as Brown's later solo records, is chronicled on the 10-CD set Brownie: The Complete EmArcy Recordings Of Clifford Brown, issued in 1989.)

Brown had a few advantages over some of his peers. He was a disciplined man—his wife, LaRue Brown Watson, remembers squeezing in time with Clifford between his practice sessions. He was also drug-free at a time when musicians leaned on narcotics the way baseball players rely on chewing tobacco. Says Lou Donaldson: "Back then, a lot of guys were strung out. But Clifford was strong. There was nothing to get in his way. He was powerful, the guy who could play all night and never split a note."

Brown was a leader well before he became a bandleader. He led with his instrument, with his innate ability to place phrases so they'd sting, or caress. He had enviable command of the instrument, but was no mere button-pusher; his strength was the rare ability to give technically demanding passages a human heart. He announced himself with terse fanfares — he had a knack for starting his solos with phrases that snapped listeners to attention — yet never relied solely on the herculean feats. Trumpet players gush in admiration over his gifts: Belgrave said that at one point, he had to stop listening to Clifford Brown, because Brown "made you feel so inadequate you'd want to put your horn in the trash." Art Farmer, already somewhat established on the scene at that time, said much the same thing in an interview shortly after Brown's death: "...He was such a sweet and warm human being, I was forced to like him even though he made things very difficult for me as a trumpet player."

Brown emulated a few Navarro-isms, most notably the beboppers' articulation. Where most trumpet players grouped their thoughts by Slurring notes together, Brown, like Navarro before him, used his tongue more frequently, creating clipped, machine-gun lines in which every note was crisply delineated. For Wynton Marsalis, this remains one of Brown's signatures: "It's real hard to play the trumpet and tongue that much," Marsalis says. "That was the way he phrased. If you play a Charlie Parker solo on the trumpet, it sounds like Clifford. He had them fingers, too."

Brown also possessed an unerring knack for drama. With one off-balance phrase or a sudden reversal of direction, he could suggest sweeping mood changes; where many musicians operated at one volume, he'd establish a quiet mood, then abandon it in favor of a celebratory shout. Saxophonist Benny Golson, who worked with Brown in Dameron's band, admired the trumpeter's control of resources, particularly on ballads: "He could change from a meek lamb, musically, into a fierce tiger. He could play the bottom, top, loud, soft; he was playing the whole instrument."

Not incidentally, these elements of his musical personality helped non-musicians respond to what Brownie did on the bandstand. Jimmy Heath tells the story of a gig he played with Clifford at Spider Kelly's club in Philadelphia. "It was a little place on Mole St., near Market, and a woman who was completely out of her head, you know intoxicated, came up to the bandstand after the set. We'd been playing all the bebop heads we heard Dizzy and them play, and this lady comes up and says “I don't know what it is that you guys are playing, but you" — and she points right at Clifford — "are playing the hell out of it." Clifford had his head bowed in his usual humble way, and we were laughing. She didn't know what it was, but she knew he was doing it well."

…

“The last eight tracks on disc two come from the summer of 1954, when Brown met up with Max Roach and they were beginning to work in Los Angeles. Producer Richard Bock proposed a West Coast-style four-horn session featuring Clifford, with arrangements by Jack Montrose; Clifford, always looking for new challenges, agreed to it. Montrose remembers spending day and night with Clifford: "Art Pepper and I had a group that was playing opposite Brown and Roach at the Tiffany Club. For a couple of weeks there, I would go to his hotel room during the day and go over his tunes, and then we'd play at night." Montrose says he worked up charts on a few Brownie originals—"Daahoud," "Joy Spring," "Tiny Capers," "Bones For Jones"—and then was told by Bock to write arrangements for "Blueberry Hill" and "Gone With The Wind." "I don't think they were Clifford's choice, so I had to make something good out of them." Montrose also had to bridge the stylistic difference between Brown's searing-hot mode of operation and the more laid-back West Coast style. This was another challenge, Montrose recalls: "It wasn't the kind of thing he'd been into— everything he'd played had more fire. But his tunes were terrific, and everybody was surprised by how warm he was. I think he was less hung up by the style than by the fact he'd never played with those musicians before. But he got over that. It was a really happy date."

What was most striking for her, LaRue Brown Watson says, was the way Clifford was able to keep the different styles separate. "This was something so totally different from anything that he had ever done or would do again. I always thought it was strange that he could go into the studio during the daytime and play the kind of music that came out of Pacific Jazz, and at night turn around and play something totally different with Max."

As Michael concludes: “These moments and others, are not just the work of a clever button-pusher. They’re the product of a true thinker, an artist who was serious about communicating through his improvisations.”

Stan Getz - East of the Sun: The West Coast Sessions - The Ted Gioia Notes [With Revisions and Additions]

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

“Flawless technique, perfect time, strong melodic sense and more than enough harmonic expertise, fabulous memory, and great ears. Add a superb sense of dynamics, pacing, and formal. Top this off with a sound of pure gold, and you have Stan Getz.

He was a charismatic musician. His music actually affected the course of people's lives. They fell in love with his music. They fell in love because of his music, and they made love to his music.

My association with Stan started in Woody Herman's Second Herd, the "Four Brothers" band. Stan was already in the band when the Jimmy Giuffre original "Four Brothers" was recorded for Columbia Records. But the real breakthrough came with the recording of Ralph Burns' "Early Autumn" at Radio Recorders in Hollywood for Capitol Records. By that time I had become a band member. I was fortunate to work with Stan from that time on — playing, recording, and traveling together in the Forties. Fifties, Sixties. Seventies. Eighties and, finally, in 1990.

After Stan left the Woody Herman band in 1949, he made a string of important recordings, including Jazz At Storyville,  the "Moonlight in Vermont" series with Johnny Smith Focus with Eddie Sauter and the huge success, Antonio Carlos Jobim's bossa novas "Desafinado” and "The Girl From Ipanema".

When Verve first asked me to contribute to this presentation. I accepted without hesitation. Then the tapes arrived. Listening to previously released material was great, but a lot of the unissued takes became further proof of the unfaltering quality of Stan's playing.

These recordings contain many outstanding solos by Slan. but if I had to choose one. it would be the lengthy solo on "S-h-i-n-e". This has been a topic of conversation since it was first released. It is Stan in full stride.

When an artist leaves a legacy of recordings such as Stan's, it is overwhelming. But when the artist affects the lives of his audience, he is then in a class with a chosen few. Such an artist is Stan Getz.

On the bandstand and in the studio he brought out the best in those who played with him.

And I for one say, "Thank you. Stanley."

- LOU LEVY, Jazz pianist

The insert notes to the Verve three CD set Stan Getz - East of the Sun: The West Coast Sessions [314 531 935-2] by the distinguished writer Ted Gioia were made a hash of when they were formatted into the booklet.

I’ve rarely seen a more garbled mess disgrace such important Jazz recordings.

The irony here is that Ted is the penultimate all-things-West-Coast-Jazz historian and was actually contracted by Verve to produce these notes!

What a waste.

But fear not; the editorial staff at JazzProfiles contacted Ted and he gave his blessing to having his notes developed into manuscript form so that they can be clearly read as presented on these pages.

“I remember how unhappy I was with the layout of liner notes in the booklet, which made it almost impossible to read the text. I'd be very happy to see them made available online.”

Nothing like making one of the best writers on the subject of Jazz “happy.”

© -Ted Gioia, copyright protected; all rights reserved; used with the author’s permission.

“Stan Getz always equivocated about the West Coast jazz scene. During the late 1980s, when he lived in California. I frequently had the opportunity to talk with him about various jazz musicians, both current and historical. He was bluntly honest during these informal discussions. Typically sparing in the compliments he paid other performers (except for a handful of figures he clearly admired), he seemed especially reserved about many of the prominent West Coast names. Getz kept a safe distance from the local scene during these years, and he almost always had a rhythm section flown in from New York for important gigs. Even while soaking up the sun and enjoying the ambiance of West Coast life, Getz seemed an inveterate East Coast character in his attitudes, mannerisms, language, and temperament

Imagine my surprise at his reaction, when I told him one day that I was researching a book on West Coast jazz. He looked at me in silence for a moment, puzzled, then asked.  “Do you include me in West Coast jazz?" For all his aloofness, he knew how strong his ties were to the California scene, not just in the Eighties but also during the glory days of West Coast jazz in the Fifties. Yet looking at his career in retrospect, he honestly didn't know if he was a West Coast jazz musician.

Was he? These recordings from the mid-Fifties include the most powerful statements in defense of Getz as a major exponent of jazz on the dream coast. Joined by some of the finest players on the Los Angeles scene. Getz participated in a series of memorable sessions. The title of the initial LP release of some of this material left little doubt about the intended marketing angle: It was simply called West Coast Jazz.

This was a long way from Getz's Philadelphia birthplace and childhood in the Bronx. He often dismissed the impact of these formative years on his career, offering snippets of information or relating a meandering anecdote about his first performance on the harmonica. Yet the evidence clearly shows that Getz was a phenomenal talent almost from the start. The late Shorty Rogers mentioned rehearsing in a band with Getz when the latter was barely in his teens and had only been playing saxophone for a few months But even then. Getz was garnering a reputation as a sax prodigy attracting the attention of bandleaders. He lasted for only one year of high school, but had he persisted he might well have fulfilled his teacher’s dream of attending Juilliard. Getz’s primary instrument was the bassoon at this point and he quickly earned a coveted spot in the all-New York student orchestra.

The jazz life had already beckoned and the tenor sax replaced the bassoon as Getz’s horn of choice. Truant officers were tracking him down at the Roseland Ballroom bandstand. So before long Getz bid adieu to James Madison High School choosing to go on the road with trombonist Jack Teagarden. The tenor saxophonist was so young that Teagarden had to be named his legal guardian. Stardom also came at an early age. Getz was barely out of his teens when he dazzled jazz fans with his celebrated playing on Early Autumn with the Woody Herman band.

Getz gravitated to the West Coast in his early career At age sixteen, he traveled to Los Angeles while still with Teagarden. He returned to California as an 18-year-old bandleader in 1945, leading a trio at the Swing Club in Hollywood, but he soon left to go on the road with Benny Goodman. He returned again some time later and parlayed a gig at a Mexican ballroom into a celebrated stint with Herman.

At Pete Pontrelli's Spanish Ballroom, the unlikely staging ground for this movement, Getz participated in the development of a completely new jazz style, one that came to be known as the "Four Brothers' sound". The band's repertoire on this gig consisted primarily of stock arrangements of Mexican and Spanish tunes, supplemented by an occasional jazz chart. But arranger Gene Roland was working on a new way of voicing the sax section, which Jimmy Giuffre took and refined further for the Herman band. The result was a lightly swinging ensemble featuring three tenor and one baritone saxophones — with Getz helping to recreate the sound from Pontrelli's in his new role as a Herman sideman. The recording of “Four Brothers,” from the close of 1947, exhilarated listeners — so much so that jazz fans were soon calling this edition of the Herman orchestra the "Four Brothers band".

By this time. Getz had developed the translucent tenor tone and softly swinging style that gave an airy lightness to the Four Brothers' sound and would distinguish his mature work. Getz's debt to Lester Young in this regard has often been cited, and Getz was the first to admit he admired the older tenor saxophonist. Yet Getz brought a more overtly modernist sensibility to his playing that sharply distinguished it from Young's. Although Getz was never an ardent bebopper, he had listened carefully to Charlie Parker and brought a deep understanding of modern jazz into his own, cooler style.

This influence is especially marked on these West Coast sessions, where Getz draws uncharacteristic inspiration from bop-inflected tunes, such as Gillespie's A Night in Tunisia and Woody 'n' You, and offers a tour de force solo on S-h-i-n-e. These progressive leanings were evident throughout Getz's career, as seen by his constant use of young sidemen with new musical ideas. One recalls with admiration how, more than a decade after these sides, Getz was careening over Phrygian scales and navigating through some of Chick Corea's most complex material on another Verve release, the seminal Sweet Rain. On that record he showed a daring unmatched by any other Young disciple from the postwar years. Or listen to another Verve outing, the justly celebrated Focus, which finds Getz engaging in a marvelously intricate dialogue with a string section. The claim that Getz merely commercialized a variant of the Young sound falls to the ground after even the most casual listening to these recordings.

But what Getz did learn from Young was his essentially melodic approach to improvisation. Throughout most of the history of jazz, the prevailing approach to the tenor sax has stressed the harmonic possibilities of the instrument. Substitute changes, intricate cadences, unusual modes that imply equally exotic harmonies — a range of techniques has been used in the paradoxical attempt to extract a chordal texture from this inherently monophonic instrument. Getz, like Young, never got caught up in this quixotic pursuit. Instead both adopted an unabashedly linear approach, unapologetic in its lyricism There was an almost brutal honesty in this style. No shiny ornaments were hung out to distract attention from its melodic core.

"Players like Stan and Al Cohn (another Young follower from the period] thought about the song more than other jazz musicians," pianist Lou Levy remarks. "The melody line was important to them. I suspect that Stan paid attention to the lyrics as well. I remember giving him the music to the song “No More” — one of the pieces that Billie Holiday used to sing. Stan looked over the sheet. 'It's a good story,' he said, and we went on to play it." His solos had the flow of a well-paced narrative. Yet the structure never got in the way of the music's emotional immediacy. Few players of any generation could construct solos of such logic and rigor while maintaining a depth of feeling and, at times, such poignancy.

These virtues made Getz a natural participant in the West Coast scene that gained notoriety in the early Fifties. The influence of Young was especially prominent among the Los Angeles saxophone players of this period. The emerging cool-Jazz style, which Getz had helped promote with his early work, was also making waves near the Pacific. Getz's Los Angeles-based band with Bob Brookmeyer reflected this side of the West Coast aesthetic, with a formalist compositional approach somewhat akin to the Mulligan-Baker group efforts from the same period. (This similarity was perhaps more than a coincidence, since Getz-Brookmeyer were working at the Ambassador Hotel when Mulligan-Baker were gracing the bandstand across the street at the Haig.) Getz later joined Mulligan on a celebrated Verve recording in 1957, and he occasionally collaborated with other leading West Coast players. Yet these tended to be exceptions to the rule. Getz spent most of the Fifties in musical pursuits far afield from the West Coast jazz scene: in heated jam sessions with Jazz at the Philharmonic; in exceptional recordings with Dizzy Gillespie, Sonny Stitt, and other bop masters; and leading a variety of ensembles under his own name. Many of these settings no doubt resulted from Getz's relationship with record producer Norman Granz. Granz had only a limited interest in the burgeoning West Coast scene, and his projects with Getz mostly reflected this attitude.

But by the middle of the decade, the West Coast label had proved to be such an effective marketing device that even Granz was taking notice. Getz and Granz were now determined to make a more dedicated foray into the West Coast scene. On July 27, 1955 Getz made the plunge when he kicked off an engagement at Zardi's, a major Southern California jazz club on Hollywood Boulevard, fronting a new West Coast quintet. This combo was essentially a pickup group, organized specifically for the Zardi's gig. But the quality of the musicians more than compensated for the lack of rehearsal time. Audiences were dazzled by the new California combo. By the time the quintet entered the studio, some two weeks later, to undertake the first of the sessions included here, it sounded like a veteran unit.

Getz drew on some of the finest players on the Los Angeles scene for these sessions. Levy had played with Getz in the Herman band and had recently relocated to California from his native Chicago. In an interview from the period, Getz pointed out that Levy was “more than a two-handed pianist. He plays with all ten fingers.” Levy's orchestral approach and harmonic ingenuity is well-documented on these recordings. Listen to him move into a polytonal mood midway through his solo on There Will Never Be Another You, pushing the chord changes to their limits. Although Levy has often been labeled a bebop pianist, his roots go much deeper. His earliest models in the jazz world were, in fact, the big bands that he heard in his native Chicago. The pianists he listened to were especially diverse. "I heard Al Haig before I heard Bud Powell, and before them I heard Nat Cole. But I was listening to Teddy Wilson long before that. And of course there was Art Tatum who was in a category of his own.”

“The most prominent sound in the the rhythm section on these Getz sessions is Leroy Vinnegar’s bass,” explains Levy with characteristic modesty. “You can hear its strong rhythmic presence.

“Leroy is always there, his time is as solid as a rock, and everyone plays off him." Like so many of the Indiana natives who made their mark in modern Jazz (Carl Perkins, the Montgomery brothers. Freddie Hubbard), Vinnegar boasts an uncanny knack for swinging effortlessly, for propelling a Jazz band without any wasted energy.

Shelly Manne, who worked with Vinnegar in many settings over the years, lets the bass serve as the pulse of the band, using his drum kit to supply color and deepen the textures of the ensemble sound. "Shelly took more chances than most other drummers," Levy adds. "He was always interested in trying something different, in experimenting.  While Stan Levey, on the later sessions, was more of a bebopper, a terrific drummer with an outstanding modern-jazz feel."

Conte Candoli, who joined Gelz in the front line, was another transplanted Indiana native and one of the hottest trumpeters on the West Coast scene. In a jazz environment where subdued or cerebral approaches to the horn received more publicity, Candoli took a different tack. His improvised lines generally burst forth with exuberance and vitality. His work with Getz on this date is surprisingly subdued, but on “S-h-i-n-e” he lets loose with the compelling devil-may-care brashness that is very much his trademark.

Despite the Los Angeles sidemen and the marketing of these sessions as West Coast Jazz, I have always felt that there was something incongruous about this whole project. In fact, I'm half-convinced that Getz was slyly trying to subvert the West Coast marketing label attached to his new approach. The opening track on the original West Coast Jazz album was East of the Sun — was he making a little joke here? And why did he make such a point of drawing on East Coast composers for the band's repertoire? There is enough Gershwin material from these dates to make a whole theme album. (Hmm. Gershwin….wasn't he a New York boy who made most of his best music on the East Coast, but came out West to make money with some blatantly commercial efforts?)

Getz's choice of sidemen was equally telling Candoli, Vinnegar, Levy, and Manne or Levey — they were all West Coasters, more or less, but not one was a native Californian. Each one had started back East or in the Midwest. And why was Getz playing, in addition to Gershwin, all of these East Coast bebop tunes — so rare for him — on a project that supposedly celebrated the West Coast?

Maybe I am reading too much into the tenor saxophonist's choice of material. But his wry sense of humor was just the sort that would delight in this type of cryptic playfulness. I recall a similar ambiguity from Getz's later years, when he had given up drink and was an ardent participant in Alcoholics Anonymous — yet seemed to play a booze song, “Lush Life” or “Sippin' at Bells,” at every concert! Indeed Getz always had an irreverent attitude toward song titles — who else would introduce his mega-hit “Desafinado” as "Dis Here Finado" (this coming on the heels of such soul-jazz tunes as “Dis Here” and “Dat Dere,” then the rage), then add offhandedly, "This is the song that is going to pay my kid's college tuition.”

"This was not a West Coast Jazz session," Levy asserts confidently. He notes that the most celebrated performance from this project, “S-h-i-n-e,” counters any stereotype of laid-back West Coast playing. "Everybody always liked this one." Levy continues. "Stan really forges ahead. His intro is clear as a bell He plays those eight bars unaccompanied, but with a real momentum and swing. Then — bam! — the band comes in and he's off. He really lets loose on this piece, and never falters, charging all the way through to the end."

Yet there were many moments on these sessions where Getz was the consummate lyrical soloist, very much in the vein of the West Coast sound. In fact, these sessions include some of the most effortlessly graceful performances of Getz's career. He is low-key on “Like Someone in Love” where he kicks off his solo with a deliciously lazy break and follows up with a richly melodic solo. His work on “Too Close for Comfort” is equally noteworthy and could serve as a case study in relaxed improvisation. The two complete lakes of “Our Love Is Here to Stay” are both masterly examples of thematic improvisation. The unreleased version is an especially brilliant example of how Getz could weave baroque lines while continuing to hint at the contours of the melody. And even when Getz tackles a stop-time interlude, as on “Blues for Mary Jane” or “How About You?” his playing retains an elegant sureness, a calmness even in the most fiery surroundings.

Not that the experimental side of Getz's playing is totally absent here. On “Woody 'n' You” Getz plays atypical, polytonal games with a simple motif. This interlude sounds like a parody of Coltrane's A Love Supreme. It couldn't be, of course, since the Coltrane performance was still a decade in the future, yet the resemblance is uncanny. Other feints and jabs — an occasional bebop lick in double-time, a judicious bit of bluesiness, a tongue-in-cheek quote — are dished out in sparing doses, showing how much Getz always kept in reserve, waiting for the right moment to let it loose.

Yet if we ultimately grow wary of associating Getz too closely with West Coast jazz, it is only because he kept a safe distance from all of the passing fads and fancies of the jazz world. Although he was linked to the cool jazz sound, Getz played some of his hottest music during the years when cool was in its ascendancy. And his collaborations with other leading cool players were surprisingly rare. Years later. Getz was equally detached from the stardom he attained when crossing over with his bossa nova recordings. He could have made a whole career from this popular, Brazilian-inflected style, but he ultimately abandoned it for other projects and approaches. His work with Chick Corea anticipated the fusion craze, but Getz soon left that format behind as well. One is forced to conclude that even when Getz jumped on the bandwagon, he was always among the first to jump off.

And so it is with these West Coast sessions. For a brief period, Getz met West Coast jazz at least halfway. But there were no compromises here, no banal attempts to find a commercial sound. The music was Stan Getz, plain and simple, with all the beauty and richness that he brought to every performance, whichever the coast.

“Playing with him was like a music lesson," Levy remarks. "He had a sense for the right tempo, the right volume, the right way of sequencing the solos. He knew when to stretch out and when to hold back. He knew when to let the bass and drums sit out and when he’d bring them back in. He had such great time and technique, and [he] could react to anything. He would even make the wrong chords sound right. He could lake a small combo and make it sound like a symphony."

And Getz does just that on these performances. Was Getz a West Coast player? That question may well remain unanswered. Was he one of the greatest soloists to play the saxophone? Of that there can be no doubt. The more than three hours of music on these discs provides compelling evidence and a persuasive account of one of the jazz masters in top form.”

Ted Gioia

[Ted is a pianist, a jazz historian and the author of West Coast Jazz: Jazz in California, 1945-1960, New York: Oxford University Press, 1992.]

Ted Gioia’s The Jazz Standards - Second Edition

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

I look forward to Ted Gioia’s books about Jazz with the same excitement and anticipation that greets the arrival of the next recording by one of my favorite Jazz artists.

The guy can flat-out write, he’s a magnificent story-teller and he has a depth and a breadth of knowledge about Jazz which rivals that of any writer of the subject.

I know his next book is always going to be good so I grudgingly allow him the necessary time to research it and write it because I can’t wait to read it.

In this regard, Ted’s The Jazz Standards: A Guide to the Repertoire - from Oxford University Press in July/2012 – didn’t disappoint.

In his writing, Ted has a “conversation” with the reader.

His style is never polemical or didactic like those academic treatises that only twelve other people on the planet can read, let alone, understand.

Be it specifically about Jazz on the West Coast from 1945–1960 or more generally about the entire history of Jazz, Ted’s writing is personal and he teaches you stuff about Jazz.

His approach is reminiscent of your favorite high school teachers; you really wanted to learn from them because they knew what they were talking about and they made the subject fun and interesting.

This is no less the case with Ted’s book - The Jazz Standards: A Guide to the Repertoire – in which he talks about Jazz from the singular perspective of the music and not from the more accustomed standpoint of the musicians who made it.

If you’ve ever wished for a “road map” through recorded Jazz tunes, this book is it.  It offers “… an illuminating look at more than 250 seminal Jazz compositions …, “recommendations for more than 2,000 recordings with a list of suggested tracks for each song, [each accompanied by] “… colorful and expert commentary.”

- The editorial staff at JazzProfiles

The lead-in quotation is what I wrote when I reviewed the first edition of Ted Gioia’s The Jazz Standards: A Guide to the Repertoire [From the Archives] for the blog on June 12, 2018. You can find the full archived review by going here.

At the time of the first edition, music streaming services were not as ubiquitous as they are today so it took a bit of doing to locate sources for the tracks that Ted lists as examples following his annotations for each song or tune.

The expanded Second Edition uses the same format - commentary with suggested recorded examples - but it arrives at a time when Amazon Music, Spotify, YouTube and other streaming services provide almost instantaneous access to Ted’s suggested listening.

For those who want to expand their knowledge of the Jazz repertoire, I can think of no better guide than what is on offer in Ted Gioia’s expanded second edition of The Jazz Standards.

However expository writing about Jazz is not as easy as it sounds -

“Those of us who have tried writing about Jazz know what a daunting challenge it can be to do it well. Expressing an opinion about a given musician or recording is easy; explaining what exactly it is that makes that musician or recording worth caring about is not.” - Peter Keepnews

In this regard, the reader certainly benefits from Ted’s practiced and informed writing on the subject of Jazz which dates back to the publication of his first work in 1988 - The Imperfect Art: Reflections of Jazz and Modern Culture.

Additionally, because he is a trained pianist and also has a background in theory and harmony, the work also affords more of Ted’s brilliant musical analysis.

For example, when writing about Benny Golson’s Along Came Betty, Ted

provides this review of elements that make both the song and Benny’s compositional style so distinctive.

"The melody starts out with an insistent three-note-phrase ... but immediately moves into variations and elaborations on it. This reflects a recurring tension in Golson's compositional style, which wants to embrace the familiar riffs of swing and bop, but seems to be more eager to push them aside as soon as possible and enter into a Jazz equivalent of the development of sonata form. Where other composers might opt to repeat, he prefers to manipulate. This is more than a matter of melody but is also reflected in the underlying harmonies. The modulations start almost immediately, and the second eight bars are already in a different key."

The application of Ted’s unique insights to the songs and tunes under review form a recurring theme as is the case with this example involving the work of pianist Jimmy Rowles’ The Peacocks:

“The popularity of this ballad among jazz musicians is well deserved. The haunting open theme is countered by a slyly dissonant and almost Monkish melody in the release. This combination of lyricism and abstraction is powerful, almost a left-brain-meets-the-right-brain kind of creation. Because of the fluttery phrases in the melody, this piece works especially well on sax, flute, or piano—less so on brass instruments: hence you won't hear quite as many trumpet or trombone versions. For those who knew Rowles, the composition is especially evocative of his quirky (and peacock-ish?) personality.”

Ted puts forth this intriguing analysis of Horace Silver’s work when addressing the background for the Jazz Standard - Song for My Father:

“The hard-bop movement of the 1950s and 1960s forced almost every performer to double as a composer. Instead of recording familiar standards or relying on outsiders to develop the band's repertoire — as so many previous jazz stars had done — this new generation of players mostly relied on their own pieces to fill up albums. These might feature simple head arrangements or more elaborate horn parts—but, in either case, the end results tended to emphasize content over form, energy over refinement. At times, the songs came across more as excuses for a blowing date than as finely crafted works intended to last for the ages.

Then we have Horace Silver, the most consistently creative of the hard-bop composers and an artist whose allure was almost inseparable from the appealing songs he wrote for his band. In truth, there was no single "Horace Silver style," and a list of his most popular works would include funky groove tunes, gentle mood pieces, vamp songs, outings in 3/4 and 6/8 time, Latin workouts of various stripes, up-tempo jam numbers, and examples of almost any and every other land of approach congruent with the hard-bop aesthetic. Yet a consistent set of values underpinned all of these efforts: Silver's best work was invariably marked by an economy of means in which excesses were pared away, an inviting sense of rhythmic momentum and, above all, supple melody lines that stuck in your head long after you first heard them.”

But Ted doesn’t limit his instructive expository to Jazz composers, he also includes it as a part of his analysis of the songs and composers commonly associated with the Great American Songbook as is the case with -

“The Shadow of Your Smile

Composed by Johnny Mandel, with lyrics by Paul Francis Webster

The Shadow of Your Smile" first arrived on the scene via the soundtrack of The Sandpiper, a high-profile 1965 film starring Hollywood's most beloved couple of the era, Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. ….

I wouldn't change a note in this composition, which may be Mandel's finest moment. The melody moves with a stately emotional logic, as if each succeeding phrase builds from some syllogism of the heart established by the previous notes. Yet this mood is best undersold — as much as I admire this composition, if it is played too forcefully it comes across as overwrought and insincere. Unlike some songs, which benefit from fireworks in the final bars, this one requires a more measured buildup. The lyrics are almost better whispered rather than declaimed,

For these reasons, some of the finer versions of "The Shadow of Your Smile" come from performers with a knack for understatement. ….

The retrospective nature of the lyrics, which celebrate a love past rather than a current passion, perhaps endears this song to performers in their golden years.”

Or Blue Skies by Irving Berlin -

“A simple and catchy main melody with lots of whole notes and half notes offset by a klezmer-ish bridge, "Blue Skies" is a tune you could teach a toddler — I used to sing it as a lullaby to my son when he was a baby — or bring to the nightclub, cabaret, or (as Benny Goodman did) Carnegie Hall. But don't underestimate the lyrics, with their crisp naturalistic imagery closer to a traditional folk song or populist poetry than to Tin Pan Alley fare. Even today, "Blue Sides" is more likely to be called on the gig by a vocalist rather than an instrumentalist, and many of the most formidable versions feature the defining singers of modern times—Ella Fitzgerald (hear her extended scat excursion from 1958); Frank Sinatra, who sang it with Tommy Dorsey in 1941 and again as a leader in 1946; Willie Nelson, who had a number one country hit with "Blue Skies" in 1978 ... all the way to Cassandra Wilson and Dr. John in more recent years.”

Or Love for Sale by Cole Porter - 

“By the 1960s, the taboo associated with "Love for Sale" had faded [the song was associated with prostitution], and it became entrenched in the repertoires of jazz players. And for good reason. The opening theme is suitable for vamps of all stamps, from Latin to funky, and the release offers effective contrast both rhythmically and harmonically. A tension in tonality is evident from the outset: this song in a minor key nonetheless starts on a major chord, and seems ready to go in either direction during the course of Porter's extended form. A composition of this sort presents many possibilities, and can work either as a loose jam or bear the weight of elaborate arrangement.”

Ted Gioia’s The Jazz Standards is an interactive joy. It’s a book you can have fun with while learning from it and it can also serve a companion anthology and reference guide.

Those new to Jazz will find it to be an invaluable introductory guide while those with an acquaintance with the music will find much to enhance their appreciation of this unique and enthralling art form.

But be careful [he says with his tongue in his cheek] because:

“If you look up just one title in The Jazz Standards, before you realize it you will have spent an intriguing hour or two learning fascinating and new things about old songs that you have known most of your life."

— Dave Brubeck

'Warning: This book is addictive... Putting together a compendium like this must involve prodigious research and an encyclopaedic memory. Fortunately Gioia... wears his learning lightly and conveys it with wit and insight, and a

minimum of musicological jargon.”

— Dallas Morning News

On the other hand - 

“What a useful and informative book The Jazz Standards is! Explaining the jazz repertory in a way that is accessible for the jazz beginner yet stimulating for the aficionado, Ted Gioia shows once again why he is one of the best jazz writers around today.”

—Gerald Early, Editor of Miles Davis and American Culture

“The book is wise, often funny — and it always accomplishes the highest mission of writing about music, which is to send you back to the music with wide-open ears.”

— Kansas City Star

For order information go here.