Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Vince Guaraldi at the Piano by Derrick Bang

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



"When I met him, he immediately liked the feeling I had, even though I wasn't experienced. So I would go to his house for lessons, whenever he was available: once a week or so. We would listen to music, and then talk about it, and then he'd show me things: harmonies of tunes, and changes.


"A lesson would take place at the keyboard: He would improvise and play single lines, like bebop lines. I would listen, and then I would ask about chords and stuff. Vince didn't have a system of different exercises; he just did it by playing for me.


"The other part of a lesson — the important part — was listening to records by the great players: Bud Powell, Sonny Stitt, Art Tatum and Lester Young ... always the masters. We'd listen and then talk about the music. One time he played an album by Los Angeles bebop pianist Hampton Hawes, and Vince said, 'You and I have this feeling, and a lot of players don't get it.'
-Larry Vuckovich, Vince Guaraldi’s former student and Jazz pianist [Emphasis mine]


"Vince was a very positive player. I don't know if that can be analyzed. The rhythmic component obviously is part of it, and the fact that he created melodies that tended to be sunny, not neutral or morose. But also, you can sense a musician's personality and attitude when they're playing,and anybody who hears most of Vince's music will sense a positive quality. He was a good, solid musician. Anybody who listens to his music 50 years from now will appreciate it for the same things we appreciate it for today. He wanted to be a success, in a very profound way, and to be remembered for the happy quality of his music. He succeeded."
- Doug Ramsey, Jazz author, essayist and blogger


"I enjoyed everything we ever played; it felt great every night. I dug Vince's playing; he was a swinging piano player, and he made it feel really good. I could hear a little Bud Powell influence, and a little Red Garland influence, but Vince had his own style. If somebody put one of his records on, I could always tell it was Vince. He had a distinct style, that's for sure; it was the way he'd do the phrasing and the chord changes on his solos. He was very rhythmic, and he swung so hard.
- Colin Bailey, Jazz drummer


In the span of a few months, two of my favorite Jazz musicians who have been gone from the Jazz scene for many years suddenly “reappeared” in my life.


Both were based in San Francisco, CA but each developed national recognition through their concerts club appearances and recordings. Some of their earliest success in the music came while working together.


The first to make their “presence” felt again was vibraphonist, percussionist and bandleader, Cal Tjader, in S. Duncan Reid’s excellent biography: Cal Tjader: The Life and Recordings of the Man Who Revolutionized Latin Jazz. Duncan’s work is published by McFarland and Company. Here’s a link to my review of the book.


And now, along comes Derrick Bang’s Vince Guaraldi at the Piano, also published by McFarland. Order information about Derrick’s book can be located via this link.


A professional writer and editor for many years, Derrick has specialized in writing about the work of Charles Schultz, the late cartoonist who created the Peanuts strip.


In talking with Derrick by phone, I gathered that like many others, he was adversely affected by the employment meltdown that followed the Great Recession of 2008. I closed my consultancy as a consequence of it and retired.  

But thank goodness for Jazz fans everywhere that Derrick didn’t retire from writing.  Instead, he used the “free time” to pour his considerable talents as a writer into producing one of the best researched and well-written biography of a Jazz musician that I have ever read.  And all this excellence in service of a Jazz musician whose professional career actually spans little more than two decades [Vince Guaraldi died on February 6, 1976 at the age of 48].


Vince Guaraldi at the Piano takes the reader through the formative years of Vince’s career with Cal Tjader, Woody Herman and the Lighthouse All-Stars, the many manifestations of Vince’s own trios with his early success thanks to the hit recording of his original composition, Cast Your Fate to the Wind and the writing and staging of his Jazz Mass at San Francisco’s Grace Cathedral, and though to the banner years associated with the original music that Guaraldi composed for many of the TV specials based on Charles Schulz’s Peanuts comic strips centered around the forlorn Charlie Brown.


In many ways, the work can be seen as essentially a two part treatise on Vince’s professional career: [1] BC = Before Charlie Brown and [2] AC = After Charlie Brown.


Prior to the detailed documentation that Derrick’s biography provides about every aspect of Vince’s career, this dualistic “before and after Peanuts” view was the impression many of us had about Guaraldi’s accomplishments in music.


But after reading the Prologue, 15 Chapters, Epilogue and three [3] Appendices which contain remembrances of Vince by the musicians who worked with him, a discography and a filmography, the reader comes away with a fuller appreciation of a very complicated and complete musician who expressed his art in a style that was simple, direct, and yet, at the same time, powerfully rhythmic and emotionally charged.


Because of his small statute, relatively quiet and easy-going demeanor and physical limitations [he had small hands and was a poor reader of music], Vince was easy to overlook or take for granted.


But as Derrick’s book irrefutably proves, Vince was a force of nature and one to ultimately be reckoned with in whatever the musical circumstance.


Irrespective of the musical setting, Vince Guaraldi prevailed.


I had the opportunity the observe this quality about Vince first-hand after he joined the Lighthouse Cafe All-Stars [LHAS] in late summer of 1959.


During that time, I frequented the Hermosa Beach, CA club on a weekly basis and when Vince first arrived, the long-standing quintet featuring Frank Rosolino on trombone, Bob Cooper on tenor sax, Victor Feldman on piano and vibes and Stan Levey on drums was in the process of disbanding.


They had been together for almost three years and their breakup left something of a void in the routine of the regular patrons of this beach haunt.


Over the years, bassist Howard Rumsey, who also served as the Musical Director of the LHAS [in other words, it was Howard’s gig] had put together an impressive book of complicated and intriguing compositions written by the likes of Shorty Rogers, Jimmy Giuffre, Bud Shank, Sonny Clark, Bob Cooper, Bill Holman, and Victor Feldman, among many other West Coast Jazz notables, all of whom had passed through the band at one time or another.


It was a complicated book as the West Coast style of Jazz tended to be an arranger’s music which placed a heavy premium on a musician’s ability to read music.


Enter Vince Guaraldi, a notoriously poor reader, who pretty much had a deep-set, look of confusion on his face during his first month or so on the Lighthouse gig as he tried to find his way through this mirage of notes and chords.


No problem, for not only did the LHAS undergo a personel change - Conte Candoli returned on trumpet, Art Pepper came aboard on alto and Nick Martinis on drums completed the rhythm section changes along with Vince on piano - but the music this group performed change, too, to music that was largely influenced by … wait for it … Vince Guaraldi!


Did I mention that Vince prevailed?


Instead of the finger-poppin’, complicated arrangements that previously made-up the LHAS “book”, the tunes became more simple melodies played at medium tempos, many of which were blues-inflected when they weren’t composed as outright 12-bar or 16-bar blues by Vince or Vince in conjunction with Conte Candoli or tenor saxophonist Bob Cooper [who rejoined the band due to Pepper’s frequent absences].


You can hear this format on Little Band, Big Jazz [Crown LP-5162; Fresh Sound CD FSR1629].  Although the record is under the nominal leadership of trumpeter Conte Candoli and he is listed as the composer of four of the six tunes on the album and co-composer on the remaining two with Vince, I heard this music come together at the Lighthouse over a six-month period of time prior to its recording in February, 1960 and there is little doubt in my mind that Vince was responsible for all of it!


It’s just too Vince-sounding and Conte was not known for his interest in writing original compositions. Of the 40 tunes on four of Conte’s signature LP’s from this period in his career - Powerhouse Trumpet, The Conte Candoli Quartet on Mode, Mucho Color and West Coasting - Conte only wrote three original compositions, two of which are based on mambo’s riffs and one is an adaptation of Dizzy Gillespie’s Groovin’ High.


From the detailed information provided by Derrick throughout his book, the reader learns that Vince performed with just about everybody of significance on the West Coast Jazz scene from about 1950-1965. The list is staggering.


But what Derrick also makes clear in his book is that Vince was most comfortable when he was performing his own music, especially in the classic piano-bass-drums Jazz trio setting that he preferred and continued with throughout his career despite numerous changes in bassists and drummers.


Like many self-taught musicians, Vince didn’t know what he couldn’t do. He didn’t know the “right way” or “the wrong way” or that “you can’t do that” or “that’s not the legitimate way to get that sound” or whatever.


Vince heard it in his head and felt it in his heart and somehow got it out of his hands.


Whatever the technical limitations about his musicianship, Vince was driven to bring out his own style in his music.  In this sense, as Derrick underscores time and again, Vince was a true original and this is why his music has stood the test of time.


Derrick frames his biography of Vince with his own insights and those of the people and musicians associated with Vince whom he interviewed and both of these help to bring out key characteristics of Guaraldi’s personality and style.


- “Vince had “the urge,.’the desire to really make something of himself in the music business. He was persistent, and he had the chops.” [Tom Hart, saxophonist, p. 22]


- “Vince had a unique style, unlike any other: pure Jazz. His sense of rhythm was flawless. He was always fun to play with, too, because he knew how to back up a soloist.” [Hart, p. 23]


- In the beginning, Vince was so excited in his playing, it was like trying to hold back a colt or a stallion. … He had a tendency to play too much behind me sometimes [but] eventually he became aware of the fact that you don’t play every tune like a bebop express running 120 miles an hour.” [Cal Tjader, p. 25]



“He fingers [the piano] all wrong when he makes runs and plays chords. All wrong that is, from the standpoint of efficiency and ‘piano technique.’ … But  I've noticed over the years in Jazz that almost all the good ones do it all wrong, because it is the sound that matters - and the sound with Vince, is beautiful and moving.” [Ralph Gleason, columnist, p. 37]


“He was known as Dr. Funk … because he played with such an earthy feeling.” [Doug Ramsey, Jazz historian, p. 43]


“One time he played an album by Los Angeles bebop pianist Hampton Hawes, and Vince said: ‘You and I have this feeling, and a lot of other players don’t get it.’” [Larry Vuckovich, Vince’s student and Jazz pianist, p. 44].


- “Guaraldi reading of Django [on The Vince Guaraldi Trio LP, 1956] marked the dawning of the classic ‘Guaraldi sound,’ demonstrating his ability to paint an impressive musical portrait with a deceptively simple arrangement of notes and chords.” [author, p. 50]


- "Vince is more than an interesting pianist. He is not ridden by an unconscionable demon to prove something; he just loves music and loves playing and swinging. This uncomplicated approach allows him to poke fun at himself (‘I’m just a reformed boogie woogie pianist'), which is refreshing; it enables him to play simple, emotionally pure piano, as on the ballads, and to get pixieish, funky and hard-swinging, as on [his] original and some of the standards." [Ralph J. Gleason, p. 56]


- "Guaraldi reveals himself as one of the most astonishingly lyrical pianists in the field: as delicately sensitive as John Lewis. Much the same can be said of Eddie Duran ... who emerges here as certainly the co-star of the album. The truth is that here is one of the really great lyric jazz combinations: great as the Brubeck-Desmond combination is great, in the sense that the whole is equal to twice as much as the sum of its parts." [C.H. Garrigues, columnist, p. 71]


- “Guaraldi looks like a pixie … but has the muscles of a giant.” [Russ Wilson, columnist, p. 85]


- “He swung his ass off; he reminded me of Red Garland. And working as the house rhythm section [Outside at the Inside, Palo Alto, CA] with Vince’s band was one of my favorite Jazz gigs of all time.” [Benny Barth, drummer]


- "What Vince has got in his playing is feeling. This is a quality that money can't buy, practice cannot make perfect and technique tends to defeat rather than enhance. Vince sings when he plays. I don't mean he grunts or hums or even makes a noise at all. I mean his fingers sing, the music sings, and he writhes and twists on the piano stool like a balancing act in the circus.” [Ralph, J. Gleason, p. 113]


- "It's easy to throw art — music — in front of the public, but then the artist has no control over how the work will be taken in. But I've always thought that Vince knew precisely how he wanted the public to 'hear' his music, and he performed it in such a way to maximize that response." [drummer Jerry Granelli, p. 134]


- “... [Theme to Grace] became vibrant proof of Guaraldi’s long-standing ability to weave a lovely new melody into an improv session.” [Reverend Charles Gompertz who worked closely with Vince to create the Jazz Mass that was performed at Grace Cathedral in San Francisco in May, 1965, p. 155]


- “There was no logical progression with Vince, …. He was a very spontaneous person; he didn’t approach things in a linear, methodical, systematic kind of way. It was like getting caught up in a zeitgeist.” [Reverend Charles Gompertz, p. 149]


“In a sense, I met a saloon player ... and, during the time we knew each other, he I became a nationally and internationally known celebrity. I played a part in all that, which is humbling. It's an extraordinary story: how one person can have an idea that involves you, and then can pursue that idea, and help put together what needs to take place, to bring the idea to fruition, and then push it beyond that, into a whole different category of existence. It's a magical kind of thing." [Reverend Charles Gompertz, p. 157].


"Vince had this joyous drive, and remarkable melodic improvisation. You heard it in his tunes. He was a rare and wonderful combination of melody, power and jazz swing. His 'time feeling' was just wonderful; he was like a freight train. You just had to climb aboard, hold on and hope for the best.  It was really scintillating, playing for him." [Fritz Kasten, drummer, p. 227]


"It was always fun to play with Vince. He always had such a great feel, immediately; it was never like getting into the music gradually. It was just bap, we had it.” [Colin Bailey, drummer, p.249]


The second half of Derrick biography of Vince details the many manifestations of Vince’s music in the Peanuts television specials that are based on the characters created by cartoonist Charles Schulz.


Producer Lee Mendelson chose Vince for this career-changing endeavor. Why? Derrick offers this background on how it all came to pass.


“But how did Mendelson settle on Guaraldi?


Mendelson knew that he wanted a jazz score —"’I had always loved jazz, going back to Art Tatum’—but he needed a composer.


‘I first called Dave Brubeck, who's an old friend, but he was busy. He suggested I call Cal Tjader, with whom I went to high school, but he was busy. Years later, they both said they wished they hadn't been busy!’

                                                                             
The important part of the saga came next, and it'll sound familiar to those who remember, from the previous chapter, how the Rev. Charles Gompertz came to select Guaraldi for his high-reaching idea [the May, 1965 Grace Cathedral Jazz Mass].


‘I was driving over the Golden Gate Bridge,’ Mendelson recalled, ‘and I had the jazz station on —KSFO —and it was a show hosted by Al 'Jazzbo' Collins. He'd play Vince's stuff a lot, and right then, he played [Vince’s] Cast Your Fate to the Wind. It was melodic and open,and came in like a breeze off the bay.  And it struck me that this might be the kind of music I was looking for.


‘I found out that Vince lived in San Francisco, so I got in touch with Max Weiss, at Fantasy Records, and we put the deal together.’


Mendelson and Guaraldi got together shortly thereafter.


‘We met at a restaurant called Original Joe's, in San Francisco,’ Mendelson continued. ‘He had a great smile and a great laugh, and we hit it off right away. I was struck by his very short, stubby fingers, and I remember wondering how he played the piano with hands like that.


‘He told me he loved the Peanuts strip, and that he never missed it.


‘I didn't have a lot of money at the time; my company was brand new, and didn't have huge budgets. It was a mutual trust thing, and we worked out an arrangement.’


If Mendelson had any doubts about Guaraldi's suitability for the assignment, they vanished after what happened next ... particularly because it happened so quickly.


‘About two weeks later, Vince called me on the phone,’ Mendelson continued. ‘He told me, “I gotta play something for you; it just came into my head.” I said, 'I don't want to hear it on the phone, because you don't hear the highs and lows; let me come down to the studio.' And he said, “I gotta play it for you, before I forget it, so at least you'll remember it.” So I said, 'Okay, fine; play it.'


"And that was the first time I ever heard Linus and Lucy.


‘It just blew me away. It was so right, and so perfect, for Charlie Brown and the other characters. Something deep inside me said, This is gonna make the whole thing work. Vince's music was the one missing ingredient that would make everything happen.’


Looking back on that electrifying moment, decades later, Mendelson insists that he knew —really knew— that Guaraldi had been the right choice.


‘I have no idea why, but I knew that song would affect my entire life. There was a sense, even before it was put to animation, that there was something very, very special about that music.


‘There's no doubt in my mind, that if we hadn't had that Guaraldi score, we wouldn't have had the franchise we later enjoyed.’” [p. 161]


Although, Vince’s association with the various iterations of the Peanuts television specials would ultimately provide him with a degree of financial security accorded to few Jazz musicians, he continued to work gigs for the remainder of his life.


Indeed, he died of a heart attack while working one - Butterfield’s - a club/restaurant located in Menlo Park, CA.  Vince was only forty-eight.


Vince Guaraldi at the Piano is a fascinating reading experience, not only because of the wealth of detailed information it contains about Vince Guaraldi and his music, but also because of the very skillful way in which it is written.


Derrick Bang writes clean and compelling prose. There is a clarity and a warmth to his style that are the hallmarks of all great writers.


What stands out about Derrick Bang’s writing is that while experiencing it, one quickly appreciates that one is in the presence of an artist.



Friday, August 22, 2014

Erwin Blumenfeld and Bill Evans - Superimposition and Overdubbing

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


“Even when he pursued more mainstream efforts, [Lennie] Tristano seemed doomed to get caught up in controversy and partisan jazz debates. His 1955 recordings of Line Up and Turkish Mambo for the Atlantic label employed overdubbing and tape manipulation. Critics complained that Tristano "sped up" the tape of Line Up, and the resulting brouhaha prevented many from hearing the riveting brilliance of the improvisation. Played at any speed, it stands out as one of the finest jazz piano performances of the era.”
- Ted Gioia, The History of Jazz, p. 252.


Conversations with Myself has aroused sometimes fierce views both for and against its approach, but in an age when overdubbing is more or less the norm in record-making, its musicality is more important.”
Richard Cook and Brian Morton, The Penguin Guide to Jazz On CD


“Evans used the overdubbing concept as a creative force, the three "voices" operating at different dynamic levels, initiated by his touch, and closely controlled by Creed Taylor's chosen engineer, Ray Hall. Often, a harmonic track functioned like a watercolorists background plane, a subdued level upon which lead voices could "perform" in highlighted tone. These might be improvised melodic lines, or fragmentary comments etched in crystal octaves. Sometimes a walking bass took over a chorus or two. The roles were also exchanged, the harmonic layer, perhaps, turning up in a different voice later on. In this regard, Evans achieved a feat of memory that took in the overall view. He even managed to breathe in unison with himself, as in the uncanny, threefold-synchronized phrasing of “A Sleepin' Bee.” …


“This monumental venture was a feat of endurance from the ailing pianist. He began to suffer from heroin withdrawal during the sessions, but he insisted on completing the job. Helen Keane and Gene Lees, deferring to his resolve, turned the lights down low and lent their heartfelt encouragement.


Although some listeners resist what they consider to be overkill, preferring Evans to communicate directly with them rather than with himself, it remains a work of staggering resource and beauty, appreciated especially (but not only) by professional pianists. Early the following year, the album brought Evans his first Grammy Award, and Britain's Melody Maker voted it jazz record of the year for 1964.”
- Peter Pettinger, Bill Evans: How My Heart Sings [pp. 143-144]


To take just two examples from the World of Art: when does Jazz or photography become less an artistic endeavor and more a gimmick? When do they lose their pure form and become a contrivance, a ploy, a publicity stunt? When do they reach a point of losing intrinsic merit in order to attract attention, arguably for commercial benefit?


For most of us, I think the answer to these questions becomes something along the lines of beauty being in the eye of the beholder. Some of us have more tolerance of things that entertain us such as Jazz or photography being presented in other than a “pure” form. For others, any alteration is sacrilegious


Overdubbing in music, especially in Jazz, and superimposition, particularly in photography, are two examples of altering the purity of a form of art that generally evoke outcries of deception, trickery and manipulation, especially if the artists involved reap a financial gain through such means.


I always thought that such protests were lame in the extreme and that the answer lay in the results that are achieved by the overdubbing, in the case of recorded Jazz, and via the superimposition, as relates to the finished photographs.


I prefer to view the end results of overdubbing and superimposition as the creation of a new texture: in the case of Jazz, a new sonority; in the case of photography, a new finish or feel or tone.



My line of inquiry in search of an answer to these questions was prompted by my recent discovery of the photographs of Erwin Blumenfeld and my rediscovery of two albums by pianist Bill Evans Conversations with Myself [Verve 821-984-2] and Further Conversations with Myself [Verve 314 559 832-2].


Both Blumenfeld and Evans received severed criticism for their supposed alterations of the sacrosanct processes of making Jazz and photography.


So I thought it would be great fun to compound the matter even further by putting Bill’s overdubbed piano and Erwin’s superimposed photographs together in the video that you will find at the end of this feature.


Bill Evans may be more widely known to the Jazz fans who visit this site, so here’s some background information on Erwin Blumenfeld from Lori Cole which she wrote for the Modernism Inc exhibit of his work in San Francisco, CA which ran from
November 4/2010 - February 26/2011.



“A Dadaist collagist–turned-photographer, Erwin Blumenfeld began publishing his fashion shoots in magazines like Vogue and Cosmopolitan in the late 1930s. Working with print solarization and superimposition, and using mirrors and gauzy fabrics to divide photographic space, Blumenfeld transformed both the models and their clothes into collage-like elements. In Fashion Collage, ca. 1950 — which depicts a woman laden with boxes, her head covered by a blank white spot, standing against a backdrop of New York City — he flaunts each fragment that makes up the work. In Nude in Stockings, New York, 1945, he isolates a model’s fishnet-clad legs from her torso, defamiliarizing the body as he emphasizes the product’s texture.


Blumenfeld creatively manipulated available technology to produce these images, posing a woman in black gloves and a dainty hat behind a chain-link fence to fracture her in Model with Black Gloves and Hat (for Vogue), Paris, 1939. In his works, the disjointed facets of collage are most often staged using mirrors. The model in Dayton Ad, New York, 1955, looks at her multiple reflections in the mirror, mimicking and returning the gaze of the viewer. This replication culminates in Kaleidoscope, 1961, in which a pinwheel of mirrors splinters the figure, recasting her as a design motif.



Spanning the artist’s commercial photography career through the 1960s, these vintage gelatin silver prints are rounded out with a few color images reissued by the artist’s heirs for the exhibition. In Red Cross (cover for Vogue), 1945, the model’s shadowy body melts into the cross that segments the space, with only the green of her hat distinguishable from the red lines that structure her. Sleek, off-kilter, and provocative, Blumenfeld’s fashion photographs showcase the artist’s fluency with Dadaist vernacular as much as the clothes he helped to promote.”


And, following the 2013 exhibition of his work at Jeu de Paume in Paris [which travel to Moscow in February, 2014], Blumenfeld was also the subject of this feature article in The Economist Magazine [November 9th-15th 2013].


The photographs of Erwin Blumenfeld
Tres glam
PARIS
A self-taught, self-made genius


“ErWIN BLUMENFELD arrived in New fork in 1941 with a suitcase, little English and no professional training as a photographer. Aged 44 and undaunted, he went on to reinvent both himself and fashion photography. He created over a hundred startlingly original magazine covers and countless fashion shots for the slick pages of Harper's Bazaar and Vogue. His images mirrored the energy and excitement of Manhattan in the 1940s and 1950s.


For a Vogue cover from January 1950, Blumenfeld used fierce light to erase a model's features, leaving only an eye, a mouth and a beauty spot. Another cover, this time to raise money for the Red Cross after the second world war, superimposed a translucent red cross over the blurred figure of a model in a turquoise hat (pictured).



"His images are sometimes so complex, it's hard to figure out how he did it," says Ute Eskildsen, curator of a retrospective of over 300 of his works at the Jeu de Paume in Paris. The show will then travel to the Multimedia Art Museum in Moscow in February 2014.


Blumenfeld's inventive images earned him fame as "the best-paid photographer in the world". Yet he chose only four fashion photographs for his book, My One Hundred Best Photos, published in 1981 (he died in 1969). He yearned to be taken seriously as an artist, and began experimenting with the medium during his pre-war years in Berlin, Amsterdam and Paris. On view are hitherto unseen drawings influenced by his friend George Grosz, a leader of the Berlin Dada movement, as well as collages made from his own photographs and magazine cut-outs. Blumenfeld's surrealist image of Adolf Hitler, his face distorted by a skull, covered millions of American propaganda leaflets dropped over Germany in 1942.


A series of nudes illustrates his fascination with the female form. Often headless, these naked women appear remote and mysterious, owing to Blumenfeld's use of mirrors, diaphanous fabrics and solarisation (a darkroom technique that inverts the lights and darks of an image). They reveal the influence of avant-garde photographers such as Man Ray, whose work he saw in Paris in the 19305. Blumenfeld's 1937 masterpiece, "Nude Under Wet Silk", earned him some art-world notoriety when it was published in Verve magazine.




Born in 1897 into a bourgeois Jewish family in Berlin, he got a camera for his tenth birthday. Aged 14, he shot a playful self-portrait dressed as the sad clown Pierrot, holding a mirror to his face to create a double image. "I wanted to be a photographer, pure and simple," he later wrote.


His aspirations turned practical after his father's death in 1913. Blumenfeld worked first for a Berlin garment manufacturer, then drove an ambulance in the first world war, yet he floundered in any job that did not involve film. After getting married in 1921, he set up a handbag shop in Amsterdam, and struggled to get by. He took advantage of a disused darkroom to experiment with portraits and nudes. "Blumenfeld was entirely self-taught, which is why his images have this unique, free-thinking quality," observes Ms Eskildsen.


Upon moving to Paris in 1936 he set up a studio with the help of an art dealer, Walter Feilchenfeldt. A magazine cover for Votre Beaute’ and an exhibition at the Galerie Billiet prompted a studio visit from Cecil Beaton, an English photographer, who swiftly secured Blumenfeld a contract with French Vogue. "His merit as an artist lies in the fact he is incapable of compromise," Beaton noted. One of Blumenfeld's best-known black-and-white spreads, published in Vogue in 1939, features a model perched on the edge of the Eiffel Tower, her flimsy dress fluttering in the breeze.



When war broke out in September that year, Blumenfeld was interned in a series of camps, including Le Vernet. He finally escaped with his family to New York two years later. Studios replete with staff and equipment awaited him, along with a contract with Harper's Bazaar.


This comprehensive exhibition traces a lifetime of creativity. Yet the visitor is ineluctably drawn to the self-confident glamour and colour of Blumenfeld's New York years devoted to fashion and advertising. This is where his true genius is visible. Blumenfeld helped define the way America saw itself-a remarkable feat for a man who described himself as "un-American for ever".


On the subject of the role and relevance of overdubbing in Jazz, Bill Evans felt so strongly in support of this technique that he wrote these liner notes to Conversations with Myself:



A STATEMENT... There is a viewpoint which holds that any recorded music which cannot also be produced in natural live performance is a "gimmick" and therefore should not be considered as a pure musical effort.


Because the performance and recording procedure used in this recording might stimulate this issue to a question in some minds, I requested the opportunity to state my firm belief in the integrity of the idea upon which this album was conceived and some supporting reasons.


To the person who uses music as a medium for the expression of ideas, feelings, images, or what have you; anything which facilitates this expression is properly his instrument. Though one can argue that sirens, airplane motors, ratchets, whistles, etc. are justified more on dramatic than musical grounds, no such question is raised here. In my opinion the only solid and interesting question that the music making here presents is that of whether this should be regarded as a group or solo musical performance.


Until the evolution of jazz group improvisation the history of Western music or music as we know it outside of jazz represents the reflection of one psyche. For the first time in a music of Western origin, jazz group improvisation represents the very provocative revelation of two, three, four, or five minds responding simultaneously to each other in a unified coherent performance.


I remember that in recording the selections, as 1 listened to the first track while playing the second, and the first two while playing the third, the process involved was an artificial duplication of simultaneous performance in that each track represented a musical mind responding to another musical mind or minds.


The argument that the same mind was involved in all three performances could be advanced, but I feel that this is not quite true. The functions of each track are
different, and as one in speech feels a different state of mind making statements than in responding to statements or commenting on the exchange involved in the first two; so I feel that the music here has more the quality of a "trio" than a solo effort.


Another condition to be considered is the fact that I know my musical techniques more thoroughly than any other person, so that, it seems to me, I am equipped to respond to my previous musician statements with the most accuracy and clarity.
Yet, I hesitate to state this recorded result is identical to trio performance or more valuable aesthetically or in depth or intensity of emotion. It is in the end still the product of one subject.


Looking at this album in reference to the preceding paragraphs, it would be difficult or impossible to place it solidly in either the group or solo category. For me, the unique and enjoyable experience of recording it was answer enough, and as is always so the music contained therein is or is not the positive evidence of its genuine quality.


I must extend my heartfelt gratitude to Creed Taylor and the expert engineers who worked and waited patiently through so many hours of unanticipated mechanical and musical problems until they were solved and we could proceed to get down to music and recording.


If you are now about to listen, I hope that you will forget any extra-musical questions, though they are often quite entertaining, and allow what I sincerely hope to be an enjoyable and, perhaps, in some ways, unique musical experience to take place.


BILL EVANS”


Recorded in January & February, 1963 Recording Engineer: Ray Hall Director of Engineering: Val Valentin Produced by: Creed Taylor.


In his award-winning book, Meet Me At Jim and Andy’s, Gene Lees offers this anecdotal background on Bill’s recording of Conversations with Myself:


“It was during that winter of 1962-63 that Bill got an idea for an overdubbed album in which he would play three pianos. Overdubbing was by now a widely used technique. It had been pioneered by Les Paul and Mary Ford, then used as a commercial gimmick by many singers, Patti Page among them. But it had rarely been used to serious artistic purpose. Neither Creed Taylor [in charge of Jazz artists and repertoire at MGM/Verve] nor Helen [Keane, Bill’s manager] nor I had any idea what Bill had in mind, but we took it on faith that he knew what he was doing. In January and February of 1963, the album was made in a series of remarkable sessions that made us all intensely aware of the clarity of Bill's musical thinking.


The album was recorded with the tape running at thirty inches per second. The industry standard was fifteen i.p.s., but the higher speed would more accurately capture Bill's tone. The album was made at Webster Hall, and the engineer was Ray Hall. Bill was playing Glenn Gould's Steinway.


Ray would tape Bill's first track. Bill was particularly fussy about the first one. He said that if that wasn't right, the other two couldn't be. Then, listening in headphones to what he had played before, he would add the second track, and finally a third.The four of us in the control booth—Ray, Creed, Helen, and I—were constantly open-mouthed at what was going on. On the second track, Bill would play some strangely appropriate echo of something he'd done on the first. Or there would be some flawless pause in which all three pianists were perfectly together; or some deft run fitted effortlessly into a space left for it. I began to think of Bill as three Bills: Bill Left Channel, Bill Right, and Bill Center.


Bill Left would lay down the first track, stating the melody and launching into an improvisation for a couple of choruses, after which he would move into an accompanist's role, playing a background over which Bill Center would later play his solo. His mind obviously was working in three dimensions of time simultaneously, because each Bill was anticipating and responding to what the other two were doing. Bill Left was hearing in his head what Bill Center and Bill Right were going to play a half hour or so from now, while Bill Center and Bill Right were in constant communication with a Bill Left who had vanished into the past a half hour or an hour before. The sessions took on a feeling of science-fiction eeriness.


In the acclaim for his tone and his lyricism, it is easy to overlook Bill's time. By this point in his life, it had become extremely subtle. But it was there. Bill made several basic tracks on Alex North's Love Theme from "Spartacus." Bill had seen the film with Scott LaFaro, liked the theme, began performing it, and added it to the jazz repertoire. He somewhat altered the release of the tune. After he'd made about six passes at it, Creed Taylor pushed the log sheet along the console to Helen, silently pointing to the times he had marked. Though there were retards and pauses in the music, the time on the first take was, say, five minutes and four seconds. The rest of the takes were 5:06, 5:04, 5:05, 5:06—never a variation of more than a second or two. The final take was 5:05.


Warren Bernhardt had said that Bill always played the essence of a melody. But on "Spartacus," he was playing more than the essence of a love theme, he was playing the essence of love itself, the essence of all tenderness. You love a woman with this feeling, or the autumn or a sunrise or a child.”


Many of the photographs discussed in the two essays on Erwin Blumenfeld are combined in the following video montage of his work and set to Bill Evans’ strikingly beautiful interpretation of composer Alex North’s Love Theme from the motion picture Spartacus.