Jade Visions: The Life and Music of Scott LaFaro - The JazzProfiles Synopsis

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

I HOPE THIS BOOK WILL BRING a glimpse into the development and the life of Scott LaFaro, and an understanding of the man and his music. In my approach to writing this book, I've tried to be a modern-day Jack Webb—perhaps my own snopes.com—looking to separate the facts from the legend. It is not the story of an artist's angst, a life of hardship, emotional deprivation or shattered family relationships. It is a story of Scotty's obsession with music. Scotty was an intensely private person. He was well aware at an early age that he was set down on this planet to do something special with music. His head was full of it. He was dedicated and driven. Many thought him aloof, even haughty. He was intense, centered, and serious. He rather enjoyed being regarded as an enigma. It is also a book with chapters unwritten and ending in an abrupt and tragic plot twist. Scotty, himself, felt he didn't have a lot of time. He did what he set out to do, and we are all the richer for it.

It also has long been my desire that, when all is said and done, to have "all things Scotty" referenced in one place, thus my inclusion of the reprints of some of the more difficult to find articles, and the detailed bibliography and discography.

Are we all the sum of how we are perceived by others? I was the person who was constantly closest to Scotty during his too few years, and while I can relate many aspects of his life—and many have come to ask me about his life over the years—this book also relies heavily on my research and interviewing many musicians who knew Scotty or his work, or both, and are far more qualified to speak to his abilities, career, the technical aspects of his output, and his contributions to music than I.

I thank them immensely.

- Author Helene LaFaro Fernandez, Preface to Jade Visions

In June of this year [2016], I ran a four-part series by Gene Lees on bassist Scott LaFaro.

Essentially, Gene took the Introduction that he had written for the biography that Helene LaFaro-Hernandez wrote about her brother and expanded it into a larger essay which he published in his Jazzletter as Young Mr. LaFaro.

At the time of my posting of Gene’s piece I had not read Helene’s biography of her brother.

The nice folks at the University of North Texas Press were kind enough to send me a preview copy of Jade Visions: The Life and Music of Scott LaFaro and I thought I would provide you with a synopsize of it on these pages.

It’s an important book about an important Jazz musician and one that I should have read when it was first published in 2009. Frankly, I thought I basically knew all there was to know about Scotty who died at the ridiculously young age of twenty-five.

Boy, was I wrong about that assumption.

The key elements to Scotty’s importance in terms of the development of the bass as a Jazz instrument are highlighted in fellow bassist Don Thompson’s Foreword to the book:

"In the movie It's a Wonderful Life, Jimmy Stewart gets to see the world as it might have been if he had never been born. This is something everyone thinks about now and then. We all like to think we will have made a difference in the world but nobody ever knows for sure.

In music there are people who are so important that it is impossible to imagine the world without them. Think about music without Bach, Mozart or Beethoven. Think about jazz without Duke Ellington, Charlie Parker or John Coltrane. In the history of jazz there have been only a handful of real innovators on each instrument. These people have shaped the way their instruments have come to be played. On the piano the list would include Art Tatum, Bud Powell, McCoy Tyner, Keith Jarrett and Bill Evans. On saxophone there would be Lester Young, Coleman Hawkins, Charlie Parker and John Coltrane. On bass there would be Jimmy Blanton, Oscar Pettiford, Ray Brown, Red Mitchell and Scott LaFaro. Of that group of bass players, Ray Brown and Scott LaFaro stand out from the rest. Ray Brown personifies the bassist's role in a rhythm section. With his beautiful sound, amazing groove and Bach-like lines, Ray was the man everyone wanted to sound like. That is until Scott LaFaro came along.

The first time I heard Scotty play was on Portrait in Jazz with Bill Evans. I had been playing the bass for three or four years but was not really that interested in it. I was playing a lot of piano and vibes at the time, so playing the bass didn't really matter to me that much. But when I heard that track of Autumn Leaves, all that changed, There was a spirit of adventure and freedom I had never heard before and all of a sudden it became very important to me to really learn how to play the bass. Hearing Scotty play with Bill Evans had opened up a whole new world of music to me, and I wanted to be a part of it.

Everything about Scotty's playing killed me. His sound, his solos (which actually reminded me a bit of Red Mitchell) and his time feel, which was amazing. But what really got to me was the interplay between him and Bill Evans. The idea of a musical conversation was not really that new but the combination of Bill Evans and Scott LaFaro proved to be a magical one and together they took that concept to a whole new place. Bill had provided the setting that gave Scotty the freedom to play the music however he happened to feel it.

Being free is one thing but along with that freedom comes a great responsibility and it takes a great musician to work in that setting and really succeed on all levels. Scotty had everything he needed to make it work. He had great time, extraordinary ears, a fantastic sense of form, and so much chops he could play pretty well anything that came into his head. He was also blessed with the gift of melody and countermelody but most important of all he had a beautiful musicality and sensitivity that enabled him to respond and interact with the other players without playing all over them. He knew exactly what the music needed and no matter what he played, or how much he seemed to be playing, the music was always his first concern and he never let the music down.

What Scotty played was amazing then and is amazing still today. His solos were technically overwhelming but melodically breathtaking. The solo on My Romance is one of my favorites and the last eight bars, in particular, is pure melodic perfection.

Scott LaFaro is one of a small group of musicians who really changed the course of jazz. It's hard to imagine where he might have gone with music had he not been taken so early in his life. For me, and probably most of today's bass players, it's even harder to imagine the world of the bass without Scotty in it. He brought a brand new concept to the bass and in doing so he changed the way people would play it forever. Forty-five years later he is still probably the most powerful influence there is on the bass.

I regret never having known him but he will always be a part of my world and I will always be thankful for everything he contributed to it.”

The author explains how the book came about in the following excerpts drawn from her Acknowledgements.

“I'LL START WITH SHOULD, COULD,WOULD.

At least a decade ago, Chuck Ralston began a website dedicated to Scotty. Chuck is from Geneva [New York where both Scotty and Helene were raised], but I did not know him then. His dad at one time was the president of Geneva's local musicians' union and knew both Scotty and our dad. Ralston senior acquainted Chuck with jazz and with Scotty. His work took him and his family to France and it was there that they received the news of Scotty's death. Not too many years later, Chucks interest in and appreciation of Scotty's jazz legacy led him to begin his self-assigned task of archiving, via the internet, whatever he could uncover.

Eventually, Chuck, now headquartered in the Atlanta, Georgia, area, got in touch with me and over the years I have worked with him on the accuracy and dates of things posted on the website. Through all this time, Chuck has constantly been a voice in my ear saying I should do a book about Scotty. There is much to be told that only I could tell. "These are things people want to know," he'd tell me when I'd relate incidents to him. But Chuck's contribution goes far beyond urging. He helped set the outline for this book and did the total work on the detailed discography and bibliography, drawing on his past labor of love and his vast knowledge and ability as an administrative librarian.

In the mid 1990s I came to know Madeleine Crouch, general manager of the International Society of Bassists, and, echoing Chuck, in July of 1998 she wrote me: "PS: I hope you will seriously consider writing a biography of your brother. I'll buy the first copy!" This to someone who to that date had published only a couple of short stories and human interest articles in local newspapers and a couple of short pieces about Scott prefacing partial discographies of his work. Madeleine has been my constant cheerleader—telling me I could indeed do this. Every time I wavered she was there telling me I could do it and, more importantly, ready and willing to help. I needed a lot of help and help she did. She put me in contact with many folks who would make vital contributions to this book. She has been there every step of the way, helping in any and every way she could: the midwife, as it were, on this project.

Gene Lees. Madeleine had given me a phone introduction to Gene. And it is Gene who would give me the confidence to give it a shot. Gene Lees needs no introduction to anyone reading these pages. With his talent, background, and skill as a foremost author and chronicler of musicians, lyricist, composer, and journalist—highly esteemed in all his endeavors—he is a quintessential erudite, and to me, simply awesome. That he would treat me with such dignity and respect and encourage me at every turn is what would, in the end, make me urge myself to go forward. For all of this—to share his great knowledge about the craft of writing, to offer and be willing to do line editing, and checking, and to contribute to the book his Introduction—how could anyone not feel blessed. As important, however, is that over these past two years Gene and his wife, Janet, have become true friends to my husband, Manny, and me.

I am indeed fortunate to have Don Thompson write the wonderful piece that became the Foreword for this book. A great many thanks as well to Jeff Campbell and Phil Palombi, who gave of their time and talent to write the two indispensable chapters that discuss aspects of Scotty's music in detail. Over the past few years another contributor and I have also become friends: Barrie Kolstein. Barrie’s dad, Sam, had a special relationship with Scotty and it is Barrie who lovingly restored the Prescott bass. I am so grateful that Barrie has for this book, shared his personal story about Sam and Scotty, and his chronicling of his restoration efforts.

Appreciation and thanks go as well to an old friend from Geneva, Bob Wooley, who has kindly allowed the reprint of his article recalling his school-days memories of Scotty.

Helping me all along the way also has been Dave Berzinsky. Dave is a font of knowledge about almost everything to do with the history of jazz in Los Angeles during Scotty s time there. Stan Levey at one time described him as "a walking encyclopedia of jazz." He has given me much of his time—always willing to go through archives with me, help in identifying any album or player, or find a way to find the answer. Ken Poston [Executive Director of the Los Angeles Jazz Institute] was immensely helpful in opening his archives to me and personally looking through old magazines, cover to cover. Thanks to Joe Urso for his generous help. At the Geneva Historical Society, Karen Osburn and John Marks have given me great assistance. Special thanks to my editor, Karen DeVinney. who has graciously guided me through this entire process.

Of course this book became a reality not only because of all of those mentioned above, but because to a person, everyone I contacted, or who contacted me, everyone I met and spoke to over these past three years with regard to the book, has been most willing and open in discussing Scotty and most gracious in sharing their experiences and feelings which I have tried to accurately set forth in these pages. …”

In addition to her wonderfully, loving narrative about Scotty which brings to life who he was as a person and how other musicians viewed his work, the detailed and annotated discography by Chuck Ralston is truly a treasure trove that offers the reader/listener an opportunity to explore this gifted bassist in action, so to speak. Spanning pages 249-290, Chuck’s discography provides a comprehensive overview of Scotty’s recorded history which goes well-beyond his famous association with pianist Bill Evans. For one who lived such a short time, it is amazing to behold the number of influential Jazz musicians Scotty played with, a list that includes Benny Goodman, Stan Kenton, Stan Getz, Cal Tjader, Victor Feldman, Herb Geller, Chet Baker, Steve Kuhn, Booker Little and Ornette Coleman.

Chuck Ralston is also responsible the annotated bibliography that concludes the book.

During the half-dozen or so years that he was a professional musicians, Jazz underwent many rapid changes and Scotty was at the forefront of many of them. Indeed, one could say that he caused some of them with his singular style of bass playing.

I think that the following review from the AllAboutJazz website pretty well sums up Scotty’s importance as well as the significance of Helene’s biography of him.

"It's astonishing that [LaFaro s] massive reputation is primarily based on a handful of albums that feature him in full flower: the four recorded with the Bill Evans Trio, two by Coleman and Jazz Abstractions, a Gunther Schuller recording. His work on these is so amazing, his facility on his instrument so fluid, his melodic ideas and group interplay concepts so advanced that they still reverberate today.

Finally LaFaro has a worthy volume commensurate with his stature in music."

For order information from the UNTPress go here.

Claude Williamson: 1926-2016 - A Tribute

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

Claude Williamson, qui ne cache pas son admiration pour Bud Powell, lui dediant SALUTE TO BUD dans son premier album en trio. L'ombre de Bud est presente derriere nombre de pianistes californiens : ils ont, plus que d'autres instrumentistes, succombe a la voix du bop.

L’association Bud Shank / Claude Williamson allait faire merveille pour presenter une musique sobre, habitee d'une urgence d'expression assez inhabituelle. De plus, le pianiste savait composer d'excellents morceaux, tels TERTIA et THEME4. A l’instar du trio Rogers / Giuffre / Manne, Bob Cooper, Bud Shank et Claude Williamson ont ete redevables a Howard Rumsey d'un lieu ideal pour exercer leur art en toute quietude. Bien d'autres sont passes au Lighthouse : Herb Geller, Bob Gordon, Frank Rosolino, Stan Levey, Stu Williamson, Conte Candoli, Richie Kamuca, Lennie Niehaus, Sonny Clark.

- Alain Tercinet, West Coast Jazz

Pianist Claude Williamson who died on July 15, 2016, really disliked the term “West Coast Jazz,” and as is indicated in the above passage in French excerpted from Alain Tercinet’s West Coast Jazz, well he should have because his music was much more broadly based than that restrictive phrase implies.

As Alain goes on to say: “Claude Williamson, does not hide his admiration for Bud Powell, dedicating a SALUTE TO BUD in his first trio album. Bud Powell’s shadow is present in the style of many Californian-based pianists: they, more than other instrumentalists, succumbed to the voice of bop.”

According to Ted Gioia in his definitive West Coast Jazz: Modern Jazz in California, 1945-1960 [As you read these passages, please keep in mind that Ted, as well as being a fine writer and music educator is also an excellent Jazz pianist.]:

“Claude was born in Brattleboro, Vermont, on November 18, 1926, and was exposed early to jazz through his father, a drummer who led a territory band in the New England states. Despite his father's background in jazz and dance bands, Claude's studies focused on classical music from the start. He began piano lessons at age seven. These continued for ten years, then Claude began full-time musical studies at the New England Conservatory of Music. In contrast to these highbrow surroundings, Williamson knew from the start that he wanted to make his career as a jazz musician: "I wanted to study theory and composition and further my work on the piano. Fortunately I had a teacher who included both jazz and classical music in my studies/'17 Sam Saxe, Williamson's teacher, was a somewhat unorthodox conservatory teacher for the 1940’s. In addition to emphasizing the mastery of keyboard fundamentals, Saxe gave Claude transcriptions of Art Tatum piano figures to be practiced in all twelve keys. In late 1946, Saxe moved to Southern California, and in February 1947, Williamson followed, not only to continue his studies but also to take advantage of the growing musical opportunities Saxe promised on the West Coast. …

Williamson continued studying with Saxe while waiting the then obligatory six months to get a Los Angeles union card. Immediately after joining the union, Williamson became pianist for the Charlie Barnet band. Barnet's ensemble was evolving into a more bop-oriented band, much like the Woody Herman Herd of the same era. Like other young musicians then joining the band—such as Bud Shank and Doc Severinsen—Williamson was increasingly drawn to the modern jazz idiom. During the two years he remained with Barnet, his piano style evolved from its swing era roots in Teddy Wilson and Jess Stacy to a more contemporary approach rooted in the innovations of Bud Powell. His best-known work with Bar-net was his piano feature on "Claude Reigns" (a punning reference to both Williamson's keyboard prowess and Hollywood actor Claude Raines).

After leaving Barnet in December 1949, Williamson served as musical director for June Christy before being drafted in September 1951. …

Within two weeks of his release in late summer 1953, Williamson got a phone call from Russ Freeman, who was leaving the Lighthouse All-Stars and looking for a replacement. This was musical deja vu for Williamson — here he was reunited with Barnet bandmates Shank and with Christy's husband, Bob Cooper. The Lighthouse move also provided Williamson with an opportunity to work with many of the finest jazz musicians of the day; including Max Roach, Conte Candoli, Frank Rosolino, and Stan Levey, as well as the various artists who would sit in at the Pier Avenue nightspot.

“ … by the mid-1950's [Claude] was a full-fledged bebopper in the spirit of Bud Powell ….

Williamson's 1955 recording tor Stan Kenton s jazz label is called, true enough, Keys West, but the trio music shows clearly the new East Coast inspiration in Williamson's playing. On "Get Happy" the pianist sounds on the brink of going out of control, like a drag racer running curves at a dangerous speed.

Few keyboardists have truly perfected this style. Bud Powell was its most noteworthy exponent (indeed, he practically invented it), but though Powell had many followers, few of them captured this aspect of his playing. They tried to play Bud's licks as precisely as possible, whereas the manic intensity of Powell's work made the apparent sloppiness in his playing part of the effect. This was feverish music that was supposed to sound ragged. Williamson more and more captured this neglected aspect of the bebop master in his later work. He, too, thrived when working in overdrive.”

Julian "Cannonball" Adderley - The Barbara Gardner Interview [From the Archives]

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

In the following interview, Cannonball brings out some interesting expectations on the part of Jazz club owners and patrons about the “working conditions” of the times.

When I first started playing Jazz clubs, the first set began at 9:00 PM and the last set ended at 2:00 PM because the venues had as their prime focus - not the music - but the selling of booze.

Musician owned clubs like Shelly’s Manne Hole and Ronnie Scott’s in London, may have been exceptions to this rule, at least initially, but for the most part, the emphasis was not on the music or on the welfare of the musicians.

Under the circumstances, as Cannonball points out, there was simply no way that any musician could maintain a high level of creativity.

At the time of this its publication in the October 15, 1959 edition of Down Beat magazine Barbara Gardner was described as follows in the About the Writer insert:

“Barbara Gardner is a young Chicago writer who was born in Black Mountain, N. C. She was educated at Talladega College in Alabama, where she took a double major — English literature with a journalism minor, and education with a sociology minor.

In 1954 she moved to Chicago. She has an almost encyclopedic knowledge of jazz musicians. "I don't know how it happened. I just seemed to meet them all the time," she says. "And of course I was intensely interested in the music ever since I can remember."

Julian and Nat Adderley are her good personal friends, which adds an extra element of insight to her article on the gifted alto saxophonist. This is her first appearance in DOWN BEAT.”

“Jazz is currently enjoying — or suffering through — the most controversial era in its comparatively short history.

Great armed camps stand against each other. They are for or against traditionalism, modernism, progressivism, and even criticism. When critic meets writer, or Loyal Swing Fan meets Progressive True Believer, the blue tonalities and augmented chords are sure to fly until one camp has slashed the other sharply on its B-flat, and heaven help the bystanding neutral music lover who is audacious enough to intervene.

Underneath this furor, the musicians, of course, quietly go on about the business they feel is urgently important — the creation of music. But the critics and fans, not satisfied with dissecting the various "schools" and classes of jazz, have by now turned to taking apart individual performances. Here, the crisis shows itself — often in the form of open hostility as the jazzman loses patience at being scrutinized to determine whether he is a creator or an imitator, a miracle or a mirage.

Since 1955, one musician has been the object of this kind of examination and cross-examination perhaps more than any other. Wherever musicians or fans gather to discuss modern American music, his name crops up again and again. Dismissed hotly by some as unprogressive or acclaimed fervently for rugged individualism, "Cannonball" is fired into the debate. Here, say his admirers, is the man to be reckoned with as the leading altoist today.

The advent of Gannonball Adderley on the jazz scene was as instantaneous and forceful as his name might seem to suggest. If no one can remember his struggles for recognition in the cold and unexcitable city of New York, it is because he never struggled. His musical acceptance, achieved without effort, goes counter to all the accepted legends about heartbroken, unrecognized genius. He has, of course, worked consistently and hard. He has worked always in jazz, and with the greatest musicians. But his efforts did not go unrewarded; when he arrived in New York, he sat in one night with a group of name musicians in Greenwich Village — and was instantly recognized as a remarkable talent.

Yet the nickname "Cannonball" was not acquired as a symbol of the way he struck New York, bowling everyone over. Actually, it dates back to his high school days. His schoolmates, searching for a term that most aptly described his mammoth appetite, came up with "Cannibal." Time and the American propensity for word corruption gradually twisted this into "Cannonball."

Born simply Julian Edwin Adderley in Tampa, Fla., Cannon represented a talent always inherent in the Adderley clan. His father, Julian F, Adderley, was a noted jazz cornetist who presumed from the start that one of his two sons would play the same horn he did. But Cannon was not to be the one. After dabbling briefly with trumpet in high school, he turned to alto saxophone when he was 14, and it was left to his younger brother, Nat, to become the second famous cornetist in the Adderley family.

Cannon and Nat were something of a musical phenomenon in Tampa. Prior to their studies of instruments, the brothers were a temporary sensation as boy sopranos.

Nor was music the only area in which Julian's precociousness revealed itself. Academically, he skimmed along at a rapid pace, graduating from grammar school at 10, from high school at 15, and from Florida A&M. College at 18. At 19, an age when many adolescents are still going through preliminary bouts with the electric shaver, he was music instructor and band director of Dillard High School in Fort Lauderdale.

He grew up fast in every way. This was wartime and, he recalls, "we didn't have any adolescence. I was a fast young musician with plenty of money in my pockets, the men were away at war, and the boys were left around to fill in until they came back."

By this time, Cannonball had been working for three years in local nightclubs and on weekend gigs. Even when he began teaching, lie took advantage of every possible opportunity to blow his horn in the free musical atmosphere of jazz bands and combos.

But his dual existence continued. He went on teaching at Dillard High, and his students were fortunate in having an instructor who was proficient on trumpet, flute, clarinet, tenor saxophone, and, of course, alto. But the bright lights and dreams of fame and fortune continued to pull at him.

His indecision was temporarily settled for him in 1952: he was drafted. Yet, even in the service, his singlemindedness toward music never faltered. He led both a small combo and a big band. And meantime, he was creating a strong impression on jazz musicians who heretofore had never heard of the youthful terror of Tampa. One of them was Clark Terry. Later, Terry was to bring Cannon to the attention of one of the leading recording firms.

When he was at last separated from the army, Cannon went for a time to the U.S. Naval School in Washington, D. C., to study reed instruments. Then, in 1954, he went back to Florida, determined to wipe the bright lights out of his eyes and resume teaching.

But by now the pull toward jazz was too strong. And in the summer of 1955, the Southland lost another of its sons to the glamour of that self-appointed jazz mecca of the world, New York. Cannon arrived in Manhattan at the same time as his brother Nat, who had just left the Lionel Hampton band. He lost no time making his presence known. A stroke of luck helped.

The night after his arrival, tenor saxophonist Jerome Richardson, then with Oscar Pettiford, was late for work at Greenwich Village's Cafe Bohemia. At the urging of musicians who had heard "of" Cannonball, Pettiford — with some reservations - allowed the young man from Tampa to sit in. The musicians' trick of "wasting" the newcomer by playing a difficult arrangement was tried on Adderley.

The musicians were astounded at the outcome of the trick, which is as old as jazz. Cannon romped through the rapid ensemble segment of I’ll Remember April, then established his authority with a long, well-executed solo. By the end of the night, there was no doubt about it. the Tampa Cannonball was in — a welcome soulbrother.

This dramatic impact on the musicians of New York was remarkably parallel to that of Cannon's major source of inspiration, the late Charlie Parker, who came to the big city in the late 1930s, after considerable woodshedding, and astounded musicians and critics alike with his fantastic mastery of his instrument. This parallel, however, taken with the fact that Cannon plays alto with the finely developed sense of timing, the well-defined beat and the flowing melodic sense that had been the stamp of Bird for more than a decade, helped form the only cloud over his career: critics and writers pitted him time after time against Parker in their comparisons.

The musicians' grapevine, second only to the housewife's back fence as a high-speed conveyor of information, spread the word about the new arrival from Florida. Within days, on the strength of this reputation, Cannon was on his way. Arranger Quincy Jones and Cannon's army buddy, Clark Terry, had brought the altoist's prowess to the attention of EmArcy Records. He was signed to a contract.

For a time, he continued to work with Oscar Pettiford. Later, he formed his own group, featuring brother Nat. But it was in 1958 that he began one of the associations for which he is best known: he joined the Miles Davis quintet for the Jazz for Moderns tour. He remained with Miles until last month, and became in the interim friend, business manager, and mediator to the gifted and individualistic trumpeter.

Miles' temperament is, of course, legend in the music business. A complex, seemingly contradictory man whom many persons find difficult to deal with, he is the subject of much talk and speculation. Cannon bristles if the subject is raised.

"I don't understand what all this is concerning Miles," he said. "Miles is just what he has always been. He doesn't try to be the way he is because he is a famous musician. He would be the same type of person if he were a truck driver. He is just

himself, and he doesn't feel that he has to conform for the sake of conformity."

The question of Miles" personality cannot, however, be dismissed that easily. For one thing, there is the observation that Billy Taylor recently made during a Blindfold Test (Down Beat, Sept. 3). "I have been interested," Taylor told Leonard Feather, "in Miles' effect on his side men; how, for instance, he changed Cannonball's way of playing and his approach to music . . . "

There are indications that Miles also had an effect on Cannon's personality, though the changes are subtle. Miles has the rare ability to impose not only some of his approach to music but also some of his personality on his men. Thus, while Cannon is by nature a warm, gregarious individual, he seems to have acquired, in a superficial way, some of the forthright sharpness that is an innate and natural trait in Miles.

Thus it will be seen that the decision to leaves Miles' group is a decisive one for the alto man. He retains a tremendous respect for the trumpeter as a creative force in music and, consciously or unconsciously, uses Miles as his norm in discussing other groups or individual performers.

The effects of Miles obviously were not in the main bad. For Cannonball is currently enjoying a steadily rising appreciation among critics, musicians, and the lay public.

After having been named in almost every leading poll in this country, and mentioned repeatedly in European voting, he capped it this year by winning the poll that many authorities think is the significant one: the International Jazz Critics' Poll conducted by Down Beat. He walked off with the New Star plaque for alto.

Cannon shares with many musicians the paradoxical position of denouncing all polls for their serious omissions and inconsistencies while at the same time admitting that he has long hoped to win one.

"Yes, I'm very proud to be a winner in this poll," he confessed self consciously.

"Everybody wants to feel that people are accepting their work." Then, as if he needed a more practical justification for his pleasure, he added: "Then, too, the polls represent your popularity, really, and your drawing power. When the public is aware of you, you can command better conditions for your efforts."

The "better conditions" would surely include an improvement in the working conditions in nightclubs where, he feels, there is little room  for creative playing. And that, after all, is what Cannonball is after.

"The nights are just too long in most places," he said. "And the conditions generally are bad — small crowded stages and poor sound systems.

"After the first couple of sets, there isn't too much happening in the way of real creativity. You can't just turn talent on and off all night for six or seven hours. They expect you to get up there and create something new seven times a night. "It just isn't possible.”

Now 31 years old, Julian Adderley is a tall man whose heavy build makes him an imposing figure. He has been on a diet of late, and has cut his weight from 300 pounds to a less cumbersome if not exactly svelte 230.

An articulate and extremely well-informed conversationalist, he has a disconcerting habit of spicing his speech with short, earthy expletives traditionally thought appropriate to the conversation of sailors. Of this profanity, he says: "Once in awhile, when you're among friends, you like to let your hair down and just tell it as it is."

Still a bachelor, Cannon thinks that maybe he'll settle down "in about five years." Meantime, he says, "I don't have time for permanent entanglements. When I do, all this travelling and nonsense is going to stop.

"I don't have any definite philosophy of living. I am just beginning to get things straightened out in my own mind. But I do believe that a person has a responsibility to do whatever makes him happy. Nowadays, you can't always take time to reason — or regret what is past.

"You just have to live each day for what it's worth."

He reflected a moment, then went on. "I've seen so many people in this business who just couldn't get their minds together because of worrying whether they should or should not do something. Sometimes they worry about what people are going to think of their actions.

"If you are going to worry, then you shouldn't do a thing in the first place."

For the present, Cannonball has his work and his challenge cut out for him. The departure from Miles gave him the chance to do what he had never really stopped thinking about: setting up another group featuring brother Nat. After touring as stars of the Newport Jazz Festival concert tour, Cannon and Nat hit the circuit Sept. 21 in Philadelphia.

As he and Nat prepared to go out with the group, he was noticeably excited about the chances, about the possibility of finding that new sound that musicians are always seeking.

He was aware, of course, that uncertainty is a stark reality of the jazz world. The artist is never allowed to relax on his laurels and be carried along on the wings of deeds remembered. There is no time allotted or assistance given to those who have been so indiscreet as to fall from favor. They have to step quickly and quietly out of the path as the procession moves resolutely on.

Vivid examples of such tragedies are plentiful in the history of jazz. But there is a possibility that the new generation of jazzmen, of which Cannon is a part, has learned a lesson from its less fortunate predecessors.

"This is a funny business" said Cannonball, summarizing his attitude to music and to his new group. "One day you're right up there on top, and the next day you can't find a job.

"I want to be protected against that kind of future."  

                

Julie London and "Cry Me a River" - An Essay by Michael Owen

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

I recently received the following correspondence from Michael Owen concerning the status of his Julie London book project and I thought it might be fun to share it with you as a blog feature of sorts.

“Dear Steve,

Good news! The final manuscript of my book - currently entitled Go Slow: The Life of Julie London - is due to Chicago Review Press next Friday. The title's taken from a song she recorded in 1957 that she said summed up her style. Are you familiar with it?

Thanks for being in touch with me early on the process. I really appreciate how willing people were to provide me with contacts and information. It all went into the mix - successfully, I hope.

Although it's not set in stone, the book's scheduled for spring/summer 2017 release. As a preview, I've attached an essay I was asked to write on Julie's 1955 recording of Cry Me a River, which was added to the Library of Congress’ Recording Registry earlier this year. The essay was recently posted online.

https://www.loc.gov/programs/static/national-recording-preservation-board/documents/CryMeARiver.pdf

Feel free to pass this along to anyone you think might be interested in the subject. The more the merrier!

I hope you're doing well.

All the best,

Michael”

By way of background, “Michael Owen is an archivist, writer, researcher, and librarian. A Consulting Archivist to the Ira and Leonore Gershwin Trusts, he is also the webmaster at www.gershwin.com, and the Managing Editor of Words Without Music, a publication of the Trusts. He is a member of the Editorial Board of the George and Ira Gershwin Critical Edition. A historian of popular music and culture, he is currently completing a biography of Julie London. He lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with his wife and their cat.”

Cry Me a River – Julie London (1955)

Added to the National Registry: 2015 Essay by Michael Owen (guest post)*

Julie London

An unknown song...an unknown singer...an unknown label. Not an ideal combination for a hit record.

Julie London was born Nancy Gayle Peck in Santa Rosa, California, in 1926. As a child, London was surrounded by music. Her parents were singers who often performed on the radio and at nightclubs in San Bernardino, California, and she soaked up songs and a relaxed vocal style that matured into a uniquely throaty purr as she reached adulthood.

At the age of sixteen, London was discovered by an agent who spotted her running an elevator at an upscale men’s clothing store on Hollywood Boulevard. She appeared in 11 movies during the 1940s and 1950s--among them supporting roles opposite Edward G. Robinson and Gary Cooper --but with little success, and retired at the age of 25 to raise a family with her husband, actor Jack Webb (“Dragnet”).

After the couple’s divorce two years later, London intended to resume her acting career, when fate arrived in the person of songwriter Bobby Troup (“Route 66”).

Troup encouraged London to sing professionally from the moment they met. The natural, unaffected qualities in her voice set her apart from other female vocalists of the day, he reasoned, and would help her regain a footing in show business.

While London often sang around the house--she described herself as a “living room singer”--with friends who gathered around her piano at the end of the evening, she had no interest in singing for her supper. Undeterred by her fierce reluctance, Troup’s contacts in the music business soon brought London a booking-- without an audition--at a small Hollywood nightclub in the summer of 1955. Accompanied solely by the influential jazz guitarist Barney Kessel and double-bassist Ray Leatherwood, who succeeded Ralph Peña midway through the engagement, London’s intimate performances of standards from the Great American Songbook were immediately successful among the Hollywood cognoscenti.

Two weeks of shows became ten. One night, Troup sent Si Waronker, the owner of a new Los Angeles-based independent record label, to see London perform. Impressed by the uniquely- individual sound London made with just guitar and bass, and the visceral effect her physical presence had on audiences, Waronker signed her as one of the first artists on Liberty Records.

“Cry Me a River,” the song that cemented London’s reputation, came out of the blue and was a last-minute addition to her first recording sessions. Arthur Hamilton, a high school boyfriend of London’s, had been working as a songwriter for the production company of her ex-husband, Jack Webb. (She had helped Hamilton land the job.) In 1955, Webb was making “Pete Kelly’s Blues,” a movie set in the 1920s with appearances by singers Peggy Lee and Ella Fitzgerald. The lyrics for one of Hamilton’s songs intended for Fitzgerald included the word “plebeian,” which Webb told the songwriter no one would believe her singing. Hamilton was unwilling to change the word. Webb dropped the number from the picture.

A few nights later, Hamilton played the song for London at her house. She immediately fell in love with its haunting melody and coolly defiant lyrics, hearing echoes of her troubled relationship with Webb. Hamilton said “yes” when London asked if she could record it. As with all of the arrangements for London’s early performances, “Cry Me a River” was very quickly sketched out in a head arrangement by the singer and her accompanists. Guitarist Barney Kessel and bass player Ray Leatherwood had never heard or seen the music to “Cry Me a River” when London suggested it in the last few minutes of a recording session at Western Recorders. It would be the one new song added to the collection of standards taken from her nightclub act that had already been laid down. Captured in just a few takes, Kessel’s chords and Leatherwood’s descending bass introduction set the stage for London’s coolly-detached performance that kept the slow pace of Hamilton’s original and allowed his lyrics to come through with the precision they required.

Test pressings of the album were sent to disc jockeys around the country, and they found “Cry Me a River” as intriguing and unique as its singer did. The whispered, murmured sound of “Cry Me a River” was unlike anything they’d heard in recent years. London’s soft-sell approach, and the understated quality of the record, was a sharp contrast to contemporary hits such as “Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing” and “I Hear You Knockin’.”

Liberty Records released the song as a single in Fall of 1955. Aided by television appearances on Perry Como’s popular variety program and Steve Allen’s “Tonight” show, “Cry Me a River” began an unlikely five month run on the pop singles chart. It was Liberty’s first hit and the company had difficulty fulfilling the demand for orders from record distributors. The release of London’s first album, “Julie Is Her Name,” which topped industry charts, soon followed.

London had rejected the idea of recording her first record in front of a live audience, rightly judging that her “thimbleful of voice” would be drowned out by the clattering of dishes and conversation. Audio engineer John Neal recognized that London lacked the ability to project her voice, and asked her to move in as closely as she could to the sensitive Telefunken microphone, which accurately captured the intimate sound of London’s breathing on the recording tape. The addition of a subtle echo gave a near three-dimensional presence to her voice that encouraged listeners to come ever closer to their speakers.

Shocked by her unexpected success, London’s New York nightclub debut in January 1956 was another major milestone, and her appearance in the hit movie musical “The Girl Can’t Help It,” in which she sang “Cry Me a River” as an ethereal presence haunting actor Tom Ewell, helped cement her relationship to the song. London remade the song, complete with strings and a tinkling cocktail piano, for a 1959 single. For the remainder of a career that took her around the world, from nightclubs in Rio de Janeiro to Tokyo, to a long series of engagements at the Tropicana Hotel in Las Vegas, London sang to audiences that could never get enough of her first hit. “Cry Me a River” is now a standard and has been covered by many artists in a wealth of diverse styles. Barbra Streisand included the song on her 1963 debut album, while Ray Charles and Joe Cocker delivered soulful renditions in 1964 and 1970, respectively. In 1993, it was released as the first single by the lounge revival act Combustible Edison, and was returned to its roots by Canadian jazz/pop vocalist Diana Krall eight years later.

But there can only be one first recording, one chance to make something of nothing. Although Julie London released more than 350 recordings during her career as a singer (1955-1981), “Cry Me a River”–-with its subtle, and uniquely-suitable, guitar and bass accompaniment--remains her most popular, a signature tune that set a standard few have ever equaled.”

*The views expressed in this essay are those of the author and do not necessarily represent the views of the Library of Congress.