“Ah yes, The Hankenstein. He was s-o-o-o-o hip.” That was the response of Dexter Gordon when the late Hank Mobley’s name came up in conversation a while ago. “Hankenstein” - as in identifying Mobley as a genuine “monster” in the best sense of the term, while the slow motion relish of “he was s-o-o-o-o hip” seemed to have both musical and extramusical connotations.
But then, like so many who came to know Mobley’s music, Gordon decided to qualify his phrase echoing critic Leonard Feather’s assessment that Mobley was “the middleweight champion of the tenor saxophone,” whose approach to the instrument (according to Feather) lacked the “magniloquence” that Gordon, Sonny Rollins, and others had brought to it.
But that is not the only way to estimate Mobley’s achievement. The middleweight champ, yes, if magniloquence and size of tone are what is involved, but never merely a middleweight - for Mobley, who died last May [1986] at age fifty-five, blazed his own trail and left behind a body of work that never ceases to fascinate. Indeed when one examines the core of Mobley’s music (the twenty-four albums recorded under his own name for Blue Note from 1955-1970), it seems clear that his poignantly intense lyricism could have flourished only if magniloquence was thrust aside.”
- Larry Kart, Jazz author, critic and book editor
"Don't get backed too much into a reality that has fashioned your senses with too many realistic claims. When art promises you this sort of reliability, drop it. It is good to know how not to know how much one is knowing."
- Stefan Wolpe, composer
My ongoing Mobley Quest takes a slightly different spin at this point with the emphasis being placed on just one of Hank’s many recordings as a leader for Blue Note [There were 24 in all.].
I plan to do this for more of Hank’s individual Blue Note recordings especially when the accompanying insert notes warrant highlighting because of the significant light they shine on understanding Hank and his music, both of which have been ignored for far too long, hence my quest to bring more attention to them.
Larry Kart’s notes to Poppin’ one of Hank’s earliest Blue Note LPs that was very late to CD issuance certainly fall into this category as they are a masterful revelation of what makes Hank’s approach to Jazz singular and unique. One of the tunes on this date is Gettin’ Into Something and Larry certainly does that and more with his analysis of, not only of what makes Mobley tick, but also of what are the defining qualities of the styles of the other musicians on the album.
Both the following essay and the later, 1987 piece on Hank can be found in Larry’s Jazz in Search of Itself [New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004]. Here’s a link to Larry’s “Hank Mobley - A Posthumous Appreciation” which was posted earlier on these pages.
The first of these two pieces was the liner notes for a reissue of Hank Mobley's 1957 album Poppin'. (The reference there to Nietzsche supposedly commenting on Mobley's style was a would-be serious joke. Nietzsche did write those words, in his essay "Contra-Wagner," but he was referring to the music of Georges Bizet.) The second piece was a posthumous appreciation.
[1982]
“In the mid-1950s the Blue Note label yielded momentarily to super-salesmanship, releasing such albums as The Amazing Bud Powell, The Magnificent Thad Jones, and The Incredible Jimmy Smith. That trend was dormant by the time Hank Mobley became a Blue Note regular and unfortunately so — a record titled The Enigmatic Hank Mobley would have been a natural. "To speak darkly, hence in riddles" is the root meaning of the Greek word from which "enigma" derives; and no player, with the possible exception of pianist Elmo Hope, has created a more melancholically quizzical musical universe than Mobley, one in which tab A is calmly inserted in slot D.
Though he was influenced by Charlie Parker, Sonny Stitt, and, perhaps. Lucky Thompson, Mobley has proceeded down his own path with a rare single mindedness, relatively untouched by the stylistic upheavals that marked the work of his major contemporaries. Sonny Rollins and John Coltrane. In the words of Friedrich Nietzsche, not previously known for his interest in jazz, Mobley's music is "without grimaces, without counterfeit, without the lie of the great style. It treats the listener as intelligent, as if he himself were a musician. I actually bury my ears under this music to hear its causes." And that is the enigma of Mobley's art: In order to hear its causes, the listener must bury his ears under it. In a typical Mobley solo there is no drama external to the developing line and very little sense of "profile"— the quality that enables one to read a musical discourse as it unfolds. Not that high-profile players — Rollins and Dexter Gordon, for example — are necessarily unsubtle ones. But to understand Mobley the listener does have to come to terms with complexities that seem designed to resist resolution.
First there is his tone. Always a bit lighter than that of most tenormen who worked in hard bop contexts, it was, when this album was made, a sound of feline obliqueness — as soft, at times, as Stan Getz's but blue-gray, like a perpetually impending rain cloud. Or to put it another way, Mobley, in his choice of timbres, resembles a visual artist who makes use of chalk or watercolor to create designs that cry out for an etching tool. Harmonically and rhythmically, he could also seem at odds with himself. For proof that Mobley has a superb ear, one need listen only to his solo here on "Tune Up."
Mobley glides through the changes with ease, creating a line that breathes when he wants it to, one that that is full of graceful yet asymmetrical shapes. And yet no matter how novel his harmonic choices were — at this time he surely was as adventurous as Coltrane — Mobley's music lacks the experimental fervor that would lead Coltrane into modality and beyond. Mobley's decisions were always ad hoc, and from solo to solo, or even within a chorus, he could shift from the daring to the sober. What will serve at the moment is the hallmark of his style; and thus, though he is always himself, he has in the normal sense hardly any style at all.
Even more paradoxical is Mobley's sense of rhythm. His melodies float across bar lines with a freedom that recalls Lester Young and Charlie Parker, and he accents on weak beats so often (creating the effect known in verse as the "feminine ending") that his solos seem at first to have been devised so as to baffle even their maker. That's not the case, of course, but even though he has all the skills of a great improviser, Mobley simply refuses to perform the final act of integration; he will not sum up his harmonic, rhythmic, and timbral virtues and allow any one element to dominate for long. In that sense he is literally a pioneer, a man whose innate restlessness never permits him to plant a flag and say, "Here I stand." Thus, to speak of a mature or immature Hank Mobley would be inappropriate. Once certain technical problems were worked out — say, by 1955 — he was capable of producing striking music on any given day. New depths were discovered in the 1960s and the triumphs came more frequently; but in late 1957, when Poppin' was recorded, he was as likely as ever to be on form.
Much depended on his surroundings, and the band he works with here has some special virtues. The rhythm section is one of the great hard bop trios, possessing secrets of swing that now seem beyond recall. Philly Joe Jones and Paul Chambers, partners, of course, in the Miles Davis Quintet, shared a unique conception of where "one" is — just a hair behind the beat but rigidly so, with the result that the time has a stiff-legged, compulsive quality. The beat doesn't flow but jerks forward in a series of spasmodic leaps, creating a climate of nervous intensity that was peculiar to the era. Either the soloist jumps or he is fried to a crisp on the spot. As a leavening element there was Sonny Clark — equally intense but more generous and forgiving in his patterns of accompaniment. Clark leads the soloists with a grace that recalls Count Basie, and his own lines, with their heartbreakingly pure lyricism, make him the hard bop equivalent of Duke Jordan.
The ensemble sound of the band, a relatively uncommon collection of timbres heard elsewhere on Coltrane's and Johnny Griffin's first dates under their own names, gives the album a distinctive, ominous flavor; but this is essentially a blowing date. Art Farmer, for my taste, never played as well as he did during this period, perhaps because the hard bop style was at war with his pervasive sense of neatness. Possessing a musical mind of dandiacal suavity, Farmer at times sounded too nice to be true. But this rhythm section puts an edge on his style (as it did a few months later on Clark's Cool Struttin'), and I know of no more satisfying Farmer solo than the one preserved here on "Getting Into Something," where he teases motifs with a wit that almost turns nasty.
Adams's problem has always been how to give his lines some sense of overall design, and too often the weight of his huge tone hurtles him forward faster than he can think. But when the changes and the tempo lie right for him, Adams can put it all together; and here he does so twice, finding a stomping groove on "Getting Into Something" and bringing off an exhilarating doubletime passage on "East of Brooklyn."
As for the leader, rather than describing each of his solos, it might be useful to focus first on a small unit and then on a larger one. On the title track, Mobley's second eight-bar exchange with Jones is one of the tenorman's perfect microcosms, an example of how prodigal his inventiveness could be. A remarkable series of ideas, mostly rhythmic ones, are produced (one might almost say squandered) in approximately nine seconds. Both the relation of his accented notes to the beat and the overall pattern they form are dazzlingly oblique, and the final, whiplike descent is typically paradoxical, the tone becoming softer and more dusty as the rhythmic content increases in urgency. In effect we are hearing a soloist and a rhythm player exchange roles, as Mobley turns his tenor saxophone into a drum.
On "East of Brooklyn" Mobley gives us one of his macrocosms, a masterpiece of lyrical construction that stands alongside the solo he played on "Nica's Dream" with the Jazz Messengers in 1956. "East of Brooklyn" is a Latin-tinged variant on "Softly as in a Morning Sunrise," supported by Clark's "Night in Tunisia" vamp. Mobley's solo is a single, sweeping gesture, with each chorus linked surely to the next as though, with his final goal in view, he can proceed toward it in large, steady strides. And yet even here, as Mobley moves into a realm of freedom any musician would envy, one can feel the pressure of fate at his heels, the pathos of solved problems, and the force that compels him to abandon this newly cleared ground.
In other words, to "appreciate" Hank Mobley, to look at him from a fixed position, may be an impossible task. He makes sense only when one is prepared to move with him, when one learns to share his restlessness and feel its necessity. Or, as composer Stefan Wolpe once said, "Don't get backed too much into a reality that has fashioned your senses with too many realistic claims. When art promises you this sort of reliability, drop it. It is good to know how not to know how much one is knowing."
“Nobody does what Woody does as well as he does. If we could only figure out what it is he does . . .” - Phil Wilson, trombonist, Jazz educator
Woody Herman's main influence on jazz was felt through the effects of the First Herd, the Second Herd and the band of the middle sixties. It is on these bands that I have allowed the emphasis of this book to fall. - Steve Voce, Jazz author, columnist and broadcaster
STEVE VOCE began writing about jazz in the Melody Maker during the 1950s and it was also at that time [1956] that he became a regular jazz broadcaster for the BBC. He presented his own weekly radio programme, “Jazz Panorama,” for 37 years.
He’s been writing a Jazz Journal column for almost 60 years.
Here’s the fourth chapter of Steve’s insightful and illuminating work on the most influential bands of Woody Herman’s illustrious career.
Chapter Four
“The First Herd, on two weeks' notice in December I946, was at the close one of the highest paid bands there had been. Herman, always an intelligent and perceptive man, knew that the band had reached the top and that it couldn't better itself. He had recently bought the beautiful Hollywood home that had belonged to Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall, and he wanted to spend more time with Charlotte and his daughter Ingrid (Woody and Ingrid still live in the same house). He walked away from the band business and had his longest holiday from band leading. It lasted seven months.
But he didn't stop working because he recorded as a vocalist with studio groups and worked on a radio series with Peggy Lee and her husband Dave Harbour's orchestra called 'The Electric Hour'.
An old friend of Woody's, Al Jarvis, had a local radio station and he suggested that Woody should present a two or three hour disc jockey show each Saturday morning, mainly with the idea of giving him something to do. The programme was totally informal and unscripted. Woody just went on the air and started talking. When the word got round friends from all over Hollywood began turning up, and Woody brought them onto the air, so that in addition to Woody there were many high powered guests of the calibre of Johnny Mercer. Where other stations struggled to get such eminent attractions, the 'eminent attractions' used to turn up for Woody without even being invited. Herman was having a ball, but it was too good to last, and there was much resentment amongst other California disc jockeys that a musician should trample so heavily in their preserve. One result was the formation of the first disc jockeys' union. Another, the clincher, was that a couple of the more outraged stations refused to play any of Woody's records; so he thanked AI and left.
Woody had worked all his life and now, with his beautiful new home to enjoy, he was able to spend his time lying around in the sun. He didn't like it at all.
High taxes on bands and the advent of television were two powerful items that caused the mayhem of December 1946. Although most of the bands returned in one shape or another, it had to be faced that big band music was no longer the nation's pop music and the hysteria and 'star' status had gone forever. Woody's next band, the Second Herd, was to be his most musical to date. Its appeal was to be much more cerebral than that of the earlier band. The listening public wasn't ready for the bebop derived sounds, and while he has no regrets because in terms of jazz history the Second Herd was vitally important, the heady days of financial success with the First Herd were not to be repeated. 'I must be candid and honest by saying that I lost a barrel of money with that 1948-9 band,’ said Woody.
The story goes that Woody heard a superb performance by the black trumpeter Ernie Royal, and wanted to hire him and then remembered he hadn't got a band to put him in. Whatever the reason, the band bug had got Woody once more, and by the middle of 1947 he was itching to go again. There was a band working in the Spanish section of Los Angeles that was led by a trumpeter called Tommy di Carlo and it had an unusual line up of trumpet, four tenors and rhythm. It used arrangements by the extraordinarily talented Gene Roland and saxophonist Jimmy Giuffre. Woody decided to hire three of the tenors and to commission Giuffre to create some arrangements for his new band. The three men he hired were Stan Getz, Zoot Sims, and Herbie Steward, the latter being a particular asset in that he doubled alto and tenor saxes. It remains unclear why Woody didn't ask Roland to write for him, Gene was later to produce some of the best composition ever done for the Stan Kenton band. Getz, Sims and Steward were all primarily motivated by the playing of Lester Young, and they had drenched the Young sound in the improvisational methods of Parker and Gillespie. Getz and Sims particularly were themselves to become jazz influences, and it has been argued that some of the later incumbents of Woody's tenor chairs, men like Richie Kamuca, Bill Perkins, Jerry Coker and Dick Hafer, were in fact influenced by Parker and Young only through what they heard in the distilled version of the Parker/Young styles in the playing of Getz and Sims.
Most of the men in the new band were young, but there were some familiar faces. Shorty Rogers had left the First Herd to fulfil the dream he and his wife had of living in California. They bought a little house in Burbank. 'Nothing was happening. I literally couldn't even pick the 'phone up and call anyone. I didn't know anyone to call! Eventually I got a little work with a band led by Butch Stone that had Stan Getz and Herbie Steward in it, and as soon as they let me know that Woody was re-forming, I was back!' Section mate Marky Markowitz returned with Shorty as did lead alto Sam Marowitz. Don Lamond came back and Walt Yoder, who went back as far as Woody's days with Isham Jones, came in on bass. Another bass player from the Band That Plays The Blues who had replaced Yoder in 1943, Gene Sargent, joined to play guitar. Ralph Burns returned as writer in chief, and the new men included the fine trombonist Earl Swope, pianist Fred Otis and a major new jazz voice, the baritone from Boston, Serge Chaloff. Chaloff had been with the bands of George Auld. Jimmy Dorsey and Boyd Raeburn. Originally influenced by Harry Carney, he was quicker than most of the youngsters to realise the significance of Charlie Parker's playing, and by the time the Second Herd got going, Chaloff had completed the absorption of Parker's style and its transfer to the baritone. He was undoubtedly one of the finest players of the instrument, and alas like a nucleus of men in the new band, he fell victim to heroin addiction.
The problem of drug addiction was a major one with this band. Nowadays the tragedy is a commonplace amongst young people the world over. Then it was less prevalent but unfortunately of high incidence amongst young modern jazz musicians. Herman, like Duke Ellington, was sympathetic as far as he could be, and uninvolved. If people could work in his band without their addiction influencing their performances, he was prepared to respect their private lives as just that. Fortunately most of those in the band who were addicts cured themselves completely later on, and went on to lead useful and happy lives. This is surely an example to give hope to others, but while drug addiction was dominant it made things almost impossible lor Woody.
In retrospect, Woody told Down Beat what it had been like. In 1950 he had cut down to a small group of reliable men. 'You can't imagine how good it feels to look at this group and find them all awake, to play a set and not have someone conk out in the middle of a chorus.’ Herman had chased 'connections’ out of jazz clubs across America, but, once there was a nucleus of addicts in the band, he had tremendous difficulties. 'They have to have company, and one in the band is enough to get it started. These guys are young, easily influenced. Once they're on it, there's not much you can do. There were some serious things Ralph Burns had written that I was very interested in. We tried rehearsing them but had to call if off. The guys would sit around and talk about them, but they just didn't have enough energy to play.'
On the lighter side. Serge Chaloff seems to have been a character. Terry Gibbs remembered him as the greatest liar in the world. 'He would fall asleep and his cigarettes would burn holes three feet long in hotel mattresses. But when the hotel manager confronted him with the burnt mattresses he would say "How dare you talk to me like that. I happen to be the Down Beat and Metronome poll winner. How dare you even suggest that I ..." Finally the manager would wind up on his hands and knees apologising.
Once Serge put a telephone book up against his hotel room door and decided to get in some target pistol practice. He shot through the book, or around the book, and into the door. So the manager accused him of this. Serge tried to lie his way out. He couldn't. The manager told him "You'll pay $24 for that door or you'll go to jail." When we left Serge insisted that, having paid for it, it was his door. I helped him to drag it down to the band bus!'
Never slow to take advantage of an asset, Woody let Chaloff take a good proportion of the band's solo space, and indeed his horn was featured more than any baritone has ever been featured with any big band outside Gerry Mulligan's.
But unfortunately, in behaviour characteristic of a heroin addict. Serge was instrumental in introducing some of the other men to his habit. Eventually, despite the brilliance of his jazz playing. Woody decided that Serge had to go. Since he came from Boston, Woody decided that he should leave when the band next visited the area. He told Serge in advance, and Serge was distraught since he depended on his income to finance his habit. The break was to be made at a famous dance hall near Boston, Nutter's On The Charles, a picturesque building backing onto the River Charles.
At the intermission on the fateful night Serge called Woody over to a window overlooking the river. 'Look out there. Woody. What do you see?' Herman peered through the window. 'A lot of water,' he said. 'Look more closely,’ said Serge. 'Well,' said Woody, 'there's some litter floating about.' 'That litter,' said Serge, 'is the band's baritone book. Now you can't fire me, because I'm the only person in the world that knows the book by heart.' It took Woody another six months before he was able to unload Charloff from his band.
The other main soloists were to be the tenors, mainly Getz and Sims, but later on most potently, Al Cohn, who also wrote some magnificent charts for the Herd. Cohn replaced Herbie Steward in January 1948. The three men, all with roots in Lester Young's style, had completely different ways of improvising. It is an understatement to say that Getz was able to create music of breathtaking beauty. He could swing, too, but not as convincingly as John Haley Sims. Both were by this time mature and inventive players of the first order, but because of this the greatness of Cohn's work has been overlooked. [Pianist] Lou Levy, who was to join some months later, in September, told the author 'Al was the biggest influence on me in that band. I'd never heard anyone play that way. He's really a gem, in fact I think you'll find that he's Stan Getz's favourite player. The band was so vital and clean and it had so much energy. And I've never heard a band sound as polished and yet so original.'
Shorty Rogers was the man who introduced the tune Four Brothers. 'Jimmy Giuffre had written it out and had it copied, but for some reason he couldn't go to the rehearsal so he gave it to me and I took it. That was the first time it was played.'
Four Brothers, written by Giuffre on the chords Jeepers Creepers and titled by Woody, was to become as much part of Herman lore as Woodchopper's Ball and has been a nightly feature ever since. With Petrillo's recording ban looming at the end of 1947, Woody rushed the new band into the recording studios, and during December, history was made again. Unfortunately, there was more trouble with inequality of the studios, and many of the sides the band made had to have echo added before they were acceptable. Four Brothers featured the four saxes including Herbie Steward (Cohn had not yet joined) along with a dash of Woody's clarinet. The solos were in the bop idiom and, apart from the freshness of the horns, the piece was notable for the brilliance of Lamond's drumming. He was to be every bit as important to this band as Tough had initially been to the First Herd; it is not only Buddy Rich who feels that Lamond has been the greatest big band drummer in jazz.
Other interesting tracks that December were Shorty's composition Keen And Peachy, a reworking of Fine And Dandy featuring the saxophones and trombonist Earl Swope, Cohn's fine arrangement of The Goof And I, and a splendid blues, l’ve Got News For You. Woody sang the amusing lyrics. Shorty wrote the arrangement and soloed, and the sax section played a transcription of Charlie Parker's alto solo from his version of Dark Shadows. This passage was the inspiration for reed man Med Flory to form his Supersax band in later years. News concluded with a typically powerful solo from Ernie Royal, very much the spark plug of the band in the way that Pete Candoli had been earlier.
Ralph Burns had written a final movement to Summer Sequence and
the band now recorded it as Early Autumn. It is a beautiful composition and alter Woody's alto there are eight sublime bars of Getz's tenor and a coda written for the saxes in Giuffre's Four Brothers style. Almost a year later to the day the band recorded the piece again for Capitol featuring vibist Terry Gibbs and an extended solo from Getz. Both versions are classic jazz performances.
Mary Ann McCall rejoined Woody on December 22. She was easily the most jazz orientated girl singer that he ever had. and good though her records are, it seems she was never able to record at her best. Happily many of the broadcasts made by the Second Herd survive, and she is better represented on these. She was a warm singer and her style was very popular with the musicians in the band. Cohn and guitarist Jimmy Raney joined in January, and again we have to go to the broadcasts to hear how effective Al's tenor was, because he doesn't solo on any of the studio recordings — there can never have been another band with such a plethora of tenor soloists.
In early February the band began a residence at the Hollywood Palladium that was crucial to its career. It made almost nightly broadcasts, and this was vital, since it was going to be the end of the year before it would record officially. Many of the broadcasts survive in varying sound quality and they include most of the exciting repertoire.
May found the band working at the Capitol Theatre in New York with a new, or not so new trombonist, Bill Harris, and in July another member of the old firm came back, Chubby Jackson. In late 1947 Chubby had gone to Europe with a fine band that he called his Fifth Dimensional Jazz Group. Lou Levy was a member.
'I came into the Second Herd through the back door,' said Lou. 'Tiny Kahn was my great mentor, and he got me a job in Chubby's marvellous band. Chubby had used George Wallington, but George fell sick just before they were about to leave for Sweden. When Chubby came back he went with Woody, and a couple of months later he got me in, to replace Ralph Burns, who wasn't leaving but was concentrating on writing. That was the beginning of the whole ball of wax. I stayed with that band until it broke up.'
Jackson resumed his role of cheerleader and encourager of young musicians, and it was as if he had never been away. Coupled with Lamond and Harris, he made up a powerful influence in the hand.
When Jimmy Raney left in September, Woody decided to bring the vibraphone back into the line up, and the remarkable Terry Gibbs joined. Gibbs remains one of the hardest swinging players of the instrument, and his solos light up many of the broadcasts from the period. It is notable that the emphasis at this time was more heavily on the soloists than perhaps at any other time, and some of the performances were extended.
The apex of the band's achievement seems to have been during its residence at the Royal Roost Club in New York. This lasted for one month from October 24. On the opening night Dizzy Gillespie, Stan Kenton and most of the men from their bands were in the audience, and this seems to have given the Herd a momentum that lasted throughout the month. Certainly the extracts from radio broadcasts which survive from this month show the band at its best. They include such unique performances as an eight minute version of Shorty Rogers' Boomsie (later recorded as That's Right) that crowded in solos from Gibbs, Chaloff, Levy, Swope, Royal, Getz, Harris and Herman all on peak form. And Yucca, the only arrangement ever written by Zoot Sims (it took him six months to write).
This was a particularly good time for Man Ann McCall. Until now her best recorded performance had been Wrap Your Troubles In Dreams with the later First Herd, but now, with Woody giving her plenty to sing, she excelled herself. Her style had elements of Kay Starr's early jazz singing days, and also touches of Anita O'Day, but she phrased and attacked like an instrumentalist. She had vocal competition from a small group within the band which used Chubby Jackson and Shorty Rogers and Terry Gibbs to sing bebop scat on classics of culture like We The People Bop and Lemon Drop. Shorty Rogers, Stan Getz, Terry Gibbs and the rhythm section comprised the Pirates, a small group featured within the band, but one that also recorded with great success for the Prestige label.
The band made at least eleven full scale broadcasts from the Royal Roost, and as has been mentioned not the least important item was the fact that they included solos by Al Conn, not represented on the commercial issues. The fine trumpeter Red Rodney came into the band at the Roost as a replacement for Marky Markowitz. Don Lamond is also heard to tremendous effect here — of the opening night at the Roost Down Beat's Mike Levin wrote 'the standout attraction by far was the superlative drumming of ex-Washingtonian Don Lamond'.
Artistically triumphant, the Herd was not pulling big crowds and the booking fees it received were way down from the First Herd days. From the Roost it returned to Los Angeles to work at the Empire Room for Gene Norman. In an attempt to pull in a young audience a special part of the room was partitioned off as a no drink area, and each Saturday there was an hour when no drinks at all were served. It worked at first. The room held 600 people and on the first night 500 were turned away. Despite more broadcasts, business tailed off.
At the end of the year union boss James C. Petrillo lifted his ban on musicians making commercial recordings. Woody signed for Capitol and immediately began recording for them. Again the tide was taken at the flood and the on form Herd recorded That's Right, a variation on I've Found A New Baby called Keeper Of The Flame, Lemon Drop and the successful reworking of Early Autumn to feature Getz and Gibbs. Mary Ann sang Duke's I Got It Bad, and Woody sang Shorty's I Ain't Gonna Wait Too Long with solos from Bill Harris and Ernie Royal. Getz's sensual playing on Early Autumn was a triumphant success and earned him the nickname 'The Sound.’
In January 1949 Chubby Jackson, recently married, decided to quit the road, and his eventual replacement was the stormy and talented Oscar Pettiford, one of the most gifted bassists and writers jazz music has produced. Zoot Sims left to join Buddy Rich's band and Woody took Jmmy Giuffre from the Jimmy Dorsey band, so that Giuffre finally was able to play his own composition, Four Brothers.
During the year Woody played a number of concerts with Nat Cole and the series was very successful. In February - the package appeared at Carnegie Hall, and predictably the sense of occasion generated by the First Herd's appearance there was not recaptured. A couple of days later the band made its first television appearance in the unlikely setting of the Eddie Condon Show. 'We're boppin' ourselves silly tonight!' was Condon's comment.
A crucial blow came in March when Lamond left to join Harry James. The replacements, first Shadow Wilson and then Shelly Manne, were good, but unable to take over from Lamond in the way he had done from Tough. Then in April Stan Getz and Al Cohn finally left with their chairs being given to Gene Ammons and Buddy Savitt. Ammons, son of the famous pianist, was already well known as an aggressive hard blowing soloist, but he adopted the established role with Woody, and played with a smoothness that surprised everybody. His most notable features with the band were on More Moon and Not Really The Blues done lor Capitol. Savitt took on the difficult job of featured tenor in Early Autumn, and the two worked a duet spot into Lemon Drop with Savtt's Wardell Gray-inspired playing a good foil for the bustling Ammons. The band was still reworking First Herd hits like Apple Honey and Wild Root to good effect, but new material like Johnny Mandel's arrangement of Not Really The Blues, a sixteen bar stomper was also coming into the book (this one was a favourite of the band's if Woody had left the stand, and on such occasions it would rampage for many minutes).
Joe Mondragon came in as a replacement for Oscar Pettiford in July. Oscar had broken his arm in a game of softball. Joe, who had replaced Chubby in the First Herd, did not stay long and was in turn replaced by Mert Oliver. Ernie Royal, a key figure in the band, decided to leave to form his own group and in September a stern economic situation forced Woody to ask the band to take a cut in salary. Terry Gibbs refused to accept this and left. Incredibly Woody was able to replace him with Milt Jackson for less money. At the same time Gene Ammons went and Billy Mitchell, later to make a name with Gillespie and Basie, took over, but in turn was soon superseded by Don Lanphere, a brilliant creative jazz soloist who had recorded some classic sides with trumpeter Fats Navarro. The band returned to Carnegie Hall with Nat Cole in November and then moved to the Paramount Theatre. Unfortunately at this period, its closing moments, it did not record, and consequently we have no record of how Jackson and Mitchell sounded within its ranks.
Despite the fact that 14 appearances with Nat Cole had made, a profit of about $77,000, the tremendous costs of running the band began to drag it down and it played its last engagement in the Municipal Auditorium of Oklahoma City on 4 December. Woody estimated that over its two year life he lost $180,000.
Artistically extremely successful, the sound that the Second Herd evolved was to remain an ingredient in each of Woody's bands that followed. Ironically, after it folded. Down Beat announced that it had been chosen as the best band in the magazine's Readers' Poll. The Herd had been given 1,042 votes. Duke Ellington was second with 301 and Charlie Barnet third with 249.
On 6 December Woody opened at the Tropicana in Havana with a small group which included Bill Harris, Milt Jackson, Ralph Burns, Red Mitchell and Shelly Manne. They played there for four weeks and then returned home.
Considering the comparatively small number of titles recorded for Capitol, it is fortunate that so many broadcasts by the Second Herd survived to appear on record. Apart from the- Royal Roost airchecks, there are fine collection from the band's stay at the Hollywood Palladium in February and March 1948 and from various broadcasts from the Empire Room, New York's Commodore Hotel and from the Marine Ballroom in Atlantic City.”
For me the music of France always seemed to reside most deeply in two souls: Edith Piaf and Charles Aznavour.
Those voices accompanied by the sound of the bandoneon form an instant audio-visual impression of all things French in my mind's eye whenever I hear them.
Charles Aznavour died on October 1, 2018 and we wanted to remember one of the greatest lyrical improvisors the world has ever known on these pages with this brief tribute.
“For a small guy, Charles Aznavour liked his stage to be big. Really big.
He would slip through the curtains at the back and slide into the spotlight, left hand in his pocket, ready to face his audience head-on. Wearing a black roll neck or a skinny tie, he projected an almost jaunty insouciance with his little crooked smile. But his fans knew he was a survivor, someone who got knocked down a lot but always rose again-someone a lot like them. As he lifted the microphone, his face showed a defiant chin, a circumflex of dark eyebrows, closed eyes. For a moment their lids were as white and as curved as a beach in Cuba (one of the many countries that broadcast hours of his music in the days after he died). His dark eyelashes fluttered like palm trees. And then came that voice, crashing on to the heart's shore.
Hier encore, j'avais vingt ans...
Yesterday when I was young The taste of life was sweet like rain upon my
tongue,
I teased at life as if it were a foolish game
The way an evening breeze would tease a
candle flame
He was born Shahnour Vaghinag Aznavourian near the Latin Quarter in Paris in 1924, and christened "Charles" by a French nurse who could not pronounce his name. His Armenian parents had taken refuge there while they waited for visas to America. Meanwhile, his father took over a restaurant that featured live music and offered free food to the less well-off.
When the business inevitably went bust his mother took in work as a seamstress. But it was singing and performing for other emigre's that consumed the family. Both parents had been trained in the theatre. He made his inadvertent stage debut at three when he wandered in from the wings towards the lights.
At the age of nine he heard Maurice Chevalier sing Donnez-moi la main mam'zelle el ne dites hen ("Give me your hand, miss, and say nothing"). And so he set his young heart on being a singer. But first he took acting classes at l’Ecole des Enfants du Spectacle, known as the College Rognoni after the elderly member of the Comédie-Française who had founded it the year that Mr Aznavour was born.
His school years, already rickety as he tried to combine homework with touring in provincial theatres, came to an end with the start of the second world war when he was 15. He learned to smoke cigarettes backstage, all the better to fit into life in the theatre. And after the fall of France in 1940, as he later told the Paris Review, he grew adept at selling occupying German soldiers black-market lingerie and chocolate as well as bicycles abandoned at railway stations by fleeing Parisians.
After the war it was Edith Piaf who encouraged him to write songs, and included several of his works in her concert repertoire. Soon he began touring himself. Inevitably, given the age, he also tried the cinema. He worked with some of the great directors, among them Francois Truffaut in Tirez sur le pianiste ("Shoot the Piano Player"). But acting was never his thing. What really brought him to life was songs and songwriting.
Troubadour is a French word. In the high Middle Ages, travelling singer-poets wrote of chivalry and courtly love. He was the 20th-century version-a troubadour of transience, a poet of impermanence. Like many people born in Europe between the mid-1920s and the mid-1930s, he learned at far too tender an age that the difference between being OK and not OK, between safety and death, between peace and war, is mostly wafer thin. Piaf, who persuaded him to have a nose job and then told him she preferred him as he had been before, famously regretted nothing. He regretted plenty. You could hear it in his words. "My shortcomings are my voice, my height (he measured just five foot three inches, 1.6 metres), my gestures, my lack of education, my frankness and my lack of personality,"
His lyrics, written for more than 1,000 songs that sold well over loom albums, told an even more plaintive story of longing and loss. In Reste ("Stay"), he implores a lover, "satiated, breathless, languid, dizzy", to stay a while, their limbs entwined, in the warmth of the night. "I lost, and so I drank", he explains in J'ai bu. "You never understood that I was lost, and so I drank." Always that regret, that sense of loss of friends and lovers of the past, and even, as he sang fondly in Mes emmerdes, of "my troubles".
Bob Dylan admired him ("I saw him in 60-something at Carnegie Hall, and he just blew my brains out," he said in 1987), but many Americans never really took to the French crooner, perhaps because his lyrics were so execrably translated or perhaps because they regarded his songs as schmaltzy rather than soulful.
But the French, the Armenians (for whom he sang and raised money after a deadly earthquake in 1988), the Cubans and the French-speaking north Africans never stopped loving the little guy, the cfitmteur who recalled their fleeting youth, their lost selves. He would have smiled his little crooked smile had he heard that at a service of national homage, attended by three French presidents, Emmanuel Macron stood by the flag-draped coffin placed in front of Napoleon's tomb at Les Invalides, compared his literary gifts to those of Guillaume Apollinaire and declared: "In France, poets never die."”
