The Forgotten Ones - Leo Parker by Gordon Jack

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

Gordon Jack is a frequent contributor to the Jazz Journal and a very generous friend in allowing JazzProfiles to re-publish his insightful and discerning writings on various topics about Jazz and its makers.

Gordon is the author of Fifties Jazz Talk An Oral Retrospective and he also developed the Gerry Mulligan discography in Raymond Horricks’ book Gerry Mulligan’s Ark.

The following article was published in the November, 2015 edition of Jazz Journal. 

For more information and subscriptions please visit www.jazzjournal.co.uk

© -Gordon Jack/JazzJournal, copyright protected; all rights reserved; used with the author’s permission.

"Just like Cecil Payne, Sahib Shihab, Gary Smulyan and many others Leo Parker began on the alto saxophone before eventually switching to the baritone which became his instrument of choice. Born on the 18th. April 1925 in Washington D.C. he studied the alto in high-school and Sonny Stitt remembered him playing at local sessions there with Roger ‘Buck’ Hill and Leo Williams.

By 1944 he was living in New York and sitting-in at Minton’s with among others Eddie ‘Lockjaw’ Davis, Dizzy Gillespie, Thelonious Monk and Max Roach. It was because of his appearances at the club that he was invited to take part in what is considered to be the first bebop recording date on the 16th. February 1944 for the Apollo label. Coleman Hawkins was the leader and he was keen to record with some of the younger musicians like Gillespie, Roach, Don Byas and Oscar Pettiford. He told Budd Johnson who played baritone on the date and was responsible for some of the arrangements, “I want to see what these cats are doing. What better way to do it than to get them together on a record date?” A twelve-piece group recorded three titles including the premier of Woody’n You and six days later they did Disorder At The Border, Feeling Zero and Rainbow Mist. The latter was Hawkins’s fresh look at Body And Soul and although Parker does not solo on either session, his presence reveals how highly he was rated by his peers.

Later that year he joined the trail-blazing Billy Eckstine band eventually sitting in a section with Sonny Stitt, John Jackson and Dexter Gordon who were known as “The Unholy Four” possibly because of their extra-musical activities. Jackson is a somewhat obscure figure now but he was a well-respected lead alto man at the time. Gordon told Ira Gitler in Jazz Masters Of The ‘40s, “The band was a little rough. I thought the reed section was the best - the most cohesive and the most together.” Initially Leo played second alto (Charlie Parker – no relation - was very briefly there on lead) but when Rudy Rutherford left, Eckstine bought him a baritone and persuaded him to make the switch.

He left the Eckstine band in 1946 and in March of that year he worked at the Spotlite club first with Benny Carter and then with Dizzy Gillespie. Dizzy’s group (Milt Jackson, Al Haig, Ray Brown and Stan Levey) had been appearing in Los Angeles with Charlie Parker. On their return to New York, Charlie had stayed on the west coast so Leo was selected to take his place on baritone. In an interview for JJ (September 1999) Stan Levey told me, “Leo was a very good player. He got all over the horn and had all of Bird’s licks down but he died much too young”.

His first recorded baritone solo took place two months later on a Sarah Vaughan date with a string section and a small group featuring Bud Powell, Freddie Webster and Kenny Clarke. Tadd Dameron did the arrangements which included his classic If You Could See Me Now and Leo is heard on My Kinda Love. In January 1947 he recorded four sides with Fats Navarro for Savoy where he proved to be a fluent and mature soloist with a big sound that owed something to Harry Carney and a conception that owed everything to Charlie Parker. Indeed, in a Metronome interview that year with Barry Ulanov he said, “I learned to blow from Charlie Parker”. One of the titles –Ice Freezes Red – was dedicated to “Ice” – an ardent Eckstine fan and “Red” - Eckstine’s valet. It is a Navarro original based on Indiana, notable for a Bebop quote from Parker.

1947 was the year he joined Illinois Jacquet who had just signed an exclusive recording contract with RCA. The Jacquet group who appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show in 1948 was one of the most popular in the country. He remained with the band off and on until 1954 and Illinois was once asked if his approach had influenced Parker’s playing, “Yes, I think so but remember that Leo was one of the leaders of the bop school so he had that thing going too.”  The tenor-man also claimed that Leo was one of his favourite soloists – “He had big ears. You couldn’t play anything that would get past him”. Joe Newman who was in the band was similarly impressed, “Leo Parker was undoubtedly the best baritone player I had heard at that time. He didn’t sound like a baritone. He played it like a tenor more or less and he had such fire in him whatever he played. Plus he played good ballads.” Leo had numerous solos with the band – Jumpin’ At The Woodside, Music Hall Beat, Diggin’ The Count, Embryo, Mutton Leg, Symphony In Sid, For Truly, Saph and Jivin’ With Jack The Bellboy. The latter recorded in January 1947 included Miles Davis who had just left Billy Eckstine. He was in the section but does not solo.

Three months after Bellboy was recorded Parker was booked into Smalls Paradise in Harlem for a “Battle of the Baritone Sax” with Serge Chaloff who was working with Georgie Auld at the time. Miles and Hal Singer were on the bill and the rhythm section included Jimmy Butts and Art Blakey. There is a mystery concerning the pianist whose name on the flyer was Earnie Washington aka “The Mad Genius of the Piano”. There has been speculation over the years that Earnie Washington might have been a pseudonym for Thelonious Monk, or more lightly it was just a typo for Ernie Washington who was active in New York jazz circles in the ‘40s and often played at Smalls.

In 2013 Uptown Records released a previously unknown 1947 Toronto concert by the Jacquet band. The enthusiastic audience can be heard responding to the JATP-style excitement generated by the ensemble and although Parker is given equal billing with the leader he only solos on Music Hall Beat, Lady Be Good, Bottoms Up and Mutton Leg. Illinois’s brother Russell has an effective vocal on a slow, down-home blues – Throw It Out Of Your Mind Baby - the burlesque tempo being a perfect setting for his Jimmy Rushing-style delivery. Russell later worked with Ike and Tina Turner. The dynamic, hard swinging Illinois approach with its rich mixture of bebop and R&B was an ideal environment for Parker. It allowed him to indulge in one of his favourite devices of repeatedly accenting the tonic in the lower register. Dexter Gordon who was Parker’s roommate when they were with Billy Eckstine once said, “Leo could play – lots of bottoms”. This occasionally led to him being dismissed by some critics as merely a crowd-pleasing R&B-style honker.

For most of 1947 Parker was busy in the studios whenever Jacquet was on the road with JATP.  His recording of Mad Lad with Sir Charles Thompson in the late summer helped raise his profile sufficiently for him to start working with his own groups around town. It became his nickname and his inspired performance was something of a hit. In October while working with Gene Ammons in Chicago they recorded four titles for the Aladdin label with Junior Mance who was making his recording debut. His first date as a leader later that month was for Savoy with Ammons again together with Howard McGhee. In December he was featured with Dexter Gordon on the famous Settin’ The Pace Parts 1 & 2, an up-tempo riff based on I Got Rhythm. Leo successfully stands toe to toe with Gordon in the sort of duel the tenor-man had made all his own with both Wardell Gray and Teddy Edwards. Two weeks later a session with Joe Newman, J.J. Johnson and Gordon included Solitude which revealed a tender more lyrical side of his musicality not always apparent when on-stage with Jacquet’s high-energy organization.

After 1948 his career was frequently interrupted by the personal problems that were so common among musicians of his generation.  A 1957 Nat Hentoff survey of 409 NYC jazz musicians found that 16% were regular heroin users and over half smoked marijuana. He continued working intermittently around NYC, Washington and Chicago and in 1953 his booking office – Universal Attractions – placed the following item in Down Beat’s Band Directory: “Leo Parker, after a short recent stint with Gene Ammons is now out on his own with a six-piece group playing many R&B locations, one-niters and some clubs.  Band is gutty, frenetic and features Oscar Pettiford’s brother Ira on bass and trumpet”.

The following year he recorded with Bill Jennings who had worked extensively with Louis Jordan but nothing else is known of his activities for the remainder of the ‘50s. His friend pianist John Malachi who had worked with him in the Eckstine band said that he carried on playing possibly in some R&B venues, but he was certainly not forgotten by his fellow performers. In 1956 Leonard Feather interviewed several leading musicians for his Encyclopaedia Yearbook of Jazz asking them to nominate their favourite instrumentalists.  Erroll Garner, Bud Powell and Lester Young all listed Parker on baritone.  He was hospitalised with lung problems for a while and he may have toured Europe with Ray Charles around 1960 but I have been unable to confirm this.

He managed to get his career back on track thanks to Ike Quebec who arranged for him to make two Blue Note albums in 1961 which find him in top form.  Let Me Tell You ‘Bout It (by Robert Lewis) and Low Brown (by Yusef Salim) reflect a sixties soul-influence without laying it on too thick but a highlight is TCTB aka Taking Care Of  The Business. A theme-less up-tempo romp on Sweet Georgia Brown it has Leo and tenor-man Bill Swindell storming through a series of exciting choruses in the free-wheeling manner of his 1947 date with Dexter Gordon.

He started getting brief club engagements again and things seemed to be improving for him. However on the 11th. February 1962 after arranging a further recording session with Blue Note he returned to his hotel where he suffered a heart attack and died while running a bath."

SELECTED DISCOGRAPHY

As Leader

Leo Parker 1947-1950 (Classics 1203)

Legendary Bop, Rhythm & Blues Classics (Essential Media 94231 33512)

Rollin’ With Leo (Blue Note 50999 2 65140 2 4)

Let Me Tell You ‘Bout It (Blue Note 0946 3 11491 2 2)

The Last Sessions (Phono 870337)

As Sideman

Sir Charles Thompson (Delmark CD DD-450)

Illinois Jacquet: Toronto 1947 (Uptown UPCD 27.73)

Dexter Gordon: 1947-1952 (Classics 1295)

Bill Jennings: Architect Of Soul Jazz (Fresh Sound FSR-CD 816)

Road Song - by Chris Bacas

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

Chris Bacas is a saxophonist, flutist and writer living in Brooklyn, NY. He is featured on more than 60 recordings, including 3 as leader/co-leader. He's a longtime member of Stefan Bauer's Bauer's Voyage and MJ12. In the 1980's he toured and recorded with Buddy Rich, Artie Shaw and Tommy Dorsey (Buddy Morrow). 

This post is his maiden voyage on the blog and we sincerely hope that it will be the first of many visits as a guest writer.

His “Road Song” piece is one of the best behind-the-scenes portrayals of the reality of going on the road with a big band that I’ve ever read.

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

“I took a road gig the spring of 1986, I was 25 and coming off a year of one-nighters.  The band leader was a legend; a supreme virtuoso who wrote his own ticket in the business. Though his genius was indisputable, he was known to musicians for his deliriously profane tirades. Many colleagues and friends played hissy cassettes of my new bosses' best tantrums for me as preparation. I joined the band in New York along with 5 new recruits. We met at Carroll studios, hosts of big bands for more than 50 years.

Minus the leader, we rehearsed a new suite, arranged by a long time collaborator. The composed sections amounted to more than 10 minutes. The theme came from a 1950's Hollywood film, transformed into Dixieland, waltz, blazing uptempo swing, and a soaring ballad. Making witty references to previous set pieces and opening into a dramatic solo and all out ending. Its arranger, hovering, tracked our fitful progress, while the leader sat silently in a captain's chair, sunglasses and scowl. A numbing and exhilarating full day of rehearsal showed my new colleagues' skills and the weariness of road life. After the music portion, the boss addressed us directly-laying out his rules( on the bandstand, I own you) and peccadillos (no beer bottles, no slamming the bus door, no onions). The next morning, we drove to Jilly's in Dayton for my first gig. At a brief rehearsal, arranger in tow, the leader unceremoniously reduced the new chart to theme, extended solo and final chord. The next night, its author on his way home, the piece failed to make our set list and was never mentioned again.

The grind began immediately. The boss favored hit-and-runs, making miles by night, our driving formula-one fast and roads clear. The schedule provided a means of control; our work and travel blurred together, diurnal cycles sputtered and reversed. All available energy gets focused on the bandstand. I evolved a way of dealing with the brutal, nocturnal life. If we left early, I rose a few hours before, started a meal on my hot plate, exercised, showered, carefully packed my food and boarded fresh, eating my breakfast and napping as the day wore on. Night drives threatened to turn me into a vampire, but I slept when I could. On arrival, I scoured the yellow pages for shopping options and my overhead resembled a pantry. None of this endeared me to my band mates. They were pleasant to me and though we had friends in common, I remained on the periphery.  I also didn't share their enthusiasm for all-night revelry.

My section leader, a year or two older than me and a grizzled veteran of this outfit, showed great concern for my acclimation and coached me paternally. Able to translate the leader's shouts and growls, we depended on him for our spontaneously chosen program. To me, He relayed dire warnings from the leader about my progress. Occasionally, while we steamed through a piece, his hand darted to my page, pointing out nothing I could discern. When pleased, he encouraged me with openhanded slaps on my thigh. My chair, recently vacated by a long-time and beloved player, had seen a quick succession of occupants, none lasting much more than the requisite two-weeks. The biggest change in personnel, though, was the bass chair; a tough position musically and personally as interaction with the boss was uninterrupted and often harrowing. All the new guys saw job security hanging on the thinnest of threads. After all, we knew by heart the same sibilant bootleg rantings.

When we set up for a week-long run at the shabbily magnificent Fairmont in New Orleans, I began to see how far from my mates I was. We accompanied a female singer, iconic for her improvisational talent, beauty, and unrepentant opiate use. In the bar after a set, eyeing us up, she radiated robust sexuality at nearly 70 years. Unable to digest the combination of advanced age and female lust, the cats crept to the exit and headed upstairs for fellowship. All around me, madness swirled. The band's pianist, its most brilliant and charismatic player, was a heroin addict. Each of us, at close quarters, had to confront our boredom, insecurity and yearnings through the prism of his syringes. Our hero carried a fishing tackle box packed with potent drugs of every type and received "packages" at our lodgings. Surrounded by books, music, yoga, and my hot plate, I was nourished in all ways. The opportunity to ingratiate myself with them, reached me too late. Peripherally aware that my colleagues gathered around the tackle box after work,  I kept my head down and asked no questions. Our leader, a child star schooled in vaudeville and deified in the swing era, was laissez-faire on substances or behavior of any kind. As long as you walked on stage ready, willing and able to play, your personal life was your business. Addiction is not easy to hide when the bus travels two thousand miles per week. The one-nighters continued....

After an extraordinary night with Tony Bennett before a huge crowd at Blossom Music Center near Akron, we slept a few hours, flew to Texas and met our bus to play a giant new shopping mall in Amarillo. Under-publicized and culturally out of place, we attracted a small, politely curious afternoon audience, a bizarre and all too common juxtaposition for road bands. Luckily, our volatile leader was either sated or distracted. Chastened, we headed to LA for Memorial Day Weekend. The stark vistas of West Texas enervated us and by Albuquerque, we were starving and restless. Our star tenor man begged for a chicken stop and tried to gather a minion to bolster his case. We parked at a dim truck park with fast food joints beside I-40 and I watched the piano man head to a phone booth. While we lugged our takeout bags to the curb ("no fuckin' onions on my bus!" our leader commanded), the piano man climbed into the passenger side of a dark boat-like car. I lost track of him until we climbed back on the bus and drove off. In His seat across the aisle from me, he looked like a church choir director from the Midwest. He was quite rotund, with a fleshy face and side parted brown hair. Add large thick glasses, a chortling voice, and he was the least-likely junkie I'd ever known. He fixed in the back seat. The lead trumpet had to move across from me so the bathroom and back seat were available for cooking, shooting and nodding out. It was a multi-step process, usually repeated. We gave him plenty of space for privacy and thoroughness. The leader smugly offered a trifecta of VHS porn and the bus TV came to life with "Inside Seka". I watched, became bored, read, watched again and finally tried to sleep. The lead trumpet man, missing his triple wide back seat, found it Impossible to get comfortable. We all suggested he move back. He jerked his thumb toward the huge belly and flopped legs visible by the bathroom door. "He won't get up." I surfed my way through a sea of legs and glanced at the beached body. He lay peacefully asleep with thick folds of flesh bulging under his chin. I used the stinking, sloshing head and returned to my seat for fitful sleep.

As we roared past Flagstaff, it was clear something was wrong. The road manager, a grim but supremely intelligent man with a rich bass voice, went to inspect the back seat and its occupant. He walked front as legs and bodies rearranged. "He's dead" he said, followed by a string of rueful curses. My colleagues took turns peeking to confirm the diagnosis. The band leader stayed front. A stationary panic set in mixing grief, disbelief, judgement, fear, guilt and strangely, relief. At dawn, we pulled off in Kingman, AZ. It took three strapping orderlies to carry him. As they struggled to lift the body over our seats, His pants sagged under his butt crack and in the desert light, his face was darker than I remembered it. We spread out in stiff ER seats; a weary disheveled Eastern clan of road warriors. Tears fell as each recalled a personal epiphany with the departed predicting this day. Our leader had rare moments of gravitas talking with the staff until they asked him to fill out forms and needed his birth name, then he assumed his usual hauteur. The pay phone received a steady diet of quarters.  A young intern addressed us, gravely acknowledging the tragedy of losing such a gifted young man. The doctor assured us that his heart had stopped, likely because breathing was restricted and likely that due to excess fat around his throat (those thick folds I noticed!). They would perform an autopsy as required by state law.

Within an hour, we watched the parking lot fill with police cars, like those time-lapse shots where objects multiply exponentially and comically. The officers asked us all to step outside. Now, cold fear ran alongside our fatigue and sullen grief. The cops were deferential. The silence around us in the parking lot was crushing.  One told us in his best no nonsense voice: "just take your shit, and you know what I mean by shit, off the bus. We're looking for what killed your friend"

We filed through the door; all muffled voices and grunted syllables above the zipping and repacking. I didn't have any contraband to take, but went along reverently as if observing a rite,  sharing the anxiety of my mates in silence. After the last of us stepped off, the police went onboard. Through tinted windows and desert glare, we caught glimpses of action. Some of us narrated the search and joked about what they would find amid the musty suits, expensive horns and CD jewel cases.

I wasn't privy to negotiations with the police. I did learn that a lump of "black tar" heroin, known for potencies near 75%, fell from the departed's pants' pocket. We left Kingman, our course and circumstances legally and materially unchanged, except for the empty seat across from me. We rolled west in mental fog. I don't remember speaking to anyone on that leg of the trip. In a stage whisper, my section leader reported the sought after syringe was floating in the head. Darkness overtook the bus. We reached our hotel late at night, I fell into bed and watched TV.  My roommate, a precocious young trumpet player, plucked from his junior year at a prestigious conservatory, swore off drugs of any kind and rolled over to sleep for most the next day.

While the band paid the toll of the previous days, our somber road manager worked overtime to find an LA pianist for a Lake Tahoe run beginning in two days. The manager took note of my shopping, stretching and food prep. In the morning, When I arrived in the lobby, He introduced me to the pianist, hoping that my sunny lifestyle would keep the macabre events of the weekend from scaring off the new cat.

We hit it off immediately, helped by his friend , a second-generation jazz musician with a manic sense of humor. We ate well, listened to charanga music (my first time!), hung out with his wonderful family and enjoyed LA sunshine. Memorial Day, we headed to Tahoe, driving the night shift. The boss looked haunted and I heard him say he hadn't slept. That made 4 days  by my count. We arrived at sunrise, navigating switchbacks to see the lake swathed in mists and mountains flashing spring. Our lodgings were condos with kitchens and 4-6 individual bedrooms. At Harrah's casino, we shared a bill with Don Rickles, the premier "insult comedian". The Vegas with a western shirt vibe of Tahoe felt incongruous after the grim reaper, Hollywood and an arboreal night drive.

That night, a championship team after a devastating defeat, we were shaky. The boss began to roar. He fixed on the bass man. The bass parts were a dozen or more pages, duct taped together into long-jointed prostheses. Calling a tune and immediately counting off, the boss prevented him setting his pages. He then excoriated him with cascades of guttural curses. An up-tempo moved from sprint to accelerating free fall, our fingers falling behind and the bass playing machine gun chromatic loops. The set was all out war. Soon, The boss screamed and pointed offstage "Get out! Never darken my bandstand again!" The bass man unplugged and headed for the exit. After a few more tunes sans bass,  we finished with our usual closer, temporarily relieved by its long solo. There were no announcements.  The boss bolted for his dressing room raging. Stunned, We walked off and stood backstage. The boss emerged, red-faced, towel draped over his neck and bellowed "the man's gone, he's gone! You can't bring him back. You understand? Get over it!" The door slammed shut. Our funereal manager appeared and summoned the section leaders. Outside, expecting the worst, we waited. My section leader emerged and stepped toward me.  "He fired you. You just weren't  cutting the parts.  I'm sorry, man." He was conciliatory, but firm.

The taped rantings rehearsed this moment for me. The boss never directly dismissed me, though. I wasn't immortalized by a fusillade of abuse for future generations' edification. In total, four of the new hires were fired. I heard the term "cleaning house" used knowingly by the veterans. Self-pity and petty defiance followed for the rest of us. The next day, I hiked a ski trail into the woods. With sneakers, a cotton t-shirt, cut offs and no water or food, I was courting disaster. In that moment, the mountains brought me more peace than I had a right to. After walking around the summit, I headed back to the top of the steepest descent. I saw a pale skinned young hiker there, the first to cross my solitary path. We began to talk.  He was preternaturally serene and spoke expansively.  We surveyed the scree and fierce brush that funneled down the long trail. I admitted my fears of falling and cuts. He advised me to run full tilt, no holding back. With a lithe approach and small cry, he attacked the hill; arms windmilling and legs churning. I waited and joined uneasily. From the first steps, I was lashed by brush, pain knifing my calves. I watched him plunge ahead, accelerating and disappearing into the woods. Pain dogged me. I slowed to pick my way around the worst of the hillside. When I reached a level spot, he was waiting, magically, not even a scratch on his bare legs and amused at the blood splattering mine. He offered his place to clean up and have something to eat. In his Spartan apartment, I applied first aid and he brought snacks. When his girlfriend returned, greeting me with feline grace and little surprise, he followed her to the kitchen to confess taking that morning the hit of acid they'd been saving. Seeing their domestic situation and explanation for his unaffected poise on the mountain, I excused myself and returned to my real life in the condo.

On arrival, A colleague spilled the story: for weeks,  my section leader had been lobbying the long time occupant of my chair, asking him to return, using European festivals and a record date as incentives. He'd also been telling the boss I was failing in the section and getting lost. Now those mysterious hand gestures made sense, as did the constant second-hand warnings. The old timer agreed to return just after we left a corpse in Arizona. The timing was perfect. In Tahoe, exhausted and plagued by guilt, the boss agreed to the plan. Now my self-pity turned to anger.  The only viable plan was to approach the leader and ask for my job back.

In the meantime, I had gigs to play before my time was up. The manager, in rescue mode, found a substitute bass player in the wilds of Nevada. The guy was a refugee from LA, working little gigs and driving a vegetable truck to pay bills. He played upright bass and was double our age. Before the set, bass man was ecstatic to play and glad-handed us like a political candidate, disarming our Eastern cynicism. The boss, cleansed by his own Olympian anger, was jocular. On stage, the warmth of the big bass made the music feel more earthy and swinging. When the boss called a tune and went into his count off, the bass man, still wrestling his five-foot fossil of a part onto the stand shouted "Hey, give me a chance to get the music up, man!" while continuing to right his part. We sat stunned, waiting for the explosion. The boss turned, smiling. Drumming his fingers on the floor tom, he looked toward us "These fuckin' union cats" he shrugged. The set felt more fun than ever, now that some of us had nothing to lose. After the closer, the boss, drenched and spent, walked off with us. The bass man threw his arm around the boss' neck, pulled him close and gushed into his ear . "We did great, didn't we, old man?" The leader grimaced and walked on stoically.

The Tahoe run ended with new piano and bass players-young guys ready for the road. When the bus arrived to load up, I steeled myself and walked on alone to meet the boss. He sat relaxed in his mobile living room replete with entertainment center, food and drink, and shoe box full of joints. I asked only to know why I had been fired. He cut me off. There was something "going on around here", he told me. "It's my fucking band. I make the decisions. Nobody else. You understand that? Nobody!" I agreed. "The job is yours as long as you want it, kid". I thanked him, fifty pounds lighter. 

One step remained. Backstage at the theater we played that night, my section leader approached me smiling tightly. "I guess he changed his mind. Looks like..." I cut him off. "Don't ever say anything about my playing again. Don't say hello to me and don't fucking touch me again. If you ever say anything to me about the music, I'll punch you in the fucking face. I'll fucking kill you. Got it?" He said nothing. No apology. Nothing. We spoke occasionally after that, always cordially.

I played six more months with the band, including the boss' last gig. The boss passed less than a year after the piano man; his brutal wit often tempered by waves of adulation and surer knowledge of mortality.  His absolute mastery was and remains a divine visitation, truly "a god paring his nails". To see that magic every night was an incalculable privilege. At the time, I didn't know how I could deserve it. I did learn what it meant to earn it.”

Milt Jackson Sextet - Stella By Starlight

Be sure to stick around for Jimmy Heath's tenor sax solo which kicks in at 1:39 minutes.

Tribute to the Star Sprangled Banner

"Testimony" by HOJO - Howard Johnson and Gravity

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

Howard Johnson, Jazz tuba player extraordinaire, died on January 11, 2021 and we wanted to remember his passing with a re-posting of this feature of his Testimony CD. A track from the recording is featured at the end of this piece.

I must admit to not being a close follower of what Christopher Washburne labels Miscellaneous Instruments in Jazz in his chapter by the same name in Bill Kirchner, ed., The Oxford Companion to Jazz.

Don’t get me wrong, we’ve recently enjoyed listening to and reviewing on these pages CD’s by violinist Tanya Schaap and the group “Tango Extremo;” likewise recent efforts by harpist Carol Taylor and harmonica player Hendrik Meurkens.

But for the most part, unless someone brings artists who play instruments to our attention that are not part of the Jazz mainstream, their contributions to the music often escape our awareness.

I mean, mention tuba player Howard Johnson to me and I’m most likely to think of Christopher Washburne description of him as a player who is “...known for his extended range and virtuosic soloing ability … and heavy grooves. His solo on Gil Evans’ arrangement of Voodoo Chili on Gil Evans Plays Hendrix [RCA] demonstrates his remarkable range and accomplished soloing ability.”

Imagine my delight then when I received a preview disc from Jim Eigo at Jazz Promo Services in which he notes that I should make a “New Year’s Resolution: Check Out Testimony, The Exciting New Album From, Brass Master Howard Johnson.”

For your information, Howard Johnson And Gravity Testimony (Tuscarora Records Item number 17-001 ) has a street date of March 3, 2017.

More details about Howard and the background to both Gravity and the forthcoming CD Testimony can be found in the following insert notes by Elzy Kolb.

“By 2006, when the New York Times' critic Nate Chinen declared Howard Johnson "the figure most responsible for the tuba's current status as a full-fledged jazz voice," the life's work of the multi-instrumentalist had been in progress for more than four decades. At 75, Johnson (born Aug. 7, 1941) has been burning with the fire of bass-clef innovation since well before 1963, when he took an offhand remark from Eric Dolphy as a call to action to move to New York.

As a teen, Johnson had discovered that he could push the tuba's range to previously unheard heights, surpassing the trombone and edging into trumpet territory. He is no novelty act, occasionally blasting notes into the stratosphere to excite an audience; Johnson plays melody lines and solos fluidly and fluently, maintaining tonal integrity and feeling.

Though there was no existing repertoire in the early 1960s for his then-groundbreaking low-brass range, once in the Big Apple Johnson caught the ear — and piqued the imagination — of Charles Mingus. The iconic bassist/composer wrote such adventurous parts for him, that "even trombonists wouldn't welcome seeing those notes on the page," the multi-instrumentalist says. Johnson became the muse of other composers, including Gil Evans and Carla Bley, establishing relationships lasting decades. He always soared to the occasion, overjoyed by challenges.

Every post-Johnson tuba player has been measured by the standard he set. He believes the instrument is capable of a virtually unlimited sonic and emotional range, based on a player's abilities. By demonstrating his skills, Johnson single-handedly moved the instrument out of its traditional place in the rhythm sections of large ensembles into featured roles in small bands.

He influenced musicians by expanding their ideas of the possibilities of the instrument, and showed enormous generosity of spirit, mentoring tuba players, past, present and future. He influenced jazz (and pop) composers and arrangers by bringing a heretofore ignored instrument to the front line of soloists, and changed jazz overall by altering the direction of how jazz used the bass clef — no more oompah-pah, but pure linear bop, swing and rock phrasing that could stand on its own against any "typical" jazz solo instrument.

At a time when jazz-rock fusion was gaining traction, Johnson opened up the music without diluting the tradition, performing with an unwavering jazz sensibility as a founding member of the Saturday Night Live Band. His writing, arranging and playing captured the attention and imagination of pop culture icons such as John Lennon, Paul Simon, Levon Helm and Taj Mahal; Johnson has never dumbed it down, never resorted to spoon-feeding anyone "Jazz 101" level music. He has always been "The Real Thing," as Taj Mahal dubbed the 1971 album that debuted Johnson's innovative multi-tuba brass choir, Gravity.

To this day, Johnson declares that he still burns to play, still has fire in his belly to solo, to increase awareness of the versatility of often-underutilized horns, and to continue to have his say on the definitive way to play them.

This CD proves he's still more than up to the challenge. - Elzy Kolb”

Jim Eigo - www.jazzpromoservices.com - send along the following media release after which you’ll find a video montage set to Howard Johnson’s and Gravity version of Way Back Home from the upcoming Testimony CD.

“Internationally acclaimed multi-instrumentalist and veteran sideman Howard Johnson takes a turn in the spotlight with a new release, Testimony, recorded with his 10-piece tuba choir, Gravity.

Testimony includes eight tunes ranging from soulful to funky to bluesy to cookers. Gravity’s take on Johnson’s  originals as well as compositions by McCoy Tyner, Carol King, and others, testifies to the range and versatility of the tuba.

Over the past half century, Howard Johnson, the eminence grise of low brass, has appeared on hundreds of albums playing tuba, baritone sax, bass clarinet, electric bass and other instruments with the giants of many genres. The New York Times’ critic Nate Chinen credits Johnson as “the figure most responsible for the tuba’s current status as a full-fledged jazz voice.” With Testimony, his third recording with Gravity (and his fourth as a leader) Johnson takes a giant step forward in making the music world safe for tubas and low brass, delighting—and enlightening—listeners in the process.

After arriving in New York in the early ’60s, Johnson appeared with Jack DeJohnette, Abdullah Ibrahim, Lou Rawls, Lee Morgan, Chick Corea, John Lennon, The Band, Paul Simon, Tony Williams, Pharoah Sanders, Hank Mobley, The Saturday Night Live Band, Gato Barbieri, Levon Helm, and literally hundreds of others.

Johnson was also a long-time muse to innovators such as Charles Mingus, Gil Evans, Carla Bley, and George Gruntz, who created music to showcase the multi-instrumentalist’s abilities, and inspired him on his life-long quest to expand the range and repertoire for some of the less familiar instruments in jazz and popular music. Bluesman Taj Mahal helped to spread the word when he invited Johnson and his tuba cohorts to tour and to record with him in 1971. The resulting album, The Real Thing, features Johnson’s brass arrangements and Gravity stalwarts Joseph Daley, Earl McIntyre and Bob Stewart, who also appear on Testimony.

In addition to Johnson on tuba, pennywhistle, and baritone sax, Testimony includes:

Dave Bargeron (tuba), a self-described “proud charter member of Gravity since 1968.” He has played with Blood, Sweat and Tears, big bands led by Clark Terry, Gil Evans, George Russell, George Gruntz, and Jaco Pastorius, and countless smaller ensembles.  

Velvet Brown (tuba), the Penn State professor of tuba and euphonium, is equally at home with the St. Louis Symphony, the New Hampshire Music Festival Orchestra, or the San Francisco Women’s Philharmonic Orchestra.

Joseph Daley (tuba) is the producer of Testimony and a mainstay of New York’s adventurous music scene, having played with the likes of Sam Rivers, Carla Bley, Gil Evans, Charlie Haden’s Liberation Music Orchestra, and Hazmat Modine.

Carlton Holmes (keyboards) is a top pick of icons like Charli Persip, Cindy Blackman-Santana, Michael Carvin, Freddie Hubbard, Stevie Wonder, and many others.

Nedra Johnson (tuba, vocal) has one of the most powerful and compelling voices you’re likely to hear. Whether playing jazz, woman’s music, funk, or R&B, she’s known for bringing festival crowds to their feet.

Earl McIntyre (tuba) is a renowned educator, Brooklyn Philharmonic guest conductor. An in-demand bass trombonist as well, he is an alumnus of bands fronted by Charles Mingus, Miles Davis, Cecil Taylor, Lester Bowie, McCoy Tyner, and others.

Melissa Slocum (bass) is an in-demand veteran of stints with Art Blakey, Leon Thomas, Hank Jones, Dee Dee Bridgewater, and Melba Liston. She also shines in settings from symphony to Broadway to baroque.

Bob Stewart (tuba) has worked with the mainstream (Dizzy Gillespie, Sonny Rollins, Wynton Marsalis), the avant-garde (Muhal Richard Abrams, Henry Threadgill,  Arthur Blythe), and the hit makers (Chaka Khan, Dap Kings, Aretha Franklin).

Buddy Williams (drummer) has a list of credits encompassing Valerie Simpson, Sonny Sharrock, Jack McDuff, Jennifer Holiday, Michael Jackson, Herbie Mann, Lena Horne, and David Sanborn.

Album highlights include:

“Testimony”: This 1990 Howard Johnson original is a cooker that testifies to the power and versatility of the tuba, and puts the listener on notice as to what’s to come.

“Workin’ Hard for the Joneses”: Forget keepin’ up with the Joneses! Nedra Johnson’s original is a reminder that addictions, including love, can come at a hefty cost.

“Fly With the Wind”: This Howard Johnson arrangement of a too-rarely heard McCoy Tyner composition proves how nimble and versatile a tuba choir can be: Tubas can indeed fly with the wind!

“(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman”: A 1968 Howard Johnson arrangement of the Carole King classic, inspired by Aretha Franklin’s hit version. Besides her brilliant lead work throughout the CD, Velvet Brown’s solo here shows truly authentic command and grace.

“High Priest”: McCoy Tyner’s tribute to Thelonious Monk, the high priest of jazz. From the jaggedness of the melody to the signature lope in the rhythm, Gravity captures what’s best about both McCoy and Monk. Listen up for a brilliant solo from bassist Melissa Slocum.

“Little Black Lucille”: Johnson brings the pennywhistle to the fore with his lilting original folk tune. It’s a tender tribute to his Aunt Lucille, who overcame the privation of her early years to build a loving family.

“Evolution”: A Bob Neloms composition Johnson learned at 18—Neloms was two years younger. “I really liked the rhythm and the hipness of the blues. I’m the only person who plays it, and Bob doesn’t remember writing it,” Howard recalls, laughing.

“Way Back Home”: Penned by saxophonist/bassist/Jazz Crusader Wilton Felder, Johnson wrote an arrangement of this soulful crowd-pleaser for The Saturday Night Live Band, as well as this one for Gravity. “We recently lost Wilton, and we will not forget him,” Howard declares. Full of mellow, rich harmonies, its subtlety challenges preconceptions about the role of low brass in jazz.

Howard Johnson has made it his life’s work to “reveal the range and versatility of the tuba in all its splendor” to a larger audience. With its vibrant spirit and swing, Testimony makes a strong case for repeated listening.

http://www.hojotuba.com

Howard Johnson And Gravity Testimony

(Tuscarora Records Item number 17-001 )

Street Date: March 3, 2017