OSIE JOHNSON: An Undistinguished Distinctive Drummer

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

“In studio work, you’re always under the gun. You’re expected to play the parts right no matter how difficult they are …. It’s a matter of being precise and right, all the time. It’s brain surgery, that’s what it is. And every operation has to be a success. There are no failures – a failure and you’re gone.”

- Alvin Stoller, drummer

Burt Korall, a writer who, among his other significant writings about Jazz, authored two books on Drummin’ Men: The Heartbeat of Jazz, only makes one reference to him when he cites him as “… the gifted drummer, Osie Johnson,” on page 200 of the second volume, The Bebop Years.

There is also a reference to Osie in Gary Giddins’ Vision of Jazz: The First Century where in the context of talking about Bud Powell and the drummers he performed with he notes: “He worked only with the best: Max Roach, Kenny Clarke, Roy Haynes, Art Blakey, Art Taylor, Osie Johnson – percussionists who complemented his dynamics, speed, and shifting rhythms.” [p. 321]

Outside of incidental references such as these, you’d be hard-pressed to find any information about Osie other than in the ever-reliable Encyclopedia of Jazz.

The lack of mention of Osie is made even more striking by the fact that this was a drummer who was everywhere, and I mean everywhere apparent, on the New York studio and Jazz scene especially in the 1950s and mid-1960s.

Osie worked with all of the top arrangers –Manny Albam [with whom, he was close friends], Quincy Jones, Oliver Nelson, Bob Brookmeyer, Hal McKusick, Al Cohn, Gerry Mulligan, George Russell – the list is endless. The Lord Discography cites Osie’s name as having appeared on 670 recording sessions!

He toured with pianists Earl “Fatha” Hines, Erroll Garner and Dorothy Donegan as well as tenor saxophone legend Coleman Hawkins and clarinetist Tony Scott. Osie, who made his own album as a singer – A Bit of the Blues [RCA CD 74321609832] -  was a favorite of vocalists Carmen McRae and Dinah Washington, both of whom he wrote arrangements for in the 1950s.

Osie had studied theory and harmony in high school in Washington, D.C. and privately, so he knew music and was an excellent reader, both of which may help explain why he was so heavily in demand at recording sessions.

He was the staff drummer for extended periods of time on both the NBC and CBS studio orchestras in New York City and he appeared as a freelance percussionist on a slew of independent TV commercials and radio jingles.

Perhaps, part of the reason for his obscurity was due to the fact that he died in 1966 at the relatively young age of 43 from renal system infections that led to kidney failure.

Fortunately, Georges Paczynski in the second volume of his prize-winning Une Histoire de la Batterie de Jazz has three entire pages devoted to Osie and his style of drumming. Fortunately, that is, for those who read French as the work has not [to my knowledge] been translated into English.

Paczynski includes Osie along with Harold “Doc” West, Rossiere “Shadow” Wilson, Gus Johnson, Gordon “Specs” Powell and Alvin Stoller in his chapter entitled – La fin de l’ère swing - les batteurs charnières.  With charnières translated to mean “hinge” or “pivotal,” the author is grouping Osie among those drummers whom he considers to be among those who made the successful transition from the Swing Era to Bebop.

Many better known Swing Era drummers never did make this transition, among them Davy Tough and Gene Krupa.

To be able to do so was a considerable accomplishment as it required getting out of playing down into the drum kit [think hands on snare and an incessant bass drum beat] and playing up, onto the cymbals using the snare and the bass drum for accents.

Keeping time in this manner involved a total reorientation in the way in which a drummer thought about time.

Drummers like Osie and the other transition drummers in Paczynski’s grouping who accommodated the change in style did so by keeping things simple.

They became, first-and-foremost, timekeepers with a steady ride cymbal beat and an accent here and there.  Nothing complicated requiring the independence and heightened coordination of a Max Roach or a Philly Joe Jones or a Joe Morello.

More drumming to establish a pulse and to keep things moving along. Clean, simple, and staying out of the way; Osie just blended in with the musical environment instead of trying to dominate it – it was a style of drumming that was more felt than heard.

In fact, Osie’s drumming bordered on the indistinct and yet, everyone loved playing with him precisely because as Paczynski explains:

« En fait, il est absolument impossible d'identifier Osie Johnson. A l'inverse d'un musicien qui ne peut investir son jeu trop personnel et « engage » dans tous les contextes musicaux, il est capable de s'adapter avec plus ou moins de bonheur a toute proposition musicale, et est constamment sollicite en tant que tel. »

A very loose translation of which would read:

“In fact, it is absolutely impossible to identify [in the sense of classifying] Osie Johnson. He was the opposite of those who try and interject their personality into the music. Instead, he tried to contentedly fit himself into all musical contexts, and he was sought out by other musicians precisely because of his willingness to do so.”

A number of times in his essay, Paczynski stresses the fact that Osie emphasized drumming “fundamentals” in his playing: a rock solid beat, precision in the placement of accents, a perfect placement of kicks and fills and a clear and uncomplicated sound from both the drums and the cymbals.

Oh, and he was an excellent reader for as Alvin Stoller, Osie’s counterpart as an in demand studio drummer on the West Coast stated: “In studio work, you’re always under the gun. You’re expected to play the parts right no matter how difficult they are …. It’s a matter of being precise and right, all the time. It’s brain surgery, that’s what it is. And every operation has to be a success. There are no failures – a failure and you’re gone.”

More indications of what makes Osie’s style so distinctive can be found in the following question that was put to the online drummer chat group:

“What do you all recommend for tuning a 5x14 brass snare to capture a tight, crisp sound with minimal after ring? The snare sound I'm after is similar to the following:

1. Osie Johnson's playing on "Please Don't Talk About Me When I'm Gone" from Sonny Stitt's Now! (mp3 attached). The first 20 seconds of the track provide a good snapshot of Johnson's crisp snare sound.

In order to achieve that kind of sound, do I need to have

a) both top and bottom heads tuned the same
b) the top head tuned higher/tighter than the bottom head
c) the bottom head tuned higher/tighter than the top head
d) ??

At the moment, I have my Tama 5x14 brass snare tuned with top head close to 90 and bottom head a little over 80, I believe (according to my Drum Dial). I have a standard Remo Coated Ambassador on the batter side.

Thanks in advance for any help anyone can offer!”

An answer to this question might also serve to explain the title of our piece on Osie – “An Undistinguished Distinctive Drummer.”

The title is not a Zen koan [an insoluble intellectual problem: think – “What was your true nature before you mother and father conceived you?”]

Osie Johnson was unfortunately undistinguished as a drumming stylist, and yet, his drumming was immediately discernible. He was distinctive without trying to be so.

Most of Osie’s distinctiveness did begin with the sound of his snare drum, which he tightened to within an inch of its "life." How he kept it from tearing in two is beyond me.

So the choice from the chat group options would be – “a) both top and bottom heads tuned the same”  - although a much more complete answer might address everything from the quality and composition of the maple shell that formed Osie’s snare drum to the type of drum heads he used, ad infinitum.

The most instructive portion of the chat group question is the example that was sent along with the annotation - The first 20 seconds of the track provide a good snapshot of Johnson's crisp snare sound.

We have used the very same track - "Please Don't Talk About Me When I'm Gone" from Sonny Stitt's Now! - in the video below, but we would rephrase the chat group statement to read: The first 20 seconds of the track provide a good snapshot of Osie Johnson's approach to drumming.

For in addition to his distinctively crisp snare sound, this short segment reveals Osie playing time on the hi-hat before switching to the ride cymbal, his gentle but insistent sense of swing and the lightness of his touch which allowed him to fit into the music almost seamlessly.

This is a perfect illustration of the drummer as an accompanist and also the reason why melody and harmony guys loved working with Osie: his drums are not resonating and booming, his accents are not distracting and he isn’t calling attention to himself with complicated drumming figures.

On this track, Osie is a musician among a group of musicians intent on making music and therein lies the key to his success and to his distinctiveness.

Whatever the musical context – piano trio Jazz, small group Jazz or big band Jazz – Osie always sounds just right; he fits in.

And he always nails it, characteristically.

For all of his blending in, I would venture to say that anyone – musician or not – that is familiar with Osie Johnson’s playing would recognize it … “after [listening to] the first 20 seconds” of a recorded track.

Very few drummers have ever been as distinctively undistinguished as Osie Johnson.

Milt Hinton and The "New York Rhythm Section"

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

The following anecdote is drawn from Milt’s collection of stories and photographs as contained in Playing the Changes, which also contains a CD of Milt telling stories and playing music.

David G. Berger and Holly Maxson assisted with this wonderful collection of Milt Hinton’s life in stories and in photographs.

Published by the Vanderbilt University Press, it’s a compendium that leaves a wonderful series of memories of a life well-lived.

“I'm convinced I got a lot of studio work because many producers and arrangers recognized that the rhythm section was the backbone of the music being done at the time. They also came to understand that there was a small group of rhythm section players who could easily adapt to different artists and really complement a performance. Eventually. Hank Tones, Barry Galbraith. Osie Johnson, and I got identified as part of the select group. And for a couple of years we worked together almost every day. We even got to be known as the New York rhythm section. It wasn't an official title, just an informal name people in the business gave us. And, of course, it wasn't an exclusive thing either. We all worked in plenty of other rhythm sections too.

Hank was always in demand because he's an unbelievable piano player. Back in those days he'd done a lot of records with Ella, and that seemed to make him even more popular, especially with female vocalists.

I guess they figured if Ella sounded so beautiful, how could they go wrong using her accompanist.Hank's a good-looking, dark-complected guy who's always seemed to be concerned about his appearance. In all the years I've known him. I only saw him without a coat and tie once. That was when a couple of us played a party at Shoobe's house and it was so hot. Shoobe ordered him to take off his jacket.

Barry had been with Claude Thornhill's band. He was a very knowledgeable musician who was a great reader and could also write very well. He was a warm, small town-type guy — average height and weight, short hair, rugged but good-looking. He dressed like a woodsman. No matter how cold it got. he'd never wear an overcoat, just a plaid shirt with an open collar. He had a great sense of humor, but like a lot of guys who smoke too much, his laugh always turned into a cough.

Osie was a burly, dark-complected man. He was very outgoing, affable, and had one of the most resonant voices I've ever heard. In fact, I was there when a funny incident involving his voice helped get him started in the studios.

Osie had come into New York with Earl Hines's hand and run into Jo Jones, who invited him to a record session. I guess Jo wanted him to see how things worked and meet some of the studio regulars. We were doing a small date for a singing group called the Billy Williams Quartet. In those days they had a regular spot on one of the weekly TV shows and also a couple of good-selling records.

I don't remember what tune we were running down, but I can still see Osie sitting up on a high stool next to Jo with a big grin across his face, watching and listening to everything. After a while, we started to record, but before we could finish the tune, the guys in the booth cut us off. We tried another take, but the same thing happened. Finally, after seven or eight more attempts, we made it through to the end. But while the last note was resonating, and the recorders were still rolling. Osie boomed out, "Oh, yeah."

Everyone in the room aimed toward him and for a second or two there was dead silence. Then someone said to Osie. "Man, in here you don't move 'til the red light goes out and the—"

But Billy Williams interrupted, "That's great, leave it in."

About a minute later, the playback started and when everyone heard Osie at the end. they flipped. In fact, they liked it so much they gave him a withholding slip and paid him for the date.

It didn't take long before people learned about Osie's true talents. He was a great drummer who could also arrange, sing, and play just about any kind of music. As it turned out, Jo Jones eventually lost studio work to Osie, who was a superb reader and didn't have as many personal quirks.

The four of us worked well together in all kinds of situations, and this had as much to do with our personalities as our musical talents. None of us was arrogant. In fact, we were exactly the opposite, congenial and accommodating. Whenever we walked on a date we were really concerned about the featured artist. We wanted that person to he satisfied and we'd go to great lengths to accomplish it. If the music wasn't good and needed something extra, we'd fix it. right on the spot.

It even got to the point where some arrangers would hand us chords for a tune and expect immediate results. They'd say something like. "Your part is loose, have fun with it," which meant we should do a quick head arrangement without holding up the session. Sometimes our contributions really helped make a hit. For example, the four of us did Bobby Darin's record of "Mack the Knife." Osie or Hank had the idea of going up half steps, and as far as I'm concerned, that's what made this version a smash.

Of course, we never got arrangement credits on anything we did. Back in those days, it was rare for sidemen to get credits on an album, especially in the pop music field. But we got our forty-one dollars a session. And the fact that we knew how much we'd contributed seemed to give us enough satisfaction."

Jay and Kai - J.J. Johnson and Kai Winding - Tonal Trombone Textures

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

“Jay Jay Johnson and Kai Winding have formed a group. Why didn't such a natural combination band together before? It's almost like asking why jaii musicians don't work more often. The important fact is that they are together and Jan will benefit.

Their association is not necessarily a new one [on a permanent basis that is) and although it may not have been the dream of each to have a combo jointly, it very likely might have been a subconscious desire because there has always been a respect for and enjoyment of each others' playing.

They started from opposite directions, Kai from hit birthplace in Aachui Denmark and Jay Jay from his in Indianapolis. Kai came to the United States with his parents in 1934. Both served their apprenticeship with various jmall-name bands. After this came the name bands. Kai played with Benny Goodman and Stan Kenton. At the same time Jay Jay was with Benny Carter and Count Basie. And then came New York. Who that knew them, will ever forget the halcyon days of the Forties when the music that they tagged "bop” flowered on both 52nd St. and Broadway. I remember nearly falling off my chair at the Spotlite Club in 1946 when I first heard Jay Jay sit in with Dizzy Gillespie and rip off intricate ensemble and solo passages with fluency equal to that of Diz.

There were other nights at the same club, and Jay Jay fronting a quartet with an old grey felt beanie hanging on the bell of his horn to give a singularly delightful tonal effect. Then there was the Roost in 1948 with Kai coming into his own in a group with Charlie Parker, Miles Davis and Allen Eager and blowing mightily every night from under the artificial tree.

Their careers have crossed and run parallel at different times. When the great Miles Davis band recorded for Capitol, Kai was in on the first sessions and Jay Jay replaced him on the later ones. The Chubby Jackson All Star Band (Prestige 105) had both as its trombone section and their "conversation" choruses on "Flying The Coop" were actually the forerunners of their present group.

Don't get the idea that I'm going overboard into the sea of nostalgia. i in just standing by the rail on the ship of reality looking back over the ror-izon. Jay Jay and Kai played great in those days but they are playing greater today. They have combined as mature and polished musicians who still have the love of jazz and the fire to play it.”

- Ira Gitler, insert notes to Kai and Jay Bennie Green and Strings [Prestige OJCCD -1727-2/Prestige 7070]

Somewhat ironically, my first exposure to the quintet co-led by trombonists J.J. Johnson and Kai Winding was on a Columbia LP that they shared with the Dave Brubeck Quartet.

It was recorded in performance at the 1956 Newport Jazz Festival and emcee Willis Conover says at the beginning of their set that their appearance at the NSJ constituted a sort of farewell appearance as a unit! Nothing like coming in at the end.

As George Avakian, the producer of the LP further explains in the liner notes to the album: “Their amicable parting was based purely on a desire each one has to pursue again a separate career after having brought off a daring experiment. J. J. has since formed a quintet of his own and Kai has a septet featuring four trombones. Both groups will shortly be heard on Columbia Records.”

Although I came in at the end, so to speak,  had great fun, then [during the analog era] and now [during the digital era] amassing a collection of the group’s recorded output and listening to the very enjoyable music created by these giants of modern Jazz trombone.

Here’s more information about the background of both trombonists, the formation of their group and a description of some of the music on their recordings. If you haven’t heard the music made by the singular quintet, you might want to check it out for all the reasons detailed below.

“The dominant bebop trombonist, J.J. Johnson's saxophone-influenced sound has been criticized as unidiomatic and insufficiently 'brassy' - whatever that means - but there is no mistaking his preeminence in the recent history of jazz. Born in Indianapolis [1924-2001], Johnson emerged in Benny Carter's orchestra and as part of Jazz at the Philharmonic, but he left an indelible mark as half of Jay and Kai with fellow-trombonist Winding. ...

Johnson is one of the most important figures in modern jazz. Once voguish, the trombone, like the clarinet, largely fell from favour with younger players with the faster articulations of bebop, Johnson's unworthily low standing nowadays (his partnership with Kai Winding, as 'Jay and Kai', was once resonantly popular) is largely due to a perceived absence of trombone players with whom to compare him. In fact, Johnson turned an occasionally unwieldy instrument into an agile and pure-toned bop voice; so good was his articulation that single-note runs in the higher register often sounded like trumpet. He frequently hung an old beret over the bell of his horn to soften his (one and bring it into line with the sound of the saxophones around him.

Kai Winding [1922-83] was born in Denmark and came to America in his early teens. He was around to see the birth of bebop and helped to devise a fast, clear-toned delivery for the trombone, a development which also had an impact on how the horn sections of big bands could sound. His long partnership with J.J. Johnson is definitive of the modern history of the instrument.

The success of Jay and Kai was, in the end, not altogether equitably shared. J.J. Johnson's unchallenged dominance on the trombone as a bop voice was always questionable, Whereas J.J. brought a saxophone-like articulation to the instrument, it was Winding who showed how it could follow the woodwind players fast vibrato and percussive attack and still retain its distinctive character. While with the Kenton hand, Winding worked on ways of producing a very tight vibrato with the lip rather than using the slide, and this had a marked impact on a younger generation of players. … There remains, to be sure, something a little cold about Winding's work. Certainly, compared to J.J., he couldn't give a ballad more than a gruff expressiveness, but that was not his forte. What he did, he did well, and he deserves more credit for it.”

[Richard Cook and Brian Morton, The Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD, 6th Ed.]

Johnson is the most important postwar jazz trombonist and a major Influence on all players of the instrument. His earliest recorded solos up to 1945 reveal a thick tone, aggressive manner, and impressive mobility. They are not yet far removed, though, from the solos of his early influences - Lester Young, Roy Eldridge, and the trombonist Fred Beckett, who emphasized the linear qualities of the instrument rather than the effects of the slide.

During the 1940s Johnson developed such an astounding technical facility that some record reviewers insisted, erroneously, that he played a valve trombone; the speed of his playing and the clarity and accuracy he achieves at fast tempos have never been surpassed. In 1947 he began to play with a lighter tone (occasionally enhanced by a felt mute) and reserved vibrato for special effects. The result was a rather dry but attractive sound resembling that of a french horn. Johnson also worked diligently at this period to adapt bop patterns to the trombone, and his solos suffer from an emphasis on speed and an overreliance on memorized formulas incorporating such bop trademarks as the flatted 5lh. His performances on both versions of Crazeology with Charlie Parker (1947) begin with the same phrase and contain other whole phrases in common. The same is true of the two renditions of Johnson's celebrated solo on Blue Mode (1949), despite their very different tempos.

During the late 1950s Johnson's playing matured: he relied less on formulas and speed, and more on a scalar approach and motivic development. Recordings of live performances dating from this time provide examples of brilliant developmental sequences that were delivered with powerful emotion.”

- Lewis Porter

“Winding was one of the first bop trombonists and one of the most important. The distinct sound he brought to Kenton's trombone section was achieved partly by his persuading the players to produce a vibrato with the lip rather then with the slide (van Engelen). His solo work was characterized initially by a rough, exuberant, biting tone, recalling earlier trombone styles (a fine example may be heard on Kenton's recording of Lover, 1947), though a more restrained manner is evident in the brief solos he contributed to the first of Miles Davis's sessions that resulted in the Birth of the Cool (1949). On forming the group Jay and Kai, Winding began to produce a delicate sound; he improvised in a manner so close to that of Johnson that it is sometimes difficult to distinguish between the two musicians.”

- Les Jeske

[ The Porter/Jeske annotations are in Barry Kernfeld, Ed., The New Grove Dictionary of Jazz.]

“Another remarkable trombone section, totally different from Ellington's was that of Stan Kenton's orchestra. Beginning in the mid-1940s, its style initiated and set by Kai Winding, it revolutionized trombone playing stylistically, especially in terms of sound (brassier, more prominent in the ensemble) and type of vibrato (slower, and mostly lack thereof), as well as by adding the "new sound" of a bass trombone (Bart Varsalona, later George Roberts). The Kenton trombone section's influence was enormous and pervasive, and continues to this day. Although the section's personnel changed often over the decades, it retained an astonishing stylistic consistency, not only because such stalwarts as Milt Bernhart and Bob Fitzpatrick held long tenures in the orchestra, but because incoming players, such as Hob Burgess and Frank Rosolino and a host of others, were expected to fit into the by-then-famous Kenton brass sound. …

But the biggest breakthrough on the trombone toward full membership in the bop fraternity was accomplished by J. J. Johnson, who essentially proved convincingly that anything Gillespie could do on the trumpet could now also be matched on the trombone. Johnson is regarded as the true founder of the modern school of jazz trombone, developing astounding (for the time) speed and agility on the instrument, and thus becoming a charter member of the bop evolution/revolution. These outstanding qualities, as well as his solid, full, rich, centered tone, can be happily savored on "The Champ" (DeeGee, with Dizzy Gillespie) and "Jay and Kai" (Columbia, 1955).

Johnson spawned a host of followers, foremost among them Jimmy Cleveland, whose speed and dexterity on the trombone were even more dazzling than J. J.'s (which led to him being called "the Snake"), the Danish-born player Kai Winding (with whom J. J. teamed up in a highly successful two-trombone duo) in the 1950s, the Swedish trombonist Ake Persson, and young turks like Frank Rosolino, Frank Rehak, Urbie Green, and Jimmy Knepper. All were spectacular technicians, easily expanding the range of the trombone to the trumpet's (!) upper register (high B flat and C), and with their new-won technical wizardry capable of playing things that a few years earlier could have only been played on a trumpet, or a flute or violin.”

- Gunther Schuller from his essay The Trombone in Jazz, in Bill Kirchner, Ed., The Oxford Companion to Jazz

When J.J. and Kai first formed their unit in the mid-1950s, it was quite common for the LP producer to also write the liner notes [referred to today as insert or sleeve notes].

George Avakian produced a number of the Jay and Kai recordings for Columbia and we can learn quite a lot about the background of how their group came to be and their approach to arranging the music for it from the following excerpts from his liner/sleeve notes.

“'You can’t play all night in a club with just two trombones and rhythm!’ a friend told Kai Winding when he announced that he and J. J. Johnson were going to do just that.

He was wrong, but awfully right at the same time. The answer is that you can do it. But not with 'just two trombones." You have to have the best — Kai Winding and J.J.Johnson.

Their ability as trombonists is only part of the story. The entire "book" for the group has also been written by them, and it is their imagination as arrangers which has carried off this tour de force even more than their extraordinary talent as soloists.

Jay and Kai have done it the musicianly way, with no gimmicks — just solid musicianship. Working without a guitar, which would have given them variety in the coloring of the solos as well as another voice in the ensembles, makes their job that much harder. But in order to get engagements in clubs, they had to confine the group to five men and the added challenge has only spurred them to greater creative height.

Each has had a wealth of big band and small combo experience. During the bop era, Jay was in the rare position of establishing a school of trombone playing which consisted of himself alone; no one else was remotely in his class. Kai came up through the big band field, achieving prominence as a soloist with Stan Kenton in 1946. In recent years, both men have gigged extensively with small groups, and Kai still keeps his hand in as a studio sideman between the guintet's bookings.

The arranging of the book has been divided equally between them, and each man has contributed several fine originals. Their choice of repertoire is discriminating; they seem to have a knack of choosing half-forgotten but exceptional show tunes and songs which are fine vehicles for "class" singers. (Perhaps the lyric quality of their trombone playing is responsible for this taste.) Both play with a technical ease which is the envy of lesser slide men. Although they play quite unlike each other most ol the time, there are many occasions on which it is impossible for even their closest followers to tell them apart.

Watching them at work is almost as much fun as listening. When they trade off alternating muted phrases on a fast tune, as in Let's Get Away From It All and The Whiffenpoof Song, it's a wild sight to see them each keep pace with the lightning routine of mute up, mute in, blow, mute out, mute down, new mute up, mute in, blow, and so on. Never once during these sessions did either ever flub a phrase or even blow a bad one. Nor were there any easy cliches. Even under pressure, each listened carefully to what the other was playing and kept a logical line flowing.”

From his insert notes to Trombone for Two J.J. Johnson - Kai Winding [Columbia LP CL 742 in 1955; Collectibles CD 6674; Sony A-50662]]

George Avakian also shared more of his thoughts about the special qualities of Jay and Kai as performances and the distinctive qualities of their trombone Jazz in these excerpts Jai & Kai + 6: The Jay and Kai Trombone Octet; [Columbia CL 892 in 1956; Collectibles CD-5677; Sony A-26542].

“It is not true (not yet, anyway) that trombonists throughout the world have been raising funds to erect a monument to Kai Winding and J.J. Johnson in recognition of their unique contributions to the elevation of the estate of trombone playing.

This is about the only honor left for their fellow practitioners to bestow upon this extraordinary pair of musicians. The public has shown its appreciation of their work as co-leaders of one of the most unusual quintets in the jazz field (two trombones and a rhythm section), and there are even true-blue jazz fans who have given their ultimate recognition in the form of declaring that Jay and Kai are so popular that they must be out of bounds--although the day of the starving but uncompromising jazzman is being rendered a little passe' by the public's ever-growing interest in jazz [would that this would continue to prove true, sadly, it didn’t].

Jay and Kai, who are apparently fearless, have set themselves another difficult goal in this album, but the results literally speak for themselves. Their self-imposed challenge was to make an entire album with eight trombones (six orthodox-type horns and two bass trombones) and their usual rhythm section of piano, bass, and drums. On some of the tunes, they themselves play tromboniums, which are upright valve instruments of similar range and nearly the same tone, developed to replace the more cumbersome slide trombones in marching bands. (Slide trombones have to be placed up front so they can be played freely, which isn't the best set-up for tonal balance.) ….

The arrangements for this eight-trombone idea were executed by Jay and Kai themselves. Juist how they managed to do this - and do it so well-during their busy personal appearance tours is something I haven't figured out yet, and I'm sure neither Jay nor Kai are as yet in condition to explain coherently, either. Suffice to say that they made it despite some mighty close deadlines. Coffee - very strong and black - was one of the principal ingredients that made it possible.

Getting the right men to play these difficult arrangements was a problem, too, but fortunately the sessions came at a time when six of the best trombonists in New York were available for all the sessions. They are Urbie Green, Bob Alexander, Eddie Bert, and Jimmy Cleveland, with bass trombonists Bart Varsalone and Tom Mitchell. Their rhythm section consists of Hank Jones (piano), Milt Hinton (bass), and Osie Johnson (drums), except on Night in Tunisia, All At Once You Love Her, The Peanut Vendor, Four Plus Four, and The Continental, in which Hinton was replaced by Ray Brown. Candido Camera is added on conga drum and bongos as noted in the analyses of the individual arrangements, given below.

An extraordinary variety of sounds were created by this unique ensemble. The final results are a tribute to the Columbia engineering department, as well as the arranging skill ol Jay and Kai and the extraordinary performances of these two fine trombonists, and their six cohorts. There are times when the brass choir sounds as though it is divided into middle-register trumpets blended with trombones, and occasionally there is even some of the quality of an unusually rich saxophone section blended with trombones. No tricky effects were used to get these sounds; they are all in the scoring. What you get is the full artistry of two gifted arrangers and eight spectacularly fine trombonists. …”

And Dick Katz, who played piano with the quintet for a number of years, wrote the notes for The Great Kai and J.J./ J.J. Johnson & Kai Winding [Impulse 225] which was recorded as a sort of reunion LP in 1960 and from which the following excerpts are taken.

“"I don't know anything about music, but I know what I like."

This bon mot is usually attributed to the celebrated Common Man, and while the sophisticate might wince upon hearing such a bromide, an element of truth is present. The sentence often indicates that knowing how music is made does not necessarily assure one's enjoyment, or even enlightenment.

The intellectual, armed with the tools of musical analysis, will not experience music any more intensely than someone not blessed with musical scholarship — if the conditions for being "moved," or emotionally stimulated, do not occur in the music. Indeed, knowing too much can actually interfere with hearing the music. You see, music has to do with feelings, and the knowledge of what makes it tick should be a bonus that adds to or enhances the listener's understanding. It should never be a substitute for emotional involvement.

Now, the "conditions" referred to above are what concern us here. Good jazz does not come out of the air like magic. True, a genius sometimes creates this illusion, but in the main, it is the result of an artistic balance between the planned and the unplanned. Even the great improviser is very selective, and constantly edits himself.

Throughout the relatively short history of jazz, many of the great performances have been ensemble performances where the improvised solo was just a part of the whole. This tradition of group playing, as exemplified by Henderson, Basie, Ellington, Lunceford, John Kirby, Benny Goodman's small groups, the great midwestern and southwestern bands, big and small (Kansas City, et. al.), almost came to a rather abrupt halt with The Revolution.

And that is exactly the effect Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie and their colleagues (J. J. Johnson among them) had on jazz music. Their extreme improvising virtuosity seemed to take the focus off the need to play as a group. But herein lies the irony — the precision with which they played their complex tours de force was due in large measure to the extensive ensemble experience they gleaned as members of disciplined bands like Hines, Eckstine, etc. It was their talented, and not-so-talented, followers who often missed the point. Musically stranded without the opportunity to get the type of experience their idols had (due to many factors, economic and otherwise), they resorted to all they knew how to do — wait their turn to play their solos. This type of waiting-in-line-to-play kind of jazz has nearly dominated the scene for many years. Although it has produced an abundance of first-rate jazzmen, many excellent performances, and has advanced some aspects of jazz, the lack of organization has often strained the poor listener to the point where he doesn't "know what he likes."

So, in 1954, when J.J. Johnson and Kai Winding formed their now celebrated partnership, one of their prime considerations was to help remedy this chaotic state of affairs. Both men, in addition to being the best modern jazz trombone stylists around, were fortunate enough to have had considerable big and small band experience. They astutely realized that a return to time-tested principles was in order. Variety, contrast, dynamics, structure (integrating the improvised solos with the written parts) — these elements and others which give a musical performance completeness — were accepted by Kai and J.J. as both a challenge and an obligation to the listener. This awareness, combined with their individual composing and arranging talents, plus an uncanny affinity for each other's playing, made their success almost a certainty.

That success is now a happy fact. From their Birdland debut in 1954 to their climactic performance at the 1956 Jazz Festival at Newport, they built up an enviable following. Also, they have created an impressive collection of impeccable performances on records. That they overcame the skeptical

reaction to the idea of two trombones is now a near-legend. One only need listen to any of these performances to demonstrate once again the old adage — "It ain't what you do, but the way that..."

The respective accomplishments of J.J. and Kai have been lauded in print many times before. Their poll victories, festival and jazz-club successes are well known. Not so obvious, however, is the beneficial effect they have had on jazz presentation. Their approach to their audience, the variety of their library (a good balance between original compositions and imaginative arrangements of jazz standards and show tunes), together with their marvelous teamwork, helped to wake up both musicians and public alike to the fruits of organized presentation. With the jazz of the future, organization will be an artistic necessity; the future of jazz will be partially dependent on it, as is every mature art form.”

The Sound of Jazz by Whitney Balliett [From the Archives]

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

Until the publication of Whitney Balliett’s essay “The Sound of Jazz” in the New Yorker [1983], very little of the background information was known by the general public about what is arguably the best program on Jazz in performance ever produced for TV as well as Whitney’s role in its development.

It’s a fascinating story from so many perspectives that I thought I’d share it with you as a remembrance of times gone by for some of the original makers of the music.

MP3 files of the program are available for download and used CD copies can still be found through various online sellers.

“The confusion about the soundtrack of "The Sound of Jazz," the celebrated hour-long program broadcast live on CBS television on December 8, 1957, began a minute or so before the program ended, when an announcer said, "Columbia Records has cut a long-playing record of today's program, which will be called The Sound of Jazz. It'll be released early next year." 

A Columbia recording by that name and bearing the CBS television logotype was issued early in 1958, but it was not the soundtrack of the show. It was a recording made on December 4th in Columbia's Thirtieth Street studio as a kind of rehearsal for the television production. It included many of the musicians who did appear on December 8th, and except for one number the materials were the same. Columbia probably made the recording as a precaution: a live jazz television program lasting a full hour (then, as it is now, the basic unit of television time was the minute) and built around thirty-odd (unpredictable) jazz musicians might easily turn into a shambles. It didn't. The soundtrack, which is at last available in its entirety — as The Real Sound of Jazz, on Pumpkin Records — is superior to the Columbia record in almost every way, sound included.

The Sound of Jazz has long been an underground classic, and a lot of cotton wool has accumulated around it. So here, allowing for vagaries of memory, is how the program came to be. In the spring of 1957, Robert Goldman asked me if I would be interested in helping put together a show on jazz for John Houseman's new "Seven Lively Arts" series, scheduled to be broadcast on CBS in the winter of 1957-58. I submitted an outline, and it was accepted. I invited Nat Hentoff to join me as co-advisor, and we began discussing personnel and what should be played. Our wish was to offer the best jazz there was in the simplest and most direct way — no history, no apologetics, no furbelows. But John Crosby, the television columnist of the Herald Tribune, had been hired as master of ceremonies for the "Seven Lively Arts," and we feared that he would do just what we wanted to avoid — talk about the music. We suggested listing the musicians and the tunes on tel-ops (now common practice), but Crosby was under contract for the whole series, and that was that. Crosby, it turned out, pretty much agreed with us, and what he did say was to the point. For the brilliant visual side of the show, CBS chose the late Robert Herridge as the producer and Jack Smight as the director. The excitement of the camerawork and of Smight's picture selection — he had five cameramen — has never been equaled on any program of this kind.

Here is the form the program finally took: A big band, built around the nucleus of the old Count Basie band, was the first group to be heard, and it included Roy Eldridge, Doc Cheatham, Joe Newman, Joe Wilder, and Emmett Berry on trumpets; Earle Warren, Ben Webster, Coleman Hawkins, and Gerry Mulligan on reeds,- Vic Dickenson, Benny Morton, and Dicky Wells on trombones; and a rhythm section of Basie, Freddie Green, Eddie Jones, and Jo Jones. This Utopian band, which Basie seemed immensely pleased to front, played a fast blues, "Open All Night," written and arranged by Nat Pierce, who did all the arranging on the show. Then a smaller band, made up of Red Allen and Rex Stewart on trumpet and cornet, Pee Wee Russell on clarinet, Hawkins, Dickenson, Pierce, Danny Barker on guitar, Milt Hinton on bass, and Jo Jones, did the old Jelly Roll Morton-Louis Armstrong "Wild Man Blues" and Earl Hines' "Rosetta." The group was a distillation of the various historic associations, on recordings, of Allen and Russell, of Allen and Hawkins, and of Stewart and Hawkins, with Dickenson's adaptability holding everything together. 

The rhythm section was all-purpose and somewhat in the Basie mode. Thelonious Monk, accompanied by Ahmed Abdul-Malik on bass and Osie Johnson on drums, did his "Blue Monk." The big band returned for a slow blues, "I Left My Baby," with Jimmy Rushing on the vocal, and for a fast thirty-two-bar number by Lester Young called "Dickie's Dream." Billie Holiday sang her blues "Fine and Mellow," accompanied by Mal Waldron on piano and by Eldridge, Cheatham, Young, Hawkins, Webster, Mulligan, Dickenson, Barker, Hinton, and Osie Johnson. The Jimmy Giuffre Three, with Giuffre on reeds, Jim Hall on guitar, and Jim Atlas on bass, did Giuffre's "The Train and the River," and the show was closed by a slow blues, in which Giuffre and Pee Wee Russell played a duet, accompanied by Barker, Hinton, and Jo Jones. Crosby introduced each group, and there were pre-recorded statements about the blues from Red Allen, Rushing, Billie Holiday, and Guiffre. (I found these intrusive, but Hentoff and Herridge liked them.) 

The show was held in a big, bare two-story studio at Ninth Avenue and Fifty-sixth Street, and the musicians were told to wear what they wanted. Many wore hats, as jazz musicians are wont to do at recording sessions. Some had on suits and ties, some were in sports shirts and tweed jackets. Monk wore a cap and dark glasses with bamboo side pieces. Billie Holiday arrived with an evening gown she had got specially for the show, and was upset when she found that we wanted her in what she was wearing—a pony tail, a short-sleeved white sweater, and plaid pants. There was cigarette smoke in the air, and there were cables on the floor. A ladder leaned against a wall. Television cameras moved like skaters, sometimes photographing each other. The musicians were allowed to move around: Basie ended up watching Monk, and later Billie Holiday went over and stood beside Basie.

The atmosphere at the Columbia recording session was similar. Many of the musicians had not been together in a long time, and a rare early-December blizzard, which began just before the session and left as much as a foot of snow on the ground, intensified everything. It also caused problems. Our plan had been to reunite the All-American rhythm section of Basie, Freddie Green, Walter Page on bass, and Jo Jones, but Page called and said that he was sick and that, anyway, he couldn't find a cab. (He didn't make the television show, either, and he died two weeks later.) Eddie Jones, Basie's current bassist, replaced him. Thelonious Monk didn't turn up, and that is why Mal Waldron recorded a four-minute piano solo, aptly titled "Nervous." 

There were various other differences between the recording and the show. Frank Rehak took Benny Morton's place on the recording, because Morton was busy. Harry Carney, a man of infinite graciousness, filled in for Gerry Mulligan, a man of infinite ego, because Mulligan insisted he be paid double scale, and was refused. Doc Cheatham solos on the Columbia session but only plays obbligatos behind Billie Holiday on the television show; he had asked to be excused from all soloing, claiming that it would ruin his lip for his regular gig with a Latin band. Lester Young provides obbligatos behind Jimmy Rushing on "I Left My Baby" on the Columbia record, and he also solos twice. He was particularly ethereal that day, walking on his toes and talking incomprehensibly, and most of the musicians avoided him. But he was intractable on Sunday during the first of the two run-throughs that preceded the television show. He refused to read his parts, and he soloed poorly. He was removed from the big-band reed section and was replaced by Ben Webster, and his only solo is his famous twelve bars on "Fine and Mellow"—famous because this sequence had been used so many times on other television shows and because of Billie Holiday's expression as she listens to her old friend, an expression somewhere between laughter and tears. Billie Holiday came close to not being on the show. A week or so before, word of her difficulties with drugs and the law had reached the upper levels at CBS, and it was suggested that she be replaced by someone wholesome, like Ella Fitzgerald. We refused, and were backed by Herridge, and she stayed.

It is astonishing how good the music is on "The Real Sound of Jazz." Billie Holiday and Red Allen and Jimmy Rushing are in fine voice. The big-band ensembles are generally dazzling. The solos are almost always first-rate. (Giuffre is dull, and Roy Eldridge is overexcited.) Listen to Dickenson's boiling, shouting statement on "Dickie's Dream," wisely taken at a slightly slower tempo than on the Columbia record, and to his easy, rocking solo on "Wild Man Blues." And listen to Rex Stewart, sly and cool, on "Wild Man" (he had recently emerged from a long semi-retirement) and to the way Jo Jones frames its breaks—suspending time, shaping melody, italicizing emotion. Some of the music on the show has not weathered well. Monk, surprisingly, sounds hurried and the Giuffre trio, which was extremely popular at the time, is thin and synthetic. And Pee Wee Russell swallows Giuffre in their duet. CBS never ran the program again, but it was shown at the Museum of Modern Art in the sixties, and there is now a copy at the Museum of Broadcasting.”