"You Can Never Capture It Again": Zoot Sims, "Live" in Philly

Eric Dolphy once said, “When you hear music, after it’s over, it’s gone, in the air, you can never capture it again.” When you think about the years of gigs musicians rack up in pursuit of their art, his remark really resonates. Maybe some of the greatest music ever made exists only in the memories of the musicians who made it and the audiences who heard it. Fortunately, some of these moments are still with us in the form of live recordings, like Zoot Sims: "Live" in Philly.

Recorded in an anonymous club in Philadelphia, probably in the late 1970s or early 1980s, and featuring Zoot Sims on tenor and soprano saxes, Ben Aronov on piano, Major Holley on bass, and Mickey Roker providing strong rhythmic support on drums. Zoot et al. must have played hundreds of shows like this one, which for unknown reasons was recorded. It’s a great set, featuring three familiar Duke Ellington compositions (In a Mellow Tone, I Got It Bad and that Ain’t Good, and Do Nothing Till You Hear from Me). On the first and third of these tunes, Zoot demonstrates the lost art of effortless mid-tempo swing so typical of Lester Young and his musical descendants, while on I’ve Got It Bad, he brings out all of the song’s sweet sadness. Polka Dots and Moonbeams features Major Holley’s  hum-along technique on bass, providing humor without sacrificing a real feeling for the song.

For me, though, the album’s emotional core is I Don’t Stand a Ghost of a Chance with You, with Zoot on soprano. After taking up that notoriously tricky horn in the 1970s, he developed a beautiful, expressive sound. Ghost must have been a favorite of his―he recorded it at least one other time―but this performance is hauntingly beautiful. Ben Aronov follows with a striking solo, as he does throughout the record. It’s the track I come back to most often.

I don’t know how this recording came about, but I’m grateful for it. Here are Ghost and Polka 

Dots―enjoy!

Walter Norris: Never Should It End

Many years ago, my local Barnes and Noble got in a raft of remaindered Concord Records CDs (back then, Concord was a first-rate indie jazz label, not today’s corporate conglomerate).  I scooped up a bunch based on the Concord brand and artist name recognition―and then let them submerge into the Great Unplayed Pile. I was rooting around in that ever-growing mass recently and ran across Sunburst, a date led by Walter Norris. In my recollection, Norris was an esteemed pianist of a rather austere bent, considered willing to move out of the mainstream in his playing. The album featured Joe Henderson on tenor―a good sign, and I hadn’t remembered that. Time to look into Norris a bit more.

He had an interesting career. Originally from Arkansas, he eventually moved to the West Coast and played on Something Else!, Ornette Coleman’s first album, so “willing to move out of the mainstream” was right, at least for 1958. He then spent several years in New York as musical director of the Playboy Club. In 1974, he joined the Thad Jones-Mel Lewis big band. According to his Wikipedia entry, he had a brief and frightening experience with Charles Mingus in 1976 and then moved to Germany, where he taught and gigged until his death in 2011. (Note: I saw Mingus and his Jazz Workshop on several occasions and can attest that he was indeed a formidable presence. The trumpeter Clarence [Gene] Shaw had an experience similar to Norris’s, as I recall.) In the 1990s, Norris signed with Concord, one of the products of which was Sunburst.

Now to the music. It’s really excellent. Most of the tunes are standards of one sort or another (Stella By Starlight, What’s New, Naima) or Norris originals (the title track, Never Should It End, Rose Petals). Especially in their introductions, Norris and Henderson both like to take the Lee Konitz approach of not going straight into the melody line, which freshens up the standards.  The high point of the album for me is Naima, a gorgeous, soaring rendition that evokes the spirit of Trane without imitation. Bird is an off-kilter tribute to another jazz genius, with fresh ideas aplenty. (Note to readers: the composition is listed as by Charlie Parker but I can’t decide whether it’s one composition or a compilation of Bird phrases. It’s not on YouTube, but can any ornithologist who owns or can find Sunburst clue me in?) Larry Grenadier supplies solid backing and some fine solos on bass, and Mike Hyman keeps things going nicely on drums.

All in all, Sunburst is a fine recording that pays back even more with repeated listening. I could find only a couple of tracks on YouTube, but I’d really advise hunting down the whole thing, or any other Walter Norris recoding you run across.

Here's Sunburst:

And What's New.

Nothing But the Flirtations: South Carolina Soul in the UK

I've always been interested in one-hit wonder bands, especially when I really liked that hit. Take the Flirtations, for example. Nothing but a Heartache is an absolutely killer late 60s soul record. I had totally forgotten about it and them until fairly recently, when I ran across the song on YouTube. Based on their hit, they should have been bigger. Why not?

Based on Sounds Like the Flirtations, their first album, which features a number of cuts that are right up with Nothing but a Heartache, it wasn’t lack of talent. Curiously, the group, consisting of the Pearce sisters―Earnestine and Shirley―joined by Viola Billups after sister Betty left, had to head to the UK to hit at all. Originally performing as the Gypsies and then the Flirtations, they put some records to little acclaim before Vi Billups saw A Hard Day’s Night, which reinforced her fondness for the Beatles, and convinced the group to take their shot in the UK. They quickly were signed by Deram Records. Nothing but a Heartache, backed by a Christmas song (!) did well in the UK but really broke loose in the States. Nothing else hit big, and the group cashed in tis chips a few years later, only to reform when their music hit big in the UK Northern soul wave. As of a few years ago, they were still performing―not bad for one-hit wonders, after all.

Note: RPM records, which put out the reissue, fell short on QA, at least on my copy of the CD. The booklet has lots of good info but the signatures were stitched incorrectly, resulting in my having to puzzle out the Flirtation story―I hope other purchasers fare better.

Here are Nothing but a Heartache, Once I Had a Love, and Keep on Searching, all of them well worthy of your attention.

Bobby Forrester, Jazz Warrior: Bobby's Blues

Toward the end of Bob Porter’s excellent book Soul Jazz, there’s a paragraph that rounds up all of the great jazz organists who never quite made the commercial splash that the musicians covered in his earlier chapters managed to achieve, and Bobby Forrester is one of them. For many years, he was Ruth brown’s accompanist and music director, and gigged around New York with many of the greats of jazz, R&B, and rock (think Bonnie Raitt) before his untimely death in 2002 at the age of 55. Like many jazz musicians, to paraphrase the poet John Davidson, he “fell, face forward, fighting, on the deck.”

Before he left town, though, he recorded several albums, including Bobby’s Blues. There are no liner notes, but the copyright data indicates it was recorded and mixed in 1993 and mastered in 2013. Forrester is accompanied by Joey “G-Clef” Cavaseno on alto, William Ash on guitar, and Clarence “Tootsie” Bean. It’s a classic slice of soulful organ combo music. Forrester has a distinctive style and digs deep, as in the title track. Ash is technically proficient but can get down with the best on the blues. Cavaseno, like the others on the date, is a stalwart of the NYC scene, and Bean provides strong rhythmic support throughout. I was a bit unsure when I looked at the song list, but even a chestnut like I’ll Never Smile Again gets a grits-and-greens makeover.

Check out Bobby Forrester―I’ll be doing so in the future, believe me. Here are a couple of the tastier tracks, but if you like music from the golden age of soul jazz, you’ll like all of Bobby’s Blues. Note: I hope to write more about Porter’s Soul Jazz in a future post.

Everybody's Favorite Unknown Pianist: Jack Wilson's Easterly Winds

Someone once jokingly referred to Jack Wilson as “everyone’s favorite unknown jazz pianist.” It’s true, though, that for someone who recorded several albums for Blue Note and a number of other labels, Wilson doesn’t get much love from the wider jazz audience (if there is such a thing these days). I’ve sometimes wondered, only somewhat facetiously, if it’s because “Jack Wilson” is such a bland name. If his contemporaries had nicknamed him “Sonny” or “Fats,” maybe it would have raised his profile.

His profile is well worth raising, though. Take Easterly Winds, his second album for Blue Note, recorded in 1967. With a front line of Jackie McLean, Lee Morgan, and the lamentably little-known Garnett Brown on Trombone, and a rhythm section of Bob Cranshaw and Billy Higgins, it has a lot going for it even before you hear the music.

Most of the compositions are Wilson’s, except for Frank Strozier’s Frank’s Tune and Johnny Mandel’s ballad A Time for Love, the latter of which features Wilson in a trio setting and highlights both his excellent technique and feeling. I really like Wilson the composer. Musicians looking for something fresh ought to investigate the title tune and Nirvanna, both of which have that spiritual jazz uplift feeling that means so much to me. Do It, the obligatory “let’s try for another Sidewinder” effort gets nice and funky, with a solid bop gutbucket solo by Brown. I’m a sucker for Jackie Mac’s astringent, passionate alto, and Lee Morgan’s contributions are, as always, a reminder of how much we lost when he died so young. On Children, with a crisp Billy Higgins opening, is another fine track.

Maybe Jack Wilson isn’t so neglected after all. In a couple of weeks, a previously unreleased set, Call Me -Jazz from the Penthouse, featuring Wilson and vibraphonist Roy Ayers, is coming out on CD, and based on their work together on other recordings, a great combination.

Here are Nirvanna and Easterly Winds for your delectation.

Yeah, I'm Talkin' to You: The Paragons Meet the Jesters

Long ago, when 42^nd Street around Times Square in New York City was much seedier and way more real than it is now, there were a lots of discount places selling cameras, binoculars, Army surplus (known as “war surplus” back then), and records. Taped to the windows of the latter, and looking as if they’d been  up there for years, were LP album covers. One of the most striking was The Paragons Meet the Jesters. Against a murky background of indeterminate color stood black leather-jacketed hoods, a la Grease, with a shadowy, menacing figure to their front and right. I mean, these guys radiated attitude (see left).

The music was something else, though. Doo wop was a popular force in the 1950s and early 1960s. It was hugely influential on everyone from Robert Plant to Frank Zappa, and the progenitor of the great soulful Motown and Stax vocal groups of the following decades. It was also a regional music. Place like Philadelphia and Pittsburgh, to name a few of the meccas of doo wop, were hotbeds, as was New York, the home of the Paragons and the Jesters. For years both groups had strong regional hits with records like Florence and Let’s Start All Over Again (the Paragons) and I Laughed and The Wind (the Jesters. In 1959, The Paragons Meet the Jesters, an anthology of Jesters and paragons singles came out as an LP―one of the first rock and roll compilation albums and, according to Wikipedia, “the most commercially successful doo-wop compilation ever released.”

The album leans heavily toward ballads, although there are some fine up-tempo tunes, like I Laughed and Oh Baby by the Jesters. I’m partial to Julius McMichael’s great falsetto lead vocals for the Paragons, but I also love the greater variety the Jesters bring to the table. Both groups were terrific, and this recording is a landmark in the history of a unique American vocal style. Doo wop isn’t just an historical artifact or the background music for a Martin Scorsese movie. It’s great mixture of passion and humor, executed with panache by a bunch of kids who sang in the streets, got ripped off by their fly-by-night record companies in the great tradition, and left a legacy for all of us to enjoy.

P.S. Thanks to Eddie Griese and Donn Fileti of Relic Records, who for years worked to preserve the lost world of doo wop on LP and CD.

Here are two selections―and it was tough to pick just a couple. I hope you enjoy them and decide to explore this great music further.

Bill Henderson: Jazz with a Smiling Voice

I’ve been a Bill Henderson fan forever―or at least since the days when was Joey was in steady rotation on Symphony Sid’s midnight jazz show on WADO in New York City. I owned his first album on Vee Jay records, his Verve recording with Oscar Peterson, and have picked up various other recordings over the years. About 10 years ago, Henderson appeared at the Kennedy Center and I was all over it. He did a fine show and, amazingly, his voice was just as it was when he did Joey―someone in the audience called it out as a request and Henderson laughed and said the requester was going WAY back. The guy sitting next to me summed it up: “He sounds exactly the same”!

You don’t have to take my word for it, though. Check out Bill Henderson’s last recording: Live at the Vic, made in 2007, just after he  turned 81. It’s not a great record just because his voice sounds so youthful, though. It's because his sound and phrasing are so delightful. The best way to put it is that Henderson always sang with a smile in his voice―sometimes joyous, often wry, and occasionally melancholy, but always warmly there.  Some of the high points of this recording include a great version of Never Make Your Move Too Soon, an extraordinary extended version of That Old Black Magic, and some of his personal standards, like A Sleeping Bee and You Are My Sunshine. I haven’t enjoyed a jazz vocal album so much in a long time.

There’s not a whole lot from this album on line, but The Song is You is pretty representative. I hope you enjoy it and check out more Bill Henderson.

Night Lights, or Whatever Happened to Gerry Mulligan?

The bassist and raconteur Bill Crow once remarked that people don’t talk much about Gerry Mulligan any more. For veteran listeners, Mulligan was for many years a dominant force in the music: arranger for Claude Thornhill, the Birth of the Cool sessions, the pianoless quartet with Chet Baker, the concert big band, and record dates with everyone from Ben Webster to Dave Brubeck to Thelonious Monk. It’s true, though, maybe because Coltrane and Ornette took the music in a different direction and younger musicians followed suit. Remember how “West Coast jazz” was cool and then it wasn’t?

It’s a shame, though. Take Night Lights, for example.  In 1963, Mulligan, Art Farmer, Bob Brookmeyer, the aforesaid Bill Crow, and Dave Bailey put together a masterpiece of what could be called “late night jazz”―subdued, worldly-wise, and subtly emotional. The album is a quest for classic beauty, which isn’t really much in style these days. I don’t think it’s just nostalgia on my part; it’s simply beautiful music. The title tune feature Mulligan on piano rather than baritone, with a bonus track of the same composition with him on clarinet. Art Farmer, especially on flugelhorn, is one of the most eloquent players ever. His tone, his choice of notes, and depth of feeling are always remarkable. Brookmeyer and hall fit the mood as well, with Crow and Bailey’s accompaniment in support. I’m not in the mood for analysis on this one―just listening.

Here's Festive Minor and Night Lights: