Archives for July 2007

The Rifftides staff is up against non-Rifftides deadlines. Rather than abandon you, we offer links to Lionel Hampton videos. You can use them in lieu of your morning coffee to perk you up, or benzedrine to keep you awake. The piece is “Flying Home,” which was to Hampton what home runs are to Barry Bonds and tie-breaking goals to Beckham.
The first version is from the 1960s. It has solos by Hamp and the very young baritone saxophonist Ronnie Cuber, playing with ferocity. The second is from a 1957 TV program hosted by the singer Patti Page. Hamp plays his patented solo, familiar but always swinging, until the full band comes in for the last chorus. The most remarkable thing about this performance is the driving bass playing of Milt Hinton. The only other sideman I can identify is Billy Mackel, Hampton’s guitarist for decades. He is a co-conspirator in swing with Hinton and the drummer, whose face is lost in shadow.
Seat belts, please.

The guest on Marian McPartland’s current edition of Piano Jazz is alto saxophonist Bud Shank. Engaging talk and fine quartet playing, including one of the fastest versions of “Beautiful Love” you’re likely to encounter. Go here.

This turned out to be Italian Sunday. My frequent companion Vigorelli Bianchi and I went for a twenty-mile ride full of ups, downs and early morning beauty in the hills of orchard country. Back home, I wrapped up a two-day ciabatta project and baked four loaves, then made a dinner that also featured salmon, pasta with pesto and a homey 2000 La Loggia Barolo from Trader Joe’s. The wine is not a triumph of the Piedmont, but it worked with the meal. A classic (read expensive) Barolo would have fought with the salmon. The La Loggia was a bit pinot noirish and suited the fish and the pasta. For dessert, we had gelato and espresso.
The music I listened to in the kitchen was off the paisan track: Rostropovich playing Bach’s solo cello suites. No matter. When you’re in love with a day like this, the whole world’s Italian.

A year and a half ago a Rifftides report on the conference of the International Association of Jazz Educators included this paragraph:

It is impossible to predict the course of an artist’s career, but here’s a name to file away: Logan Strosahl. He is a sixteen-year-old alto saxophonist with the Roosevelt High School Jazz Band from Seattle, Washington. Strosahl has the energy of five sixteen-year-olds, rhythm that wells up from somewhere inside him, technique, harmonic daring with knowledge to support it and–that most precious jazz commodity–individuality. If he learns to control the whirlwind and allow space into his improvising, my guess is that you’ll be hearing from Logan Strosahl.

I heard Strosahl again last winter in a student adjudication at the Lionel Hampton Jazz Festival in Moscow, Idaho. For his appearance before the judges, he did not choose pushover pieces with easy harmonic structures; he played Thelonious Monk’s “Ruby, My Dear” and John Coltrane’s “Giant Steps.” Strosahl won a top evaluation, and response as close to an ovation as anyone is likely to get from an audience mainly composed of educators and competitors. For a short biography, click here.

Logan Strosahl
Last night at The Seasons Summer Festival in a concert billed as The Future of Jazz, I heard Strosahl again, not in the anxiety-inducing circumstance of an academic exercise but in a full-fledged gig. Leading a band called the Playtonic Quartet, in an hour’s performance he accomplished–at greater length and in greater depth–everything that prompted my enthusiasm for him in New York. With a rhythm section notable for its sensitivity and responsiveness, Strosahl showed that he has grown. Like Strosahl, bassist Jeff Picker is a national award winner in student music events and about to enter the Manhattan School of Music. Strosahl is off to the New England Conversatory in Boston, where, I predict, he will quickly gain notice when he takes time from his composition studies to jam in the city’s clubs. Pianist Victor Noriega and drummer Chris Icasiano, bright lights in the young adult division of Seattle’s jazz scene, were impressive in support and in solo.
Evidence of Strosahl’s increasing maturity included the opening up of space in his solos; pauses that allowed his ideas breathing room and emphasized the melodic and rhythmic content, including humor, in his choruses. His improvised lines have logic, continuity and originality, with a fine edge of freedom and wildness. His mastery of the saxophone and of harmony evidently allow him to play any idea that comes into his head. Tall and slender, with wide shoulders, he cannot repress the urge to stay in motion. Strosahl moved about the stage in movements between jerking and gliding, pausing to listen intently to his bandmates, uttering syllables of encouragement or approval, then resuming his ballet, often while playing, a thick crop of dark hair flopping over his forehead.
His time feeling is so strong that on a couple of occasions when someone in the rhythm section drifted almost imperceptibly out of plumb, all it took was two or three perfectly placed quarter notes from Strosahl to get things back on course. That is a technique well known to seasoned horn players, evidence of natural leadership in one so young. His improvisation on “It Could Happen to You” was, simply, one of the most satisfying solos I have heard in years. He showed judgment in program construction, with a balance between original compositions and standards to which the audience could relate. In his announcements, he was brief, good natured and informative, if a bit rushed in his delivery.
Strosahl is the son of Pat Strosahl, the driving force behind his family’s conversion of The Seasons from a church into one of the finest performance halls in the west. If this was a case of fatherly favoritism, it was one that could give nepotism a good name.

There is a joke from a category of jazz humor labeled the chick singer file. I hasten to add that there are plenty of non-chick singers to whom the sentiment of the story applies.
A woman asks to sit in with a band. The leader suggests “My Funny Valentine.” She agrees, but confesses that she’s a bit unsure of the bridge.
“That’s okay,” the leader tells her. “You’ll be next to the bass player. He knows it. If you get hung up, just turn to him.”
She approaches a part of the song where she needs help and looks at the bassist. He whispers, “D-minor, C-7, B-7, B-flat major 7.”
The story typifies musicians’ wry amusement and frequent frustration inspired by people without musical knowledge who try to be “jazz singers.” They are especially taken with those who decide they can improvise with their voices in the way that, say, Charlie Parker improvised with his alto saxophone. In her wonderful blog, Carol Sloane writes about the time she was asked to teach at the New England Conservatory and ended up with a brood of would-be scat singers. Here’s an excerpt:

You should not attempt Advanced Calculus (scat singing) until a firm grasp of basic math (chord structure) is achieved. My students much preferred the bungee-jump thrill of diving into wordless versions of “Joy Spring” or “Ornithology”. Yes, I certainly understand the desire to explore improvisational jazz since so many singers with impeccable credentials express themselves in this manner, thereby suggesting to the not-so talented that this activity is easy and without peril. My argument is that scat singing is an acquired attribute developed and nurtured over time. Listening to some blatantly confident but thoroughly unskilled scat singing can be harmful to your health, or (if you’re lucky) hysterically funny.

To read the whole thing go to SloaneView.

It’s amazing; YouTube can cosponsor presidential debates and still find time to put new music on the internet. In the past few days, up popped two clips of vibraharpist Charlie Shoemake playing and his wife Sandi singing with the Bill Holman Orchestra.

Charlie Shoemake Bill Holman Sandi Shoemake
YouTube provides no information beyond the superimposed titles, so the Rifftides staff swung (heh-heh) into research mode. The video was taken in Los Angeles during the making of Charlie Shoemake’s 1991 CD, Strollin’, a fine entry in the discographies of the Shoemakes and Holman. Stan Levey, the late drummer turned photographer, produced and directed a videotape at a rehearsal for the recording session. It is the source of the YouTube clips. To see and hear the clips, go here and here. The tenor saxophone soloist on “I’ll Never Stop Loving You” is Pete Christlieb.
Alerting me to the clips, Charlie Shoemake reminded me that I wrote the album notes for Strollin’. I looked them up and, as Paul Desmond used to say, didn’t have to cough too often during the playback. Here is a paragraph about Shoemake the teacher.

Shoemake goes a long way toward putting to rest the popular notion that jazz can be learned but not taught. When he came off the road in 1973 after six years with George Shearing, he settled down in Los Angeles to teach. For hundreds of musicians, he has solved the puzzles of improvisation. His system includes study of the solos of, among others, Charlie Parker, Fats Navarro and Hank Mobley. These were musicians for whom chords comprised territory to be won through exploration. Studying their solos does not mean memorizing notes in the light of the harmonic possibilities that led to their choice. It means learning to apply that knowledge at the speed of thought so that the student can make choices of notes and execute them with coherence on his instrument in improvised performance, often at rapid tempos while observing a time feeling that grows out of a communal pulse.

What’s more, he wrote a book about it.
On the CD and in the YouTube clips, Charlie Shoemake demonstrates that, sometimes, those who teach, can. And, as it says in those Strollin’ liner notes, Sandi Shoemake displays “her control, her intonation and the meaning she imparts to lyrics.” Holman reminds us, if a reminder is needed, that he is the eminence grise of modern arrangers, with a magnificent band that keeps helping him prove it. In addition to Christlieb, the 1991 version of the Holman band was loaded with stars including Lanny Morgan, Jeff Hamilton, Andy Martin, Bob Enevoldsen, Bob Summers and Carl Saunders.

No, that is not the name of an obscure Mississippi Delta blues man. It’s the title of my forthcoming novel, which has nothing to do with the Delta or the blues, except, perhaps, the kind we all have. A few Rifftides readers have expressed interest. On its web site, the publisher provides an excerpt and a few outside opinions. Please have a look.

In the right-hand column under Doug’s Picks, you will find new recommendations for your aural, visual and mental pleasure. Please use them responsibly.

When I arrived home after a post-concert hang late Saturday night, I found this message from a musician friend:

Has there ever been a better concert at the Seasons than the Ingrid Jensen one this evening?

No. I have attended most of the jazz and classical events at The Seasons in its nearly two years of operation. I have heard wonderful performances in that former church, with its dramatic domed space and nearly perfect acoustics, but none better than when Jensen, the gifted Canadian trumpeter, and pianist Benny Green got together in a one-off collaboration. Creative sparks flew.

Ingrid Jensen
Jensen’s quartet included drummer Jon Wikan, bassist Russ Botten of Vancouver British Columbia, and Green. They were headed to western Washington state to teach at the Centrum Port Townsend Jazz Workshop this week and perform at the festival there next weekend. A convenient gig on the way to Port Townsend, the stop at The Seasons in Yakima grew into a memorable evening. Before they were married a couple of years ago, Jensen and Wikan developed musical empathy. In their own groups, with the Maria Schneider Orchestra and with other bands, they have become one of New York’s most remarkable musical couples.

Saturday was one of those occasions when the combination of musicians, location, audience and circumstances elevated the proceedings. Jensen and Wikan had just come off vacation. They were relaxed and ready to play. Green is always ready to play. He was accomplished so young that he seems to have been around longer than his age makes possible, a phenomenon enhanced by his looking at least ten years younger than forty-four. The Seasons audience is chronically attentive and knowledgeable. How they got so hip in a small city in the middle of an agricultural area with no jazz history to speak of, I cannot tell you. They know what they’re hearing and react in the right places.

Saturday night, a bond quickly developed on stage and between the musicians and the listeners. In what was essentially an ad hoc group, harmonic and rhythmic extrasensory perception emerged with the first piece, a fast “If I Were a Bell.” Jensen’s abstraction of an arrangement encouraged chance-taking in a round of solos by all hands, ending in a spontaneous tag inspired by the fifty-year-old Red Garland ding-dong piano introduction to the Miles Davis recording of the song. When it ended, smiles decorated the bandstand. Then, through Freddie Hubbard’s “Up Jumped Spring” to the wildness of an impressionistic “Summer Night,” there was so much variety, so much inventiveness, that time flew. When it was over, I was surprised to discover that the concert had run a good half hour beyond its scheduled end.

Benny Green
It is impossible to analyze with accuracy what is responsible for a performance that rises above even the usual excellence of artists of the quality of Jensen, Green, Wikan and Botten. I have a notion that what fired it up in this instance was the depth and unusual makeup of Green’s accompanying chords in the first piece, and the way he applied them rhythmically. The harmonic changes in his comping stimulated Jensen to daring ideas that she incorporated in long, flowing melodic lines through the entire concert. The range and virtuosity of her trumpet and fluegelhorn playing are givens. What I am emphasizing is the lyric and melodic content of her improvisations. For a decade or more, I have listened to her develop as a soloist. This was, simply, the best I have ever heard her play. Green, at a nine-foot Steinway, matched Jensen’s brilliance. So did Wikan, in his ensemble work and in solo. This was my first opportunity to hear Botten at length. He does not engage in the fingerboard acrobatics that put many modern bassists into competition with guitarists. He plays good time and good notes, listens carefully to what his colleagues are doing, responds with appropriate support and improvises well when he is called upon to solo.

I steeled myself when Jensen bent down to set up an electronic loop device, but was relieved that she used it to enhance, not dominate, the music. She combined the looping echo and repetition overlays with a Harmon mute producing judicious wa-wa effects in “It Never Entered My Mind.” Her performance took on an endearingly–well, loopy–aspect, complete with an extended quote from “Petrouchka” as she wrapped up her stunning solo on “Summer Night.” I don’t know whether in a recording studio this group could capture the camaraderie, looseness and stimulation they found on Saturday night. I hope that they will give it a try.

In the meantime, Jensen and Wikan team with Ingrid’s saxophonist-composer sister Christine, the Swedish pianist and composer Maggi Olin and bassist Mattias Welin in the new CD Flurry. The group is called Nordic Connect. The CD is full of what Ingrid Jensen in the liner notes calls “happy-sad” music. Christine Jensen’s piece “Garden Hour” is a highlight in an album that is at once stimulating and peaceful.

Benny Green’s album Bluebird places him in a duo setting with a frequent partner, the guitarist Russell Malone. They support and energize one another in a fiesta of harmonic and rhythmic ingenuity. The fun is infectious.

For two years, the Doug’s Books section of the right-hand column has ended with this forecast:

His next book is a novel that has almost nothing to do with music.

That is about to change. The target date for publication is next month. Am I relieved, breathing easier? Yes. Am I excited? You bet. Please stay tuned.

Singular They
By way of suggesting that I was misguided when I railed against the use of “they” with singular antecedents, Rifftides reader David Seidman directed me to a web log called Language Log. Language Log summons up the Bible and Shakespeare to make the case that “everyone” and “themselves” are good partners, and concludes, alliteratively:

This use of “they” isn’t ungrammatical, it isn’t a mistake, it’s a feature of ordinary English syntax that for some reason attracts the ire of particularly puristic pusillanimous pontificators, and we don’t buy what they’re selling.

If this argument interests you, here is Mr. Seidman’s communique, complete with links to Language Log entries on the matter and, for dessert, to an essay on Ray Charles and a language choice he made in a performance of one of his most famous specialties.

A covey of professors of linguistics operates a blog called Language Log. One of the professors wrote, some time ago, “Singular they, as we’ve repeated at tiresome length, has been sanctioned for centuries by the usage of esteemed writers, though it’s deprecated by some.” These blog posts cover singular they in the Bible and in Shakespeare, as well as some other things:
Some of the same material is covered in the Wikipedia article Singular They — Wikipedia notes the content is disputed (and the full notes on the disputes seem to be available).
While at Language Log (which I read regularly, perhaps less because I am interested in language than because the writers write well, interestingly, and often very amusingly), you might want to take a look at this entry, which has nothing to do with the singular they. It is an appreciation of Ray Charles’s magnificence, combined with an analysis of a linguistic error in his recording of “America the Beautiful” — the analysis includes a highly plausible discussion of the likely reasons why Charles made the error.
David Seidman

As for the Rifftides staff, it invites, or they invite, further discussion. Just click on the “Comments” link at the bottom of this item.
Have a linguistically satisfying weekend.

Any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae. –Kurt Vonnegut Jr
One should not be too severe on English novels; they are the only relaxation of the intellectually unemployed. –Oscar Wilde

Rifftides reader Marc Myers writes:

Among the most underrated and barely celebrated pianists from the 1950s has to be Lorraine Geller, the late wife of alto saxophonist Herb Geller, who today lives in Germany. Stylistically, Lorraine was a funky bop cross between Bud Powell and Horace Silver. She can be heard playing with Herb on a number of solid Emarcy LPs from the mid-50s, including Herb Geller Plays and the stunning The Gellers. Just listen to “Araphoe” from The Gellers, which is set to Cherokee changes–or the loping “Two of a Kind.”

No mouse, Lorraine was always in full command. She also can be heard on
Miles Davis and The Lighthouse All-Stars and was a sidewoman on many notable West Coast 1950s dates. Some of her solo efforts are captured on the import, Lorraine Geller at the Piano. But my favorites feature Lorraine playing in Maynard Ferguson’s Dimensions and Around the Horn big bands of 1955-56. Perhaps her high point was her vamping front and center on Bill Holman’s “Dancing Nitely,” which builds steadily and showcases Lorraine’s signature touch throughout. And dig her on Holman’s “Wildman.” The Ferguson sessions can be found on Jazz Masters 52. Lorraine died of a heart ailment shortly after her 30th birthday in October 1958. Sadly, she’s all but forgotten today. Here’s to Lorraine Geller!

Thanks to Mr. Myers for those leads to the work of a pianist who deserves the attention–and more. She came in for mention in this Rifftides item from April, 2006. While we’re visiting the past, we may as well replay the Doug’s Picks that occasioned that piece.
Herb Geller Plays the Arthur Schwartz Songbook (Hep). The enduring, and enduringly inventive, alto and soprano saxophonist visits seventeen songs by the unclassifiable composer of whom Alec Wilder said, “quality was his style.” Melody was his style, too. Schwartz wrote songs that brighten the atmosphere of American life; “Dancing in the Dark,” “You and the Night and the Music,” “Gal in Calico,” “A Shine on My Shoes,” “Alone Together” and the others addressed by Geller and an excellent rhythm section of Britons barely known outside the UK. As tough-minded and disciplined as musicians come, Geller reaches deeply into these songs to extract beauty and joy. The Schwartz pieces bring out the romantic aspect of his nature and–I rather imagine–of the listeners’. In Geller’s hands, “That’s Entertainment,” the album closer, is a smile-inducing bebop romp.
Rahsaan Roland Kirk: Brotherman in the Fatherland (Hyena). Kirk died in 1977, but Hyena’s Joel Dorn keeps finding music by the astonishing multi-instrumentalist that is worth issuing. In this case, it comes from a 1972 date at the Funkhaus in Hamburg, Germany. The album finds Kirk fully armed with tenor saxophone, flute, nose flute, manzello, stritch, clarinet and siren. Now and then, he plays three of the horns at once. Early in his career, he was accused of using that capability as a gimmick. But Kirk’s real gimmicks, if you care to think of them that way, were his deep musicianship and his massive, unending, energy. He unleashes both in a breathtaking seventeen-and-a-half-minute examination of the blues on John Coltrane’s “Blue Trane.” I would call it the highlight of the CD, except for Kirk’s live cross-fade from a gloriously unadorned “Lush Life” on tenor sax to manzello and the Latin urgencies of “Afro Blue.” This is exciting stuff.

In the steady dumbing-down of the English language, there is little dumber than the convoluting fandango that began about twenty years ago to achieve political correctness by avoiding gender. Today’s Wall Street Journal story about efforts to protect the pre-publication sanctity of the new Harry Potter book quotes Potter’s inventor, J.K. Rowling:

I’d like to ask everyone who calls themselves a Potter fan to help preserve the secrecy of the plot for all those who are looking forward to reading the book at the same time on publication day.

“…everyone who calls themselves a Potter fan…”
It shouldn’t be too difficult for a professional writer to figure out ways of avoiding singular-plural disagreement. How about, “…people who call themselves Potter fans…” or “…those who call themselves Potter fans…” Ms. Rowling could work around the generic “himself” by using “herself.” That’s not an ideal solution, but it doesn’t make my teeth hurt. Perhaps it is inevitable that “they” will replace “him” and “her” in the English language, but I’m not going to let it happen without a fight.
What kind of sentence is this?

President Bush saying we’ll have to wait for General Petraeus’s report.

It is not a sentence. Nor is:

Officials telling Fox News the fire is eighty-seven percent contained.

Fox News and, I regret to report, established news organizations that don’t use the slogan “fair and balanced” have adopted this imbecilic way of writing and talking, evidently in the interest of imparting a sense of urgency and immediacy to the news. If you haven’t noticed, the news these days is urgent and immediate all by itself. It doesn’t need hypeing at the expense of further deterioration of English usage.
Children may be listening. We wouldn’t want them to think that’s how to speak. People who know good English may be listening. We wouldn’t want them to suffer apoplexy.