Archives for February 2007

Considering that the last of his last four albums was released in 1966 and only one of them is available on CD, there has been a suprising amount of response to the January Rifftides piece about the music of Rod Levitt. A message that arrived this morning updates the Levitt story.

Rod Levitt turned 75 years old in September 2004. In June of that year, after having made contact with him through various friends and acquaintances, I drove up to S. Wardsboro, Vermont where Rod and his wife Jean and their many dogs have lived for years. My purpose was to interview him so I could do a feature on him and his recordings for my radio show, “Jazz from Stuio Four” heard on WGBH, 89.7FM, Boston. The program aired on September 17th, 2004, one day after his 75th.
It took a while to find their house, nestled back on a series of dirt roads that seemed to go nowhere but, voila! There I was pulling into their driveway after making various turns at certain landmarks and mailboxes given to me as signposts (a left at the white picket fence and another left at the falling down garage). The mailbox that looked like a red barn led me up their long gravel road).
I spent the afternoon with Rod. We had lunch and then settled down to work. I brought a DAT tape machine, a couple of good quality microphones and some headphones. Rod’s memory was spotty. Somethings he remembered in minute detail, other times he couldn’t recall the name of someone he sat next to in Dizzy’s band. I myself don’t remember if this was due to his being in the early stages of Altzheimers or Parkinsons. But he ultimately came through and managed to tell me wonderful stories of his days in New York, meeting Quincy Jones, Dizzy and many others and the recordings that he made with them and his own for Riverside and RCA Victor. At times he became very emotional and teary eyed as he recalled a name of location that meant a great deal to him but that he hadn’t thought about in years. He still had his horn and I asked him if he would mind playing something for me. He played the opening notes of “Hollar” from The Dynamic Sound Patterns…
Always Know,
Steve Schwartz
Jazz from Studio Four
Friday, 8p-midnight
WGBH, 89.7FM, Boston
www.wgbh.org/jazz

I have no idea how many recorded jazz versions there are of Cole Porter’s Songs. Hundreds, I imagine, possibly thousands. Think what handsome contributions “Love For Sale,” “I Love You,” Easy To Love” and “You’d Be So Nice To Come Home To” must have made to Porter’s royalties income. Of course, melodic evasions like “Hot House,” based on the harmonic structure of “What Is This Thing Called Love,” did not add to his riches; you can’t copyright a chord pattern.
Like most of the classic American song writers, Porter regarded jazz musicians warily when they adapted his creations, but I think he would have liked a forthcoming CD by the elegant Swedish pianist Jan Lundgren. It consists entirely of love songs by Porter. Before he and his trio go into improvisation, Lundgren honors Porter by playing his melodies as the composer wrote them. Preparing an essay for the album, I was reminded of an exchange Porter had with Andre Previn during Previn’s youthful career writing scores for Hollywood films. Previn recounted it in his book No Minor Chords, one of the funniest and most endearing of all motion picture memoirs.

Cole Porter was the most elegant of creatures, his manners as courtly as his dress. Only once did I hear him voice a vituperative opinion. I was working on the film version of Kiss Me Kate, and Cole had interpolated the song “From This Moment On” into the existing score, for use as an elaborate dance number. “I have to warn you about something before you start making this arrangement, he said to me, his voice quite angry. “This tune has been recorded by Woody Herman and his band. Have you ever heard of him?”
I nodded eagerly. “Well,” he went on,” what they did to my tune is absolutely disgusting. It was turned into a loud, strident jazz mess, and the melody is just about unrecognizable. It’s a good example of someone not having any idea what the tune is about!” He stopped, thought for a moment, and grew less choleric. Finally he smiled. “But what am I talking about. Your arrangements are always so theatrical and correct for the occasion, I’m sure I’ll love what you write.” And, indeed, when he came to the recording, he was fulsome in his praise. “That’s more like it,” he said, smiling. “I knew you would understand the song.”
I never told him that I had written the arrangement for Woody Herman as well.

No Minor Chords is out of print, but Amazon.com seems to have plenty of used copies. I wouldn’t dream of giving his tales away, but Previn’s story behind the book’s title and his Ava Gardner reminiscence alone are worth much more than the price of a recycled copy.

A family emergency has called me away. I don’t know for how long, but the nature of the emergency has me not daring to hope that it will be a short stay. I’ll be posting again as soon as possible.
DR

The Grammy win last night by Brian Lynch and Eddie Palmieri for Best Latin Jazz Album is also a victory for the proposition that independence can bring rewards. Lynch said goodbye to the oversight of record companies, produced Simpático on his own and released it with ArtistShare, the cooperative venture that allows musicians greater control over their recorded work and a greater share of the profit from it. Even better, it’s a splendid CD. To read last fall’s Rifftides review of Simpático, go here.
The focus of much attention lately on Rifftides, Michael Brecker posthumously won his twelfth Grammy for his tenor saxophone solo on “Some Skunk Funk”.
Congratulations to friend Dan Morgenstern. He won for best liner notes for Fats Waller: If You Got To Ask, You Ain’t Got It, discussed under the current Doug’s Picks in the right-hand column.

Rifftides Washington, DC correspondent John Birchard heard Dave Holland’s new band the other night and filed this report.

Terrace Theater, John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, Washington, D.C.

February 9, 2007.

Dave Holland, bass; Robin Eubanks, trombone; Antonio Hart, alto saxophone; Alex Sipiagin, trumpet & fluegelhorn; Mulgrew Miller, piano; Eric Harland, drums.

Dave Holland made his third visit to the Kennedy Center, leading a band he described as “a relatively new project.” The British-born bassist is coming off a banner year, having been named Bassist of the Year for 2006 by readers of Down Beat, his quintet named Best Jazz Group and his big band voted Best Big Band. On the evidence of last night’s first set, Holland is not resting on those laurels.
The new band can justifiably be called an all-star group. There are no weak links. The audience that filled the Terrace Theater heard a set of originals by the leader that showcased each musician in arrangements that demonstrated freshness and originality. Holland kicked off the evening with a snappy Latin piece that featured Mulgrew Miller and Robin Eubanks.
A tribute to the late Ray Brown, “Mister B”, followed. A loose-limbed, medium swinger, the tune reminded one of Brown and featured Miller again and altoist Antonio Hart, who is not afraid to allow space as he builds a solo and will mine a phrase, repeating it as if examining it first from one side then another, not just stuffing notes in as a substitute for thought.
An up-tempo “Interception” was next, offering an intense Alex Sipiagin whose chops are impressive and tone on trumpet is bright. His fiery playing put me in mind of my youth when Europeans were considered second-rate jazz players. Those days are long gone, thank God. If any proof were needed, the work by Sipiagin and his leader last night were fine examples. The fast, staccato piece came to a close with Eric Harland’s drum solo, which at times sounded like a machine gun with hiccups.
Holland then introduced another of his originals, one inspired he said by a scene from the old movie Cleopatra, in which Elizabeth Taylor made her stately way down the Nile on a barge. He calls it “Processional” and its exotic minor sound and leisurely pace offered a chance to hear Sipiagin’s mellow fluegelhorn state the melody and gave Antonio Hart another pleasing showcase.
The set concluded all too soon with a tribute to the late drummer Ed Blackwell and his New Orleans background, titled “Pass It On”. Holland, who played a 3/4-sized bass throughout, began the tune with an unaccompanied pizzicato solo that featured soulful double- and triple-stops and gradually morphed into a rhythmic beat that had the audience fairly tasting the gumbo of the Crescent City. Harland slid in underneath Holland and showed the Blackwell beat did not die with its inventor. Robin Eubanks offered a fine, raucous solo full of smears and a burry sound appropriate to the tune and Antonio Hart turned up the temperature even more, leading to Eric Harland’s infectious solo and then out.
Dave Holland’s new band is a worthy successor to his previous quintet. At times, the front line reminded this listener of Art Blakey’s Jazz Messengers and at others of the Art Farmer-Benny Golson Jazztet. But mostly, the sextet bears the stamp of its leader. It is an uncompromising jazz band with a sound that is anchored in the past and looks ahead with intelligence, taste and imagination.
John Birchard

There have been several interesting comments about the Rifftides Pay To Play posting. Jim Brown’s comment constitutes an essay and gets a posting of its own. He wrote it in response to messages about the Pay To Play piece that appeared on a listserve devoted to west coast jazz. The emphases and the colorful language are all Mr. Brown’s.

I come at this with the perspective of engineer (formal training), jazz fan for 55 years, actively working in and with jazz clubs for the last 30 years, and a background in accounting — both mom and dad were accountants.
In this modern world, our educations are “Balkanized” — that is, we specialize in whatever we’ve chosen to study seriously (usually, but not always what makes us a living), and rarely learn much about anything else — ESPECIALLY anything so venal as the economics (or the politics) of how the world works.
BUT:
You would have to be living under a very large rock to miss the facts 1) that rents for spaces that are suitable for jazz clubs are sky high; 2) sound and lighting to support jazz isn’t cheap; 3) people who make decent waitresses and bartenders for jazz clubs need to be “a cut above” in terms of intelligence and sensitivity, and they deserve a living wage too; 4) it costs money to buy the advertising that fills the club; 5) there are taxes and licenses that a club owner must pay; 6) there are lots of nights in any jazz club I’ve ever been in with lots of empty seats, even with top musical talent and quality management.
The Jazz Showcase in Chicago has tried a bunch of locations over its 60+ years of existence, but not one of them that wasn’t in a high rent location has been successful! What do I mean by successful — fannies in the seats!
While I believe to the core of my existence that Jazz is the greatest artistic contribution of the 20th century, and on a par with the combined output of what we commonly call “classical music,” both classical music and jazz are minority interests to the population at large. The reasons for this reality are a sad comentary on the modern world, but they are a reality, and WE are fools if we ignore it.
We as jazz fans, and those of us who are musicians, all need to do our part as a TEAM to create, nurture, and support the jazz clubs that do exist, the people who make major investments in their time, talent, and dollars to make them run, the technical folk who work in those clubs when they could make lots more dollars elsewhere, and those who make the music. Without ANY of them, the jazz scene is far less rich (and damned well could disappear).
The “pay to play” syndrome that Marvin Stamm talks about is really about the musician sharing some of the cost of a financially unsuccessful gig. It costs the club owner a lot of money to open the club for a night. If it doesn’t come from folks who walk in the door, where does it come from? Especially because running a real jazz club is such a fragile business, you can’t have a lot of those nights and stay afloat.
When I was living in Chicago, I had a long standing offer of $2K to Joe Segal of The Jazz Showcase to book a very well known and very inventive pianist, if only for one night. He never took me up on it — it wasn’t enough, because he didn’t trust the pianist’s drawing power!
On the other hand, someone must promote the gig, and put the fannies in the seats. Usually that responsibility falls to the club owner. If it can be shared with a record company (or the artist), all the better. Veteran singer/pianist Judy Roberts, a stalwart of the Chicago club scene who ALWAYS seems to be working, does her part, in the form of a mailing list, circulating to greet her fans, and doing the things a real entertainer does to keep the audience satisfied.
ALL of us must be continually aware of the economic realities with every element of our contributions to the scene. I’m like Jack Benny in a gas station when I design sound systems or assist a jazz club owner in setting up his or her system. Musicians and jazz fans need to do the same. That includes everyone — musicians, bartenders, clubowners, and promoters working hard to make the audience feel appreciated and “in the scene.” It includes an audience that fills those clubs regularly, buys some drinks, and doesn’t bitch about the cover charge that pays the freight.
I’ll ask a rhetorical question here — “How many nights have readers of Rifftides spent in a jazz club over the past year?” As for the musicians among us, how many nights of a cover have YOU paid to support a jazz club in your community? Let those who answer, “more than once a week” cast the first stone. And the rest of you are full of s—.
Jim Brown

A reminder: Don’t miss the comments from fellow Rifftidesers. We get some interesting ones. There is a comments link at the end of every posting. While you’re there, please submit comments of your own. Your fellow readers and the staff like to hear from you.

The tireless Bret Primack has made the leap from mere blogging into video blogging. His first posting has a sixteen-minute mini-documentary about the late Michael Brecker. It includes Brecker discussing his playing, and an organized jam session with Michael, David Liebman, Joe Lovano and the incendiary rhythm section of Phil Markowitz, Rufus Reid and Billy Hart.
At the bottom of Primack’s page are links to several of his favorite YouTube videos, so I have him to thank for chewing up a substantial chunk of a morning I should have spent writing. No hard feelings, though, because I saw and heard Fred Astaire singing with Oscar Levant (I’m not making that up) and Lord Buckley as a guest on Groucho Marx’s You Bet Your Life. Younger Rifftides readers may think I’m suggesting a trip to fogeyville, but they are likely to discover that true hipness has no age. To find out for yourself, go here.
Be aware that YouTube has a second part of Astaire’s guest spot on the Levant show in which he does a brilliantly underplayed impression of Samuel Goldwyn.

Do not attempt to go to the Hotel Pianist blog recommended two items down. Hotel Pianist reports that an unscrupulous blogger ignored her request for anonymity and outed her, naming her hotel and posting a picture. She feels that she must decommission her blog in order to preserve her job. That is a shame because Hotel Pianist was a delight.

Doug McClennan, commander-in-chief of artsjournal.com and blog construction wizard, has shown the Rifftides staff how to keep older Doug’s Picks accessible. Following the current picks (right column), you will see the phrase more picks. Click on it. Then you will be able to scroll through all of the recommendations since the middle of last year. We are working on further refinements.

Thanks to fellow artsjournal.com traveler Terry Teachout for mentioning a blog of which I was unaware until ten minutes ago. It is witty, quiet and touching, and I can’t help wondering if that’s how the anonymous blogger known as The Hotel Pianist plays. Here are samples of her writing:

As I’ve written, I don’t often smile while sitting at the hotel piano. I used to smile automatically at guests who walked by, but on too many occasions, my smile was met with a scowl or a stone-cold expression. This hurt my feelings (hey, hotel pianists have feelings, too!), so my default expression is now a preemptive scowl. But if you happen to approach me with a shy smile, I’ll gladly return the pleasantry. (As long as you don’t request certain tunes.)

Comment Of The Night

“Before you were born,” said a wizened man who claimed to have attended high school with Bobby Timmons, “they used to have places like the Blue Note.” (The last time I checked, the Blue Note was alive and well, if a tourist trap!)

I am still racing multiple deadlines. It is late at night. I just finished one piece and am about to start another. There will be no further posting here tonight. So you may as well check in with The Hotel Pianist. Please come back tomorrow.

An accomplished pianist in New York, not famous but not obscure, told me about her attempts to find work. They were discouraging. There seemed to be no work. Then, the owner of an Italian restaurant made her an offer. She could play in the restaurant, but only Italian songs or those associated with Frank Sinatra. Oh, and one other thing: there would be no pay. It was an offer she refused. But look on the bright side. The owner didn’t tell her that she would have to pay him. Many musicians these days aren’t that lucky.
In the last century–not so long ago, really–the best bands in jazz became the best by working together in jazz clubs night after night, week after week. In the 1950s and ’60s, it was not unusual for a group to have two, three and even six-week engagements in New York clubs like The Half Note, The Five Spot, Slug’s, The Village Vanguard and The Jazz Gallery. There were counterparts elsewhere; the Jazz Showcase in Chicago, the Black Hawk in San Francisco, Sardi’s and Shelly’s Manne Hole in Los Angeles, The Lighthouse in Hermosa Beach. In the clubs during long runs, Art Blakey’s Jazz Messengers, the Lighthouse All-Stars, the Miles Davis Quintet, Shelly Manne and His Men, Cannonball Adderley’s Quintet, the Bill Evans Trio, the Modern Jazz Quartet, the Dave Brubeck Quartet, Cal Tjader’s quartet and many other groups perfected their music. None of them got rich playing clubs, but they grew together musically. Their exposure and popularity in the clubs led to record contracts and fame.

For Example
Club owners were not philanthropists. They were in business to make money, but they knew that in the long run if a band brought in enough customers, the economics would make sense for all concerned. Well, the long run is back there in the twentieth century, with recording contracts. Like nearly everything else in the most affluent economy the world has ever known, we want results now, the money now, return on investment now. Why should club owners be different? They are not, so many of them devise formulas whereby the musicians who play their clubs guarantee the club owner a profit. If you would like to know more about that, let Marvin Stamm explain it from the musician’s standpoint. He does so in the most recent edition of his excellent electronic newsletter, Cadenzas. Yes, musicians now sometimes have to pay to play in clubs. If that comes as news to you, if it shocks you, wait until you read the details in Stamm’s piece.

Marvin Stamm
Here is an excerpt:

Many club owners refuse to take any chances with musicians and their groups, and are rarely willing to expend an effort to develop any kind of working relationship with them. The artist is expected to assume total responsibility; rarely do you find a club willing to share any of the risk. This is a very sad situation, particularly for some of the newer groups or lesser-known artists, because it places many clubs more or less off limits except for an off-night or those times when or if the musician shows a willingness to “pay to play,” a practice with which I strongly disagree. The “pay to play” syndrome is something I don’t remember occurring when I came to New York in 1966. It now seems to have been going on for a good while and exemplifies what I have been writing about.

If an artist or group is new or unknown, some clubs – even the larger clubs – will ask that the artist or group’s record company guarantee that the club will break even. If there is no record company to back the artist, then he will probably have to guarantee this himself. An example of this is something I was told recently by someone close to me about a young saxophonist approaching the booker or owner of a club about bringing his quintet into the club on an off-night. The club agreed to pay the quintet five hundred dollars, but the musician had to guarantee the club attendance by thirty people for their performance – at twenty-five dollars a head, or a total of seven hundred and fifty dollars. If the artist didn’t draw those initial thirty people, the difference had to come out of his pocket. So, in essence, the leader of the quintet had to “pay to play.” Sad! Disgusting!

That is a small portion of a long, troubling article. To read the whole thing, go to Cadenzas and scroll down to “New York Jazz Clubs.” Fortunately for Marvin Stamm, talent and forty years of hard work have elevated him to a place where he doesn’t have to depend on night clubs to make a living. But he is worried about the next generation. It has never been easy for young musicians to find places to polish their art and be heard. Now, it’s even tougher, and they may be forced to pay for the opportunity.

The lyfe so short, the craft so long to lerne —Geoffrey Chaucer

A man may write at any time, if he will set himself doggedly to it —Samuel Johnson

No writer ever truly succeeds. The disparity between the work conceived and the work completed is always too great and the writer merely achieves an acceptable degree of failure —Philip Caputo

I have just wrapped up a project that gave me enormous pleasure, writing the notes for Jessica Williams’ next CD, recorded in a solo concert at The Seasons. I’ll let you know when it is available. Talking with Jessica, I learned that her music and her life are changing and that another remarkable pianist, Glenn Gould, is playing a major role in the transition. (See this Rifftides posting involving Gould).
It seems unlikely that one of the major living jazz pianists will leave the field, but that’s how Ms. Williams is talking, and how she recently wrote about jazz in her web log.

I now avoid the word. I bracket it in quotation marks. I have come to dislike the word. The word itself derives from roots that hold disrespectful and flatly barbaric connotations for me. I do not feel like a jazz musician. I do not know what that is anymore.

Perhaps I am too sober. Being a non-drinker and a non-smoker, having left all of my nasty little vices and habits behind, I don’t often feel comfortable around true “jazz buffs”. When I play festivals (which I do with much less frequency than before) I feel as though I’m at a really big, loud party where everyone is having an absolutely great time but me. The wine is flowing and the smoke is blowing and the drums are banging and the bass is twanging and I feel totally displaced.

I have either moved away from it or it has moved away from me.

There is much more about this in Jessica’s blog piece. I, for one, would be disappointed if she left jazz behind, but I will listen to anything she plays. There are indications of her new direction in that forthcoming Seasons CD, along with generous portions of–you should pardon the expression–jazz. There were no banging drums at the concert. There was no twanging bass. Wine did not flow, but it was sipped. Everyone did have an absolutely great time. Maybe even Jessica Williams.

Too many valuable people are dying. Now, Molly Ivins is gone. In my journalism career, I encountered Molly now and then. I was once on a panel with her, discussing journalism ethics. It was around the time of the O.J. Simpson trial. Molly, naturally, found the circus atmosphere surrounding the trial horrifying enough to warrant her most serious attention, meaning that she was wickedly funny about it. What I remember of the hour is that we were all shaking with laughter. Molly found the spectacle of herd journalism almost as worthy of skewering as the opera buffo of Texas politics. I see no one among the current crop of syndicated columnists who is likely to replace that invaluable woman. My artsjournal.com colleague Jan Herman’s fine piece about Molly includes many links. To read it, go here.

This announcement will be of interest to many in the New York area.

MICHAEL BRECKER MEMORIAL

Tuesday, February 20th

Town Hall

123 West 43rd Street

6:00-7:30 pm

General Admission

Public Invited

Doors open at 5.15pm

If you have sent Rifftides a comment in the past 24 hours, please send it again…unless you are one of the spammers who caused a wipeout that erased all pending comments. We apologize for the inconvenience.

Whitney Balliett
Writing about jazz generally takes one of two paths, analysis or appreciation. Whitney Balliett was not a musicologist, but one of the field’s most gifted appreciators. His descriptions of what he heard, saw and felt in music are among the best twentieth century English prose in any field. Consider this passage about Thelonious Monk.

His improvisations were attempts to disguise his love of melody. He clothed whatever he played with spindly runs, flatted notes, flatted chords, repeated single notes, yawning silences, and zigzag rhythms. Sometimes he pounded the keyboard with his right elbow. His style protected him not only from his love of melody but from his love of the older pianists he grew out of — Duke Ellington and the stride pianists. All peered out from inside his solos, but he let them escape only as parody.

Musicians and academic analysts often found more poetry than accuracy in some of Balliett’s lyrical descriptions of performances and called him to account for evaluations like his contention that Max Roach didn’t swing. But it was easy to forgive him anything when he created sentences like these from an account of Pee Wee Russell’s clarinet playing.

By this time, his first chorus is over, and one has the impression of having just passed through a crowd of jostling, whispering people.

In his final chorus, he moves snakily up toward the middle register with a series of tissue-paper notes and placid rests, adopting a legato attack that allows the listener to move back from the edge of his seat.

Balliett’s skill at describing music was matched by his ability to capture the those who make it, as in this passage about Earl Hines at the piano.

Hines–tall and quick-moving, with a square, noble face–is a hypnotic performer. His almost steady smile is an unconscious, transparent mask. When he is most affected, the smile freezes–indeed, his whole face clenches. Then the smile falters, revealing a desolate, piercing expression, which melts into another smile. He tosses his head back and opens his mouth, hunches over, sways from side to side, and rumbling to himself, clenches his face again, tears of sweat pouring down his face. His face and his manner are his music–the sort of perfect, non-showman showmanship that stops the heart.

Balliett was not enamored of the avant garde of the sixties, writing that “It depends not on mere emotion but on an armored passion.” Nonetheless, he went to hear its leading figures and gave it a balanced assessment.

At its worst, then, the new thing is long-winded, dull, and almost physically abrasive. At its best–in the hands of Ornette Coleman or (Cecil) Taylor–it howls through the mind and heart, filling them with an honest ferocity that is new in jazz and perhaps in any music.

Balliett was the jazz critic of The New Yorker for forty years under its brilliant editor William Shawn. The magazine’s new owners forced Shawn out in 1987. As the editorial leadership went through changes, Balliett was downgraded, finally reduced to doing short profiles. Not long after he was relegated to a quickie sketch of Barbra Streisand, he disappeared from The New Yorker altogether, one of the magazine’s greatest assets flung away. In his last decade, he wrote occasional articles for other magazines and a few memorable pieces for The New York Review of Books.
Most of Balliett’s work for The New Yorker was anthologized in books. Two of the most recent are American Musicians II: Seventy-one Portraits in Jazz and Collected Works: A Journal of Jazz 1954-2001.
After having read him all of my adult life, I finally met Balliett in 1997, prepared to tell him what his work had meant to me. He derailed me with kind words about something I had written. I managed to get back on track with praise that embarassed him. We had occasional encounters when I was in New York. After our last conversation, I had no doubt that The New Yorker’s rejection had done serious damage to his spirit.
Yesterday, I learned with sadness that Whitney Balliett was ill. Today, he died. He was eighty years old. I shall miss him.

The second half of a remarkable concert I told you about last October is going to hit the airwaves and cyberspace this weekend. Here is the announcement from Jim Wilke:

Jazz meets classical music in Part 2 of a concert by The Bill Mays Trio and members of Finisterra on Jazz Northwest on Sunday February 4 at 1 pm Pacific time, 4 pm Eastern time, on KPLU. The New York based jazz trio is joined by members of a Seattle chamber group in music by Ravel, Bach & Bird as well as original music by Bill Mays and Matt Wilson. Narrator Doug Ramsey joins the group on two selections, one including the poems of Carl Sandburg. The concert was recorded last Fall at The Seasons in Yakima. Jazz Northwest is produced by Jim Wilke exclusively for broadcast on 88.5, KPLU and kplu.org

A rehearsal with the Mays trio and Finisterra. I am
lurking behind Mays at the piano. On seeing the photograph,
Matt Wilson sent a message: “Man, do I have a gorgeous left
leg or what???”
You can hear the program at 88.5 fm in the Seattle area, or in KPLU’s streaming audio on your computer.