In the late summer of 1971 I received a phone call from Tom Rowe. We had a gig that weekend coming up, and so he asked rhetorically, "Guess who you're playing with this weekend?" Who, I asked. "Lenny Breau!" I was incredulous. I had just recently been listening to Dick Demers' copy of "The Velvet Touch of Lenny Breau Live!", one of the greatest jazz guitar records ever. At first I thought he meant Denny, Lenny's younger brother and close friend of Tom, but, no, it was in fact Lenny. Moreover, Tom invited me to meet him that week at Lenny's mother's house.
So I called my friend Rich Keene, who had a driver's license (and was also on the gig), and a couple of days later we drove to Eighth Street in New Auburn and filed into the basement, where Lenny was reclining in the darkness on a bed, listening to Bill Evans. Denny introduced us. "Lenny, I want you to meet some friends of mine," he announced. A hand with long fingernails appeared from the darkness. "Like, pleased to meet you," Lenny volunteered in a friendly voice. His hair descended past his shoulders and he sported a Fu Manchu. After a few pleasantries, Rich and I made our way home, prepared to pick Lenny up for the gig that Saturday.
We arrived and found Lenny ready to go. As we left I remember he bantered in French with his mother and some relatives. Then we settled into Rich's mother's '66 Impala, three-abreast in the front seat, Lenny in the middle. I had rather awkwardly affected a smoking habit and had a box of Tiparillos in my pocket. Lenny asked for one and so we smoked cigars together as we rode toward Murray Hall in Jay, which is about an hour drive from Auburn. At a certain point I told him how much I liked "The Velvet Touch". Already nervous, I began to wonder how to respond as he detailed some of the experience of playing at Shelly's Manne Hole the week they recorded The Velvet Touch.
We arrived at the gig and after setting up, Tom and the trumpeter Paul Lapointe called the first tune, 'By The Time I Get To Phoenix'. Lenny didn't know it, so they placed the sheet music in front of him, and we began to play. Suddenly all of this incredible music emerged and I was taken aback by its power. It was all there, the lush voicings, the sound, harmonics, the time. It made me feel intimidated, but in a good way. Lenny couldn't have been nicer. We talked on a break and he praised his brother Denny's guitar playing. Later Lenny entertained the wedding crowd with some solo guitar things, including playing 'Yankee Doodle' and 'Dixie' at the same time.
Lenny got a ride back to Auburn with Tom, but we encountered each other again in the fall on a few gigs. Many years later I ended up playing with Lenny in a trio on and off for a few years. But I have Tom Rowe to thank for introducing us and giving me the opportunity to play with him for the first time 36 years ago this summer.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Tom Rowe
I'll be playing at a benefit concert with Tony Gaboury and David Wells this weekend called "Remembering Tom Rowe". It is largely a folk music concert, as Tom was heavily involved in the folk music scene. He passed away a couple of years ago from cancer, and so all the money from the concert goes to The Maine Cancer Society. Tom's son Dave-himself an excellent musician- invited me to put a group together for the show. For the concert we are playing some music associated with or in tribute to Lenny Breau, who I first met through Tom.
Tom Rowe was a marvelous human being. He inspired confidence and seemed genuinely interested in the people around him. He was positive, hopeful, enthusiastic, forward-thinking, funny, and he loved music and musicians. Tom was also very hip in many ways, at least I thought so, and I looked up to him. Although barely out of his teens himself in 1970-71, he was married, and made a living playing when he wasn't going to school at USM (then UMPG).
I played some of my first gigs with him when I was 14, 15 years old. He played alto in those days, fronting a wedding band that played standards and other wedding music. The first gig I played for money was a wedding with Tom in a band that included Denny Breau, a fine guitarist in his own write (and now a wonderful singer-songwriter and recording artist) who happens to be the brother of Lenny, generally acknowledged to be one of the greatest guitar players who ever lived. After the gig I told Denny how much I liked his playing. "If you think I'm good, " he replied, "you should hear my brother!"
Tom used to pick me up for gigs, since I didn't have a driver's license yet. He drove a VW bus. I really looked forward to playing with him. The whole experience was very exciting for me, even though I didn't want to show it. I enjoyed the rides probably just as much as the gigs. We talked a lot about music, and during these trips I learned about the musician life, as well as music. Tom was very knowledgeable and had good taste. He was an educated musician who played a variety of instruments, and he was a great singer. I barely could play the drums and didn't know one chord from another.
Tom loved jazz, and spoke about the music like a jazz musician. It was Tom who pointed out to me that the Miles Davis solo on the title track to 'Bitches Brew'- then a new release- was based on the Blood Sweat and Tears song 'Spinning Wheel'. This is an obvious connection when you listen, but I have yet to hear anybody point this fact out, including the jazz critical establishment or other musicians. Even the bass line has a tangential relationship, but I digress.
Tom also told me about John Coltrane's 'Ascension' and free jazz. I remember him trying to explain that record to me. When I finally heard it, I knew what he was talking about.
Tom was my ride to a concert in early 1971 by The Tony Williams Lifetime, one of the most significant concerts I have ever attended. Tony's drumming was astounding technically and musically. I had never conceived of music like that before; the musicians were so serious about their playing and created a dark, intense, loud mystique. Although I mostly remained quiet on the way home, trying to process the devastating music I had just experienced, I asked Tom what he might call the music played that night. "Free Rock!" he said with a laugh. This concise and off-handed response was a pretty good description.
Tom was enthusiastic about all music, but he reserved his greatest enthusiasm for musicians he knew. Tom loved Dick Demers- then his brother-in-law- and he admired Dick's drumming. I'm sure he picked up a lot of jazz from Dick. But he really loved Denny Breau and his brother Lenny. Tom was off the hook talking about Dennis, who was his friend and sometime collaborator from boyhood. He loved Denny's playing and free spirit. They both shared an interest in the same things musically- acoustic playing, vocal harmonies, and so on.
I will pick up on my memories of Tom and our encounter with Lenny Breau in my next post.
Tom Rowe was a marvelous human being. He inspired confidence and seemed genuinely interested in the people around him. He was positive, hopeful, enthusiastic, forward-thinking, funny, and he loved music and musicians. Tom was also very hip in many ways, at least I thought so, and I looked up to him. Although barely out of his teens himself in 1970-71, he was married, and made a living playing when he wasn't going to school at USM (then UMPG).
I played some of my first gigs with him when I was 14, 15 years old. He played alto in those days, fronting a wedding band that played standards and other wedding music. The first gig I played for money was a wedding with Tom in a band that included Denny Breau, a fine guitarist in his own write (and now a wonderful singer-songwriter and recording artist) who happens to be the brother of Lenny, generally acknowledged to be one of the greatest guitar players who ever lived. After the gig I told Denny how much I liked his playing. "If you think I'm good, " he replied, "you should hear my brother!"
Tom used to pick me up for gigs, since I didn't have a driver's license yet. He drove a VW bus. I really looked forward to playing with him. The whole experience was very exciting for me, even though I didn't want to show it. I enjoyed the rides probably just as much as the gigs. We talked a lot about music, and during these trips I learned about the musician life, as well as music. Tom was very knowledgeable and had good taste. He was an educated musician who played a variety of instruments, and he was a great singer. I barely could play the drums and didn't know one chord from another.
Tom loved jazz, and spoke about the music like a jazz musician. It was Tom who pointed out to me that the Miles Davis solo on the title track to 'Bitches Brew'- then a new release- was based on the Blood Sweat and Tears song 'Spinning Wheel'. This is an obvious connection when you listen, but I have yet to hear anybody point this fact out, including the jazz critical establishment or other musicians. Even the bass line has a tangential relationship, but I digress.
Tom also told me about John Coltrane's 'Ascension' and free jazz. I remember him trying to explain that record to me. When I finally heard it, I knew what he was talking about.
Tom was my ride to a concert in early 1971 by The Tony Williams Lifetime, one of the most significant concerts I have ever attended. Tony's drumming was astounding technically and musically. I had never conceived of music like that before; the musicians were so serious about their playing and created a dark, intense, loud mystique. Although I mostly remained quiet on the way home, trying to process the devastating music I had just experienced, I asked Tom what he might call the music played that night. "Free Rock!" he said with a laugh. This concise and off-handed response was a pretty good description.
Tom was enthusiastic about all music, but he reserved his greatest enthusiasm for musicians he knew. Tom loved Dick Demers- then his brother-in-law- and he admired Dick's drumming. I'm sure he picked up a lot of jazz from Dick. But he really loved Denny Breau and his brother Lenny. Tom was off the hook talking about Dennis, who was his friend and sometime collaborator from boyhood. He loved Denny's playing and free spirit. They both shared an interest in the same things musically- acoustic playing, vocal harmonies, and so on.
I will pick up on my memories of Tom and our encounter with Lenny Breau in my next post.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Alvin Batiste
Clarinetist and educator Alvin Batiste passed away recently. He was a force in New Orleans and mentored countless musicians who went on to have notable careers in jazz. He was one of the few innovators of the clarinet in post-bop jazz. Now, of course, the instrument has currency, but Batiste was playing at the tip of the '60s jazz environment on an instrument associated with the swing era. Although there are recent CDs of his art available, including a new one on Branford Marsalis' label, Mr. Batiste is criminally underrecorded.
I first encountered him on a live Cannonball Adderley record called 'The Black Messiah', which came out in 1971. He played on one tune and I remember thinking that I really dug what he was playing, and he was playing the clarinet - Of course, that was more my problem, and I have since rectified this deficiency.
At any rate, flash forward to 1980 and I am attending a summer Artist-In-Residence conference at Duke University in preparation for a an AIR gig to commence in the fall. Every night of the conference there are jam sessions involving other AIR participants and various jazz educators and well-known players like Donald Byrd, Kenny Barron, and so forth. At one point Alvin Batiste asked me for my drumsticks and sat in. His enthusiastic performance resulted in at least one broken drumstick (as I recall). Another incident I recall: We were at the same dinner table one evening and he looked me over, finally saying, "You must be from New England." When prompted on why this was the case, he replied, "I can tell from your accent." Now I am a life-long Mainer, but my accent, if I have one, is extremely muted compared to my fellow 'New England' denizens. But Mr. Batiste picked it up and made me aware of it. The ears of a master? It seemed like that to me at the time.
Rest in peace, Alvin Batiste.
I first encountered him on a live Cannonball Adderley record called 'The Black Messiah', which came out in 1971. He played on one tune and I remember thinking that I really dug what he was playing, and he was playing the clarinet - Of course, that was more my problem, and I have since rectified this deficiency.
At any rate, flash forward to 1980 and I am attending a summer Artist-In-Residence conference at Duke University in preparation for a an AIR gig to commence in the fall. Every night of the conference there are jam sessions involving other AIR participants and various jazz educators and well-known players like Donald Byrd, Kenny Barron, and so forth. At one point Alvin Batiste asked me for my drumsticks and sat in. His enthusiastic performance resulted in at least one broken drumstick (as I recall). Another incident I recall: We were at the same dinner table one evening and he looked me over, finally saying, "You must be from New England." When prompted on why this was the case, he replied, "I can tell from your accent." Now I am a life-long Mainer, but my accent, if I have one, is extremely muted compared to my fellow 'New England' denizens. But Mr. Batiste picked it up and made me aware of it. The ears of a master? It seemed like that to me at the time.
Rest in peace, Alvin Batiste.
Monday, May 7, 2007
Andrew Hill
Andrew Hill died a couple of weeks ago. The great pianist and composer had been suffering from lung cancer for the past couple of years. His music was knotty, dense and personal, but was rooted in the blues and bebop. On Hill's earlier Blue Notes you can hear the connections most clearly, but even into the '70s on such dates as Spiral his piano playing has much of the bebop that he must have played a lot in Chicago in the '50s. Hill was an important composer who achieved a late life recognition, beginning in the early '90s with a Blue Note reprise of a couple of albums and continuing unabated until his death. Most of his 60s Blue Notes were reissued in high profile, remastered. Their power is undiminished with age. Collectively they form a body of work that is arguably unequaled. His ability to synthesize musical concepts with musicians who were only present for his record dates is pretty staggering.
Late in life Hill had a working group. His sextet in the late '90s and early '00s was excellent, and I had the chance to catch them twice, once in New York and again at The Longy School in Cambridge. The rhythms were diffused marvelously by Billy Drummond, and Hill's own playing was a tapestry of sounds that stood on their own. The compositions they supported contained a pure beauty within the ambiguous framework. Improvisations by the likes of Greg Osby, Ron Horton and others were thoughtful and relevant. Hill found a great bassist, John Hebert, who was constantly creative and joyful. My friend Greg Tardy was the tenor player, and I went backstage after the Longy concert to say hello. Although Hill was sitting close by with Osby, I declined to intrude on their privacy and shared a few words with Greg before leaving.
Since that time, Hill has released a number of CDs, the final one last year entitled Timelines, an album I have talked about in a previous post. With his passing, we mourn a master, but thankfully his public profile had begun to catch up to his musical accomplishments.
Late in life Hill had a working group. His sextet in the late '90s and early '00s was excellent, and I had the chance to catch them twice, once in New York and again at The Longy School in Cambridge. The rhythms were diffused marvelously by Billy Drummond, and Hill's own playing was a tapestry of sounds that stood on their own. The compositions they supported contained a pure beauty within the ambiguous framework. Improvisations by the likes of Greg Osby, Ron Horton and others were thoughtful and relevant. Hill found a great bassist, John Hebert, who was constantly creative and joyful. My friend Greg Tardy was the tenor player, and I went backstage after the Longy concert to say hello. Although Hill was sitting close by with Osby, I declined to intrude on their privacy and shared a few words with Greg before leaving.
Since that time, Hill has released a number of CDs, the final one last year entitled Timelines, an album I have talked about in a previous post. With his passing, we mourn a master, but thankfully his public profile had begun to catch up to his musical accomplishments.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
The Passing of the Masters
Three underrated giants of creative jazz music passed away this year. Their influence and impact are felt in different ways but all three share the distinction of creating an influential and charismatic wake. I will post some reflections on three of these musicians over the next day or so.
The violinist and composer Leroy Jenkins, who passed away this February, is best known for his charter membership in the AACM, the Chicago based musician's organization that promoted non commercial creative music. There is no question that this association (which began in the '60s) helped Jenkins achieve some measure of notoriety, at least critically, and enabled him to record and perform world-wide. His background on violin is in classical music; his jazz background was as an alto player in the Charlie Parker mold. These early influences were reconciled when Jenkins chose the least travelled path as an improvising new music violinist in the jazz avant garde of the '60s and '70s. Jenkins is best known for his cooperative trio The Revolutionary Ensemble, whose other members included the bassist Sirone and the drummer/percussionist Jerome Cooper. Through a few '70s albums and one recent reunion CD The RE developed a singular interactive concept that enveloped jazz, open improvisation, and 'world' music influences. Through it all was the pure sound of Jenkins' violin, imbued with a certain pathos and expressing a consistent discipline musically.
My own encounter with Leroy Jenkins was at The Creative Music Studio back in 1979, where I was a student. The CMS program was a series of week-long residencies by key creators in the new jazz scene of that period. Jenkins' visit was a highlight. He brought new music and broke up the ensemble into smaller chamber-like groups to learn it over the course of a couple of rehearsals. My own contribution was small- I was actually playing piano(!) and struggled to learn the part, but did my best. His responses to the efforts of his students were honest, positive and inspiring. My favorite part of the week was when he was rehearsing Karl Berger's ensemble on one of his pieces. At the beginning of the rehearsal he was admonishing the players for playing 'noise' and not listening intently enough. During the next try, Lee Konitz sat down and assumed his part, which at one point involved him playing a short improvised duet with Ingrid Berger, the singer. "Beautiful, that was beautiful!", exclaimed Jenkins, who had his eyes closed and didn't know it was Lee Konitz who had just finished playing. Upon opening his eyes he spotted Konitz. "Oh, Hi Lee," he said with a big smile.
In the late '80s Jim Pinfold curated a series of solo performances at The Portland Museum of Art and Leroy Jenkins was one of the featured performers. In addition to the music, I recall a pleasant dinner with him (and Jim), where he talked freely about music and many other things.
The violinist and composer Leroy Jenkins, who passed away this February, is best known for his charter membership in the AACM, the Chicago based musician's organization that promoted non commercial creative music. There is no question that this association (which began in the '60s) helped Jenkins achieve some measure of notoriety, at least critically, and enabled him to record and perform world-wide. His background on violin is in classical music; his jazz background was as an alto player in the Charlie Parker mold. These early influences were reconciled when Jenkins chose the least travelled path as an improvising new music violinist in the jazz avant garde of the '60s and '70s. Jenkins is best known for his cooperative trio The Revolutionary Ensemble, whose other members included the bassist Sirone and the drummer/percussionist Jerome Cooper. Through a few '70s albums and one recent reunion CD The RE developed a singular interactive concept that enveloped jazz, open improvisation, and 'world' music influences. Through it all was the pure sound of Jenkins' violin, imbued with a certain pathos and expressing a consistent discipline musically.
My own encounter with Leroy Jenkins was at The Creative Music Studio back in 1979, where I was a student. The CMS program was a series of week-long residencies by key creators in the new jazz scene of that period. Jenkins' visit was a highlight. He brought new music and broke up the ensemble into smaller chamber-like groups to learn it over the course of a couple of rehearsals. My own contribution was small- I was actually playing piano(!) and struggled to learn the part, but did my best. His responses to the efforts of his students were honest, positive and inspiring. My favorite part of the week was when he was rehearsing Karl Berger's ensemble on one of his pieces. At the beginning of the rehearsal he was admonishing the players for playing 'noise' and not listening intently enough. During the next try, Lee Konitz sat down and assumed his part, which at one point involved him playing a short improvised duet with Ingrid Berger, the singer. "Beautiful, that was beautiful!", exclaimed Jenkins, who had his eyes closed and didn't know it was Lee Konitz who had just finished playing. Upon opening his eyes he spotted Konitz. "Oh, Hi Lee," he said with a big smile.
In the late '80s Jim Pinfold curated a series of solo performances at The Portland Museum of Art and Leroy Jenkins was one of the featured performers. In addition to the music, I recall a pleasant dinner with him (and Jim), where he talked freely about music and many other things.
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