"To be a drummer is to be a master of movement and coordination in a way that a pianist or clarinetist can never be. Like a dance, the drummer visualizes the abstractions of music and imparts to its dynamics the byproduct of a coherent physical beauty that intrigues the eye. When the two are in perfect register, it becomes a fascinating art unto itself. The best drummers are aware of the visual factor in their performances. They not only are aware of how they look; they attend to it with care and at least an instinctive sense of design. This is why the long drum solo can be so compelling in person, but is inclined to wear thin on record."
- John McDonough From the liner notes to the 2005 Mosaic Record 7-Disc album: Argo, Emarcy and Verve Small Group Buddy Rich Sessions.
Never No Lament
"In 1943 we were playing the Hurricane Club on Forty-ninth and Broadway in New York. We had a six-month contract, but it was at a sacrifice and represented no profit to me, except that we could broadcast seven nights a week. By now, "Never No Lament" had lyrics by Bob Russell, had become "Don't Get Around Much Anymore," and had been recorded, before the union ban on recording came into force that year, by the Ink Spots and Glen Gray.
RCA Victor was on its collective toes and had released the instrumental, "Never No Lament," under the new title. It was doing very well, too, but I didn't know how well.
Midway through the Hurricane engagement, I found myself a little short of cash, so I went up to the William Morris Agency- apparently cool, and not overly condescending- for the purpose of borrowing five hundred dollars. While I was exchanging greetings with some of the executives, an office boy passed and saw me.
"Oh, Mr. Ellington," he said, "I have some mail for you too."
"Is that so?" I said disinterestedly.
He handed me about a dozen envelopes, which I proceeded to peel through casually until I came to one with a transparent window from RCA Victor. I opened it and took a quick glance at the check inside. The figure $2,250 is what I thought I saw as I slid it back in the envelope. To myself I said, "Hey, if this is $2,250, I don't need to make this touch up here, but maybe my eyes deceived me and it's really $22.50." So I pulled the check out again and it said $22,500! By the time I got my head back in my collar I was at the elevator exit on the first floor rushing to get a taxi. Man, what a surprise! What a feeling! I could breathe without inhaling or exhaling for the next three months!"
- Duke Ellington
Excerpted from "Music is My Mistress" by Duke Ellington. Doubleday. New York, 1973.
Get Him Out Of Here!
"In 1948, my best friend up to that time, Lee Konitz, called me in Chicago to tell me that Benny Goodman was organizing a new band - it was to be a "modern jazz" band. Benny had heard the Miles Davis Nonet at Birdland and had been most impressed. Maybe he even got excited. He wanted to form a band abreast with the times. So he hired as many people as he could who had been part of Mile's group - Lee Konitz was one. Gerry Mulligan was another. He couldn't get Miles so he hired Fats Navarro. Lee told me there was room for me on the band. I rushed to NYC - by the time I got there a few days later, Lee and Fats were no longer there. In only a few days they had enough of Benny!Mulligan was still there. He had written some arrangements and was playing. He still hadn't arrived as a name player and writer, so this meant something to him. We knew each other though not well, but I was well aware of his ability and we talked about what was supposed to happen with this band. It appeared to be a chance for some new people to become known.
At my first rehearsal, I noted that we were playing the old library. After a week we still hadn't even touched the new music (by Mulligan, Tad Dameron, Gil Evans). I was getting anxious. We were taking a breather one day, when suddenly without warning Benny began to shout at the top of his voice "Get him out of here! Give him his music and get him out!" Benny was literally screaming and kicking at things, and it was such a shock to everybody, we all froze. Get who out of there?
It turned out to be Gerry Mulligan. And even though in later life Gerry got to be well known as someone who took very little nonsense from anybody, on this day Gerry stood there frozen like the rest of us. Benny then strode to the bandstand and started gathering his music and it was falling on the floor and horns were tipped over and it was a scene if ever I saw one.
Gerry left with as much music as could be retrieved - and he left without a word. I never found out what was behind it. I didn't dare ever ask Benny what happened. He probably would have thrown me out for asking. I saw Gerry from time to time, but passed on asking him since he probably would have rather forgotten the whole thing. Now I'm sorry I didn't ask him. I guessed that he had asked Benny for an advance, and as I later came to know B.G. this could have done it. Gerry Mulligan - as we all know- went on to become one of our greatest jazz stars. So it was not the end for him. Far from it. But I've often wondered how things might have gone with that Benny Goodman band had the leader really played the music he started out to present. It didn't work out that way. We never played anything by Mulligan, Evans, or Dameron. We went back to Fletcher Henderson after a week on the road. And for me that was the end of that."
-Milt Bernhart (U. of California, Irvine website, 1998)
Buddy Rich on Artie Shaw
"The Shaw band was a hell of an experience. I think Artie was a very dedicated guy. He taught me a lot about music, behavior on the stand, things in general. I liked what we did, the good tunes, the show music, even the pop tunes. The band always sounded good. Even the ballads had a pulse. The simplicity and naturalness of the scores were a big plus. There was always melody and a strong feeling of swing.
There was only one minor problem when it came to playing the music. Because it was natural, it took a great deal of concentration to keep it that way.
I had a marvelous time that whole year, and for one simple reason. I was young and didn't know better! Sitting in the bus in a snowstorm, putting newspapers in the windows to keep warm– was one of the realities. Freezing in the cold months, fighting off bugs and sweating your butt off in the summer, while traveling from town to town, are not the kinds of experiences that make for a feeling of nostalgia.
I must admit, though, the large, appreciative audiences made you forget a lot of the inconveniences. I remember many a night getting off the band bus, after coming God knows how far, in unbelievable weather. And there it was: another ballroom, club, or auditorium. But the people, who patiently waited for us, got the juices going in me. Because they were so devoted, enthusiastic, you wanted to be great for them. You wanted to live up their expectations."
-Buddy Rich
Excerpted from: "Drummin' Men: The Heartbeat of Jazz. The Swing Years" by Burt Korall. Schirmer Books. New York, 1990.
And You Can Forget About The 401K, Too.
“Tommy Dorsey had gone for years without drinking. Now that the band had turned the corner and was swinging, he fell off the wagon- and the results were sometimes humorous…Bassist Sid Weiss agonized for days about whether or not to ask Tommy for a raise. Finally, while the band was playing the Astor Roof of the Astor Hotel in New York, Sid took the plunge and made his pitch to Tommy during an intermission backstage. Result: Tommy chased Sid the complete circumference of the ballroom three times threatening to kill him.”
-Mel Torme
Excerpted from: “‘Traps’ The Drum Wonder- The Life of Buddy Rich” by Mel Torme. Oxford University Press, New York, 1991.
Terry Gibbs: B.G. / First Man In Space
"One rumor about Benny (Goodman) was that he had a way of looking at musicians that got to be called "The Ray". This scared them because he would stare at you and you didn't know why. I'd heard about that ray, and one time while I was playing for him, I felt this icy stare on my back. Those were my young cocky days; so I stopped playing, turned around, and said, "What the hell are YOU looking at?" He looked at me, shook his head and said, "Oh, was I looking at you, Pops?" I actually think that he was so completely out there, that he was not staring at me or anyone else. His mind was always a million miles away...Benny was odd in many ways. He could memorize "The Flight of the Bumble Bee" overnight, pick up the clarinet the next day, and play it perfectly. He could memorize anything except your name. He called everybody in the world "Pops": Women, children, dogs, fire hydrants, you name it. Everybody was Pops. One time we were rehearsing up at his house in Connecticut and his wife Alice came in and said, "Benny, shall I bring the guys some cokes?" Benny said, "Not now, Pops." He couldn't even remember his own wife's name. Called her "Pops".
-Excerpted from "Good Vibes- A Life In Jazz" by Terry Gibbs. The Scarecrow Press, Inc. Lanham, Maryland, and Oxford, 2003.
Flying Between Army Bases with Anita O'Day, 1942
"The Army provided a DC-3 for the (Krupa) band...The trip began like any other...Quite a few of us broke out some whiskey and started a poker game on the floor to break the monotony...As soon as we were aloft we hit a snow storm, but that didn't bother us...On the planes they always issued parachutes...A lot of us never put them on. Suddenly the door leading to the pilot's cabin opened...I saw from the look on his face that something was up. He didn't want to alarm us, but everyone should get into a parachute. You never saw a poker game break up so fast. I scooped up my money and stuffed the bills in my bra.
The captain explained the de-icers were malfunctioning, and ice was forming on the wings. If the buildup continued, we'd have to abandon the plane. In my anxiety to get ready, I managed to get my parachute upside down or backward. Everybody was yelling at me to get it corrected.
Just then (singer) Buddy Stewart emerged from the head, saw the confusion, and heard the captain saying that we'd lost contact with the field because our radio had gone dead. Buddy keeled over. Stiff. I mean he didn't even bend when he hit the floor. Gene (Krupa) who was normally a dark-complexioned fellow, had turned chalky white and was chug-a-lugging what was left in a bottle of whiskey. A couple of guys were praying.
The captain...returned with more bad news. We were losing altitude. I piped up to ask, "Is that good or bad?" Everybody howled except the captain.
"A perfectly sensible question," he said. "If we lose altitude slowly, the ice may melt enough to fall off."
Pushing my luck, I asked, "Are we over land or water?"
"Land, I think".
The guy across from me crossed himself. Gene finished his bottle, and poor Buddy Stewart looked as if he was going to pass out again. Then suddenly the plane broke out of the low-lying clouds. Not more than one or two hundred feet below us was San Francisco Bay. The pilot pulled up fast and the right wing went by something. Close. Too Close.
"What was that?", one of the guys asked. If I'd known, I couldn't have told him. I couldn't get any sound out. Finally the pilot got us on to the ground and I made it to the ladies latrine before getting airsick".
-Anita O'Day
Excerpted from "High Times, Hard Times" By Anita O'Day with George Eells. Proscenium Publishers Inc; Limelight Edition. N.Y. 1997.
"I can't help it. I have to have it that way."
"One night in the winter of 1962, Harry James came into the band room below the stage in the Driftwood Lounge and announced to his musicians, "Buddy Rich, 'the world's greatest drummer,' called about joining the band. Free of the restrictions from his heart attack, Rich had made a strategic career decision: he fully realized his attempt to make it as a singer had failed; he could now play Count Basie's music with James for a salary that Basie simply couldn't afford to match. Buddy Rich's third and last tenure with the James band was the best for all concerned. Harry James reaped the benefit of Rich's playing. It made the band sound hotter, and his presence also helped the attendance on the road. As James told bandleader Ray Anthony, "Buddy takes the work out of playing."
Buddy Rich insisted on being paid $1,500 a week plus expenses so that he could drive his Jaguar to Las Vegas. He refused to open at the Flamingo with the band until his name was given featured billing on the hotel marquee. As he told Red Kelly and Jack Perciful, his cohorts in the rhythm section, "I can't help it. I have to have it that way." He told Harry, "I'll never leave this band again…I'm very happy to be back, and it's good to be like coming home."
Speaking for himself and Perciful, Red Kelly observed: "We were convinced that the first thing he was going to do was [have Harry] get rid of us. Buddy was on the band about two weeks, and Jack and I completely ignored him. One night he played something that was just fantastic. We got off the stand, and I said to him, 'That's the greatest thing I've ever seen in my life!' He grabbed me and gave me a big hug. He said, 'I didn't think you were ever going to speak to me.'"
Kelly added, "With every other drummer, Harry would control the tempo. He'd do a thing with his hands while we were playing. It was a signal for the drummer. He never did that with Buddy."
Jack Perciful offered: "I think the rhythm section jelled faster than any rhythm section in the world. Buddy played for the band; he never played for himself except when he took his solos. If anybody in the band was doing something, he would know where he was going, and he would enhance it."
During a particularly dreary one-nighter tour, Kelly asked Rich, "How do you do it?" Rich answered, "You set a certain standard for yourself and you never go below that, no matter what goes on around you." I found that to be rather inspirational," remarked the bassist."
Excerpted from "Trumpet Blues- The Life of Harry James" By Peter J. Levinson. Oxford University Press, 1999.
Tips On Tables Still more Robert W. Danarestaurant andnight club reviews including original menus from famous night spots.
Canadian trumpeter Maynard Ferguson appeared on the U.S. scene in 1948, with Boyd Rayburn's progressive band, but he built a huge following playing with Stan Kenton from 1950-53. He led small groups and big bands since the first Birdland Dream Band in 1956. A consumate showman, and stratospheric high-note blower, his most famous hit turned out to be the theme from "Rocky". I spoke with him after a show in our town, after which he sat patiently at a table signing autographs for a line that stretched down the hallway and around the corner. His last band was as brilliant as his first.
