Christiern

I don't remember Husker Du

MAY YOU HAVE A MOST IMAGINATIVE BIRTHDAY, MARTY!

Received mine today...

The late James Maher, jazz historian/writer, who died last year at the age of 90, hated it when people asked, "So what are you working on now?" He eventually came up with a perfect answer: "I'm translating Ralph Ellison's work into Ebonics."

Apropos Ethel Waters, when I asked Ruby what she could tell me about Ethel, she said: "Well, I can tell you one thing--her eyes weren't on no sparrow!"

Another Ruby Smith/Walker story. When I was interviewing her, she would always call be to tell me that she had arrived safely back in Jersey City. Often, while riding the train home, she thought of something she either needed to add or correct. One was: "Did I tell you about that time in Detroit when a rich white man gave Ethel Waters $500 to eat a shit sandwich? ...and the check bounced?

Ruby Walker, Bessie Smith's niece (by marriage) was herself a good blues singer who recorded with stellar accompaniments. She was the main source for my Bessie Smith biography and she used the money I paid her to realize a long-time dream and relocate to California. She found a nice apartment in Placentia, one of LA's many suburbs, and bought a used Buick. She was in her Seventies and this was her first car, but she passed the exam and got her driver's license. One day she called me and said she had done something terrible. "What did you do?" "I was driving my car and I hit a white man." "Really?" "Yes, and I feel so bad. He wasn't hurt, I just knocked him down and he was very nice about it, so he isn't going to sue, or anything, nut I still feel very bad about it." I told Ruby that she was lucky and that she should be careful in the future. A couple of weeks later, she called me again. "You're not going to believe this, Chris, but I've done it again." "Done what?", I asked. "I hit another white man!" "Ruby," I said, "Why are you hitting these white men?" Ruby became indignant. "Well, what else am I gonna hit? It's a white neighborhood."

Pianist Ram Ramirez and I appeared together on a live NYC morning show, several years ago. Ram played. When we went off the air, an effusive co-hostess approached Ram and said: "I've been thinking of taking up piano." "That's a funny coincidence," Ram replied, "I've been thinking of taking up talking."

Had the same feeling.

Bernie Stollman once told me that ESP is not a record label. Then, what is it, I asked? He told me that it was an "experience." Perhaps different rules apply?

Sex with robots? Isn't that something many Englishmen experience?

Breakfast (about twice a week) Lunch (a few days ago, but typical for about 3 days a wee) Dinner (Typical for Thaw Thursday, but not common)

Thank you, Conrad, for the heads up on Corrosion of Conformity. I will avoid it as scrupulously as I have steered away from Todd Finkel for the past 39 years.

Damn! Harry Connick junior could have been embarrassing enough.

I was not ashamed to have attended these consecutive concerts, but the experience was memorable for all the wrong reasons. Here's how I related it almost 40 years ago: CAUGHT IN THE ACT Down beat - October 30, 1969 New York Jazz Festival Downing Stadium, Randalls Island, New York City The 1969 New York Jazz Festival ran for four nights on two consecutive weekends. The following report covers the final two concerts, Aug. 23 and 24, and is intended more as a review of the festival itself than of the “acts.” Saturday night’s proceedings were scheduled to begin at 7 p.m. By 7:30, no announcements had been made and only an occasional glimpse of pianist Les McCann wandering around the bandstand indicated that there might be some music in the offing. That hint grew somewhat stronger at 7:40, when the piano was delivered. Ten minutes later, an emcee calling himself "Sad Sam" waddled on stage and proceeded with strained joviality to hurl inanities at the remarkably patient audience. It was 8 o’clock before McCann (With Leroy Vinnegar, bass; Donald Dean, drums; Buck Clarke, conga) was able to start. No sooner had the quartet begun the second chorus of Sunny than pandemonium broke loose. In a mad scramble, the $4.50 to $8 ticket holders descended on the $10 “VIP” Section, stepping on the toes of those legitimately there and, in many cases, securing better seats. As soon as calm had been restored, McCann and Co. tackled Sunny anew, but it was a fruitless effort. Now the competition came in the form of microphone feedback. There followed a ten-minute audio maintenance delay and a second invasion of the VIP section. This time the invaders, folding chairs in hand, filled up the aisles and all other open space in the higher-priced section. This incursion took place without any form of intervention from the festival’s officials or security guards. Finally, at 8:20, McCann was able to bring Sunny to a natural conclusion. The sanctified beat continued with Burnin’ That Coal and led to With These Hands, a ballad on which the pianist also sang. The set ended with McCann the Soul singer doing a social commentary song entitled Compared To What. A young singer “all the way from Long Island” was next. Todd Finkel no more belongs in a jazz festival then does Liberace, but then, this was a jazz festival in name only. Even at this early stage, the unintended comic relief provided by Finkel was actually welcome. I daresay that Finkel might do well at the resorts or on the Ed Sullivan Show, but the stadium crowd was not ready for his gyration-accompanied Light My Fire. The nervous laughter which this brought on had not yet subsided when, in the desperate voice of one who knows he’s bombing out, Finkel bravely announced “a tribute to that great lady whom we all loved so much, Billie Holiday.” Considering the soul-forsaken rendition of God Bless the Child that followed, and the mood of the predominantly black crowd, it is quite possible that a passing airship spared Finkel from even greater embarrassment than what he did suffer. The airship, hovering majestically above the stadium, slightly behind the bandstand, was one of those flying billboards. As soon as the crowd, inattentive to the performance on stage, spotted the ever-changing, flashing, multi-colored messages that moved from the airship’s bow to stern, they became a modern-day Greek chorus, their voices rising in perfect unison. E-N-J-O-Y Y-O-U-R V-AC-A-T-I-O-N ... each letter punctuated and held until the next one appeared ... D-R-I-V-E S-A-F-E-L-Y-the messages kept coming while Finkel’s voice occasionally emerged from the poorly lit stage, “Mama may have, papa may have ...” A paper cup flew toward the singer as the crowd continued its incongruous chant. It missed, and the bewildered performer continued until, as if by design, his voice mike went dead. The circus continued with Hugh Masekela. Clad in a Texas-cum-mod outfit, he received a tumultuous welcome from his dashiki-sporting fans. I won’t go into the music any more than I would review an art exhibit in the dark. As a matter of fact, the metaphor can be taken literally, since, sound system aside, Masekela and his men almost did perform in the dark. One of the spotlights that constituted the stage lighting seemed to be out. However, it was discovered that both spotlights were indeed on—one of the operators simply had a poor aim and was missing the stage! Throughout both nights, a soloist would often find himself in total darkness while a stagehand was bathed in light. Add to that the thoroughly inadequate sound system, and you can imagine what a nightmare it all must have been for the performers. Comedian Redd Foxx entertained while the stage was being set for the Basie band. His opening promise, “I swear to God and three other white men, you’re gonna have some fun now” was fulfilled, but his was the only act of the evening that came off without technical mishap. As far as I could determine, Basie’s band played well and drummer Harold Jones propelled it along nicely. There were excellent solos by tenor-saxophonist Lockjaw Davis (especially on Cherokee), Eric Dixon, and trombonist Frank Hoods, and all 12 microphones seemed to be working, albeit somewhat off balance. More insipid small-talk from increasingly sad Sam and, like the three witches in Macbeth, the Delfonics (the King Sisters of Soul) romped on stage, spouting a deluge of wildly animated r&b hits while a large segment of the audience showed where it was really at. Woody Herman’s band followed and was sadly disappointing, but the prevailing circumstances handicapped every artist--it was a well-attended nightmare. Furthermore, in all fairness to Herman, it was now past midnight and the audience, not having been granted the scheduled intermission, had spent at least five hours in sedentary discomfort while its ears had withstood a solid four hours of abuse. Clearly, the main attraction of the evening was singer Dionne Warwick--otherwise, the stadium would have emptied out long before she came on, close to 12:30 a.m. Preceded by a male vocal trio, the Constellations, Miss Warwick made a rather stagy entrance, using most of the Herman band and the vocal trio to start things off. She began her opening number, Aquarius, from backstage, but no sooner had she appeared than the Constellations’ mike went dead and we were again listening to half a performance. After three of Miss Warwick’s rather uninspired past hits, I’d had more than enough. Just before exiting, I looked back at the audience, which now seemed to be awake. Its rears and ears surely sore, it attentively accepted the acoustically garbled sounds of an idol. Sunday night’s event began 75 minutes late with a very good set by the Lou Donaldson Quintet. Trumpeter Gary Chandler provided one of the highlights of the evening with his obbligato work behind a Donaldson blues vocal. The sound system worked reasonably well (all the instruments could be heard) and the set was marred only by Donaldson’s use of the Varitone, particularly his application of strong reverb in the second chorus of the above-mentioned blues. Sad Sam was back, but he hadn’t improved (where do producers dig up these emcees? Surely in New York…). He repeated some of his bad jokes of the previous night as he introducing the next act, a vocal quartet called the Friends of Distinction. They turned out to be a cross between the Hi Lo’s and the Fifth Dimension, but I don’t believe they are any match for either group. I may be wrong, for a bad sound system can be as deceiving as a funhouse mirror, and unless the female half of the group turned to mime in mid-song, those mikes were dying again. During this set, a repeat of Saturday night’s invasion of the VIP section took place. Chico Hamilton, sporting a small pigtail, did much to save the evening. His sextet (two trombones, two saxes, bass and drums) gave this concert its most musically exciting performance, with much credit due bass trombonist Jimmy Cheatham. His arrangements cleverly and most pleasantly combine the humor of jazz past with the seriousness of jazz present. I was also impressed with altoist Steve Potts. After a hilarious set of her routines, Jackie (Moms) Mabley announced that she was going to “step out of character” to sing her latest hit, Abraham, Martin and John. The audience loved it, but I found it rather maudlin and Miss Mabley’s many plugs for the record (“It’s number two now... buy it, Moms needs the money,” etc.) diluted her tears with incongruity. Again, the scheduled intermission was skipped (without a word of explanation) and the program continued with a long but far from dull set by the Unifics. This singing group (four young men) whips around the stage, eight hands gloved in white, creating movements that would make a Siamese temple dancer envious. It’s a Soul group that relates to its audience in much the same way that Bessie Smith and her colleagues must have back in those tent show days. Their choreography was imaginative and their voices good. During a falsetto solo in the group’s second number, a girl in front of me fainted from excitement, and the stadium filled with orgiastic shrieks each time the group struck a suggestive pose. Hordes of teenagers could be seen exiting the stadium as Lou Rawls stepped in front of a big band and tried to revive a dead mike. It was too far gone; he had to borrow a live one from the sax section. After a good set, Rawls turned the stage over to Sarah Vaughan. “I brought the Mafia with me,” she said laughingly after introducing the members of her trio, all bearing Italian names, “and I’m the moll.” What she was was a reminder of how truly cool a seasoned jazz pro can be. With regal majesty, she held the stage and gave a performance that commanded attention from even the rowdiest drinkers in the audience. With a smile she sang an ad-lib comment on the piano: ”The worst I’ve ever worked with.” Some of the keys didn’t function and it was out of tune, but, remarkably, the divine one ignored that handicap and effortlessly breezed through a well-chosen program. It is hard to say who suffered most from this badly planned, incompetently produced New York Jazz Festival. Surely the performers experienced a nightmare and the serious jazz listeners felt somewhat short-changed. Perhaps the sponsors, Schaefer Beer, suffered a different kind of pain at the sight of a competitive brew being sold at the official stands and by wandering vendors, but ultimately it is jazz itself that must pay the long-term dues for this kind of circus. Producer Teddy Powell should go back to his record hops until he is ready for the big leagues.

Don't recall attending a concert that I didn't get something out of--even a one-foot-in-the-grave Mistinguette!.

HAPPY 2008 FROM THE BIG APPLE!

I fully understand where you're coming from, Chuck. I was always lousy when it came to business, so I don't a royalty on any of the 60 or so albums I produced (and I'm not including reissue albums). If a royalty were due me, I'd be as mad as you are, for I often see my stuff offered for free download. I was very angry when a so-called "feminist author" named Elaine Feinstein all but plagiarized my Bessie biography verbatim. Unfortunately, my publisher was facing bankruptcy, so they did nothing about it. But I know the feeling and the frustration of seeing people get away with that kind of theft. I feel differently about the major labels, because they have ripped off artists and consumers for years and RIAA defending them is tantamount to co-conspiracy, IMHO.

Indeed, Chuck.

It's called widening the profit margin at the consumer's expense--and each time they do that, the artist gets screwed. Of course, I'm not talking about small independent labels like Organissimo.

To reiterate, all these costs also applied in the days of LPs. Also, the internet has generally changed (lowered) the price of advertising and distribution. As for the rest of the industry, we could go on and on about like-minded club owners and concert producers, I believe.

Those who defend the high cost of CDs need to do a bit of research into the cost of manufacture, which has dropped dramatically since the industry established it early prices. As for the "how many people need to be paid" argument raised by some here, be advised that this number has not increased since the LP days. Also, bear in mind that so many of the releases we have seen in recent years have been of material that has already paid for itself--often, many times over. In the record business, the years have a way of automatically increasing the profit margin. And those "bonus" tracks and alternates? Well, in most cases, the artist was never paid for them to begin with--so there we actually have theft on the part of the record company. The overwhelming number of musicians, including leaders, were paid scale (the leader's fee was 2 x scale), which was not a lot of money. The fee was measured in sessions or minutes, the former being 3 (or was it 4?) hours of studio activity, the latter being 15 minutes of acceptable material--whichever came first. Most albums (jazz, at least) comprised 2 sessions but very few did not exceed 30 minutes of playing time, so there is another instance of artists being sort-changed, albeit usually with their knowledge. Remember, too, that very few artists receive royalties, and that includes leaders.* So, when you buy a reissue, the actual cost to the record company is in no way commensurate with the price you are charged. Bootleg companies like Proper can offer CDs at lower prices, because they not only rob the artist, they also rob the original record company and--as we have seen--even scrupulous reissuers. Uptown's great Mingus set (in which Chuck was deeply involved) is a case in point--a European rip-off label did its thing. So, defenders of what--in my mind--is indefensible, please do your homework and get back to us with your findings. * I write in the past tense, because I stopped producing sessions many years ago and have not kept up with changes in Musicians Union rules and fees. I hope the latter, at least, has risen considerably.

Always a greedy industry group with warped priorities, the RIAA becomes more ludicrous with every dumb lawsuit and new assertion its lawyers make. I hope they keep this up until they are abolished for destroying the recording industry. They have done well, so far. Instead of finding a way to work with the evolving technology so that it can benefit the artists and encourage creativity, these suited idiots have only the bottom line in mind. These are the same people who wanted to sue radio stations for playing their records on the air, thinking that the practice would kill record sales. Of course, they ended up illegally paying disc jockeys to air their product. Myopic, money-grubbing tin-eared fools, they are. You have a point, Chuck, but don't you agree that the RIAA has the wrong approach? We all know that CDs have been way overpriced for years and that consumers are forced to purchase a lot of track that they don't want or already have. The getting-something-for-nothing crowd will always be there, but the industry and its police have given them incentives. Fuck the industry, it is the creative force that suffers most, IMHO.

And I -- $5.96 w. shipping.

How could I forget Leopard, the new Mac operating system. It was a gift from a jazz musician, but it does not directly relate to jazz, so I guess it qualifies. It was a great gift, BTW! The holographic box alone is a joy to behold. I highly recommend this Apple cat and its cage to anyone with a Mac that can handle it.