One of those good-hearted, immensely wealth eccentrics who seem to thrive in the San Francisco Bay area, Robert “Bob” Pritikin (born Chicago IL, date n/a) graduated from UCLA; joined top advertising firm Young & Rubicam, co-founded his own agency Pritikin & Gibbons, then found his greatest success with Fletcher, Richards, Calkins & Holden. From 1977-2001, Pritikin owned and operated the Mansion Hotel, a pair of connected Queen Anne mansions in Pacific Heights whose decor included life-sized stuffed dolls of Bill and Hillary Clinton as well as Richard Nixon’s letter of resignation as United States President and Gerald Ford’s letter of pardon.
In 1981, Bob Pritikin built a new home in the Glen Park neighborhood, known as Chenery House. It’s the largest private residence in San Francisco — there’s a swimming pool in the second-story living room — and has been the scene of many legendary parties, political fundraisers, and Passover Seders. Jam sessions at Chenery House have featured performers ranging from Bob Weir to Carol Channing, often with Pritikin joining in on his chosen instrument, the musical saw.
In 1975, Bob Pritikin financed the recording and manufacture of his own album of “saw songs.” He was sufficiently wealthy and connected to obtain the services of “practically half the San Francisco Symphony string section and a chorus from the Edwin Hawkins Singers” of “Oh Happy Day” fame. In November of that year, Pritikin submitted a copy of his LP to Mo Ostin, president of Warner Brothers Records, accompanied by this pitch letter:
Mo dutifully passed Bob Pritikin’s album on to Dean Chamberlain, a guitarist who’d passed through the ranks of several Southern California bands (including the early Motels and Code Blue) before signing as a WB a&r rep. Chamberlain opines that Pritikin is “not that good a saw player,” although the basis for this judgment is anyone’s guess:
In the end, Warners decided to passed on “Moonlight Sawnata,” “The Last Time I Sawed Paris,” and the rest. But the world hadn’t heard the last of Bob Pritikin and his musical saw, as we can see from this YouTube clip filmed in 2009:
It’s Liza Minnelli birthday today. The actress/singer/dancer was born March 12, 1946 in Hollywood, California, the only child from the marriage of show-biz legend Judy Garland and film director Vincente Minnelli.
Liza’s career album discography begins in ’64 with her Capitol debut Liza! Liza! and runs right up through 2010 with Confessions (Decca/Universal).
But there’s one that got away: The never-released album Liza recorded in 1971 with producer Rick Hall at the fabled FAME Studios in Muscle Shoals, Alabama.
How do we know such an improbable recording even exists? Because the Minnelli/Muscle Shoals sessions left a paper trail through the Burbank CA headquarters of Warner Bros. Records. It begins with this memo from Rick Hall to WB President Mo Ostin, accompanying a tape of the just-completed album:
Mo passes the tape along to WB a&r man Ted Templeman, the ex-Harper’s Bizarre singer/guitarist turned Warner staff producer of the Doobie Brothers, Van Morrison, Captain Beefheart, and Little Feat. Ted likes a lot of what he hears…but there’s just one “difficulty.”
Mo Ostin hands Rick Hall a ticket to “Pass-adena,” gently murmuring something about having too many female artists on his label already:
In the summer of 2008, I was hired as a contributing writer in the creation of The Rock Annex, described by Ben Sisario in The New York Times as “a smaller, quicker offshoot” of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum in Cleveland OH. The Annex occupied a 25,000-square foot space beneath an Old Navy store at 76 Mercer Street in Manhattan’s Soho district.
For the Annex project, I wrote the text panels introducing each thematic section: “Roots and Influences,” “Moments to Movements,” etc. I created some captions for specific exhibits or artifacts. I also researched and wrote the descriptions for “New York Rocks,” a 26-foot long scale model of Manhattan identifying the location of two dozen different historic music sites. The Annex was slickly designed and built to a high professional standard by operating partner Running Subways. There were special exhibits dedicated to The Clash (where it was nice to see an old issue of my former magazine New York Rocker on loan “from the collection of Mick Jones”) and to “John Lennon: The New York City Years.”
The Rock Annex opened in late November 2009 with considerable fanfare. I attended the gala opening party, held in a vast Soho loft where corporate sponsors proffered freebies ranging from vodka shots to makeovers, with live performances by Dave Mason and Blondie’s Chris Stein & Deborah Harry.
This was less than three months after Lehman Brothers filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy, plunging the US economy into its worst crisis since the Great Depression (and far from over, at this writing). Meanwhile, a ticket to the Rock Annex cost $26.50 — at that time, more than the Museum of Modern Art. There was a gift shop, but no screening room or performance/lecture space in which to hold ancillary events. The Rock Annex closed January 3, 2010 after just over a year in operation. The artifacts were returned either to Cleveland or to private collector who had loaned them; the exhibit components, including my text panels, were sold at auction a few months later.
Before the closing, I returned to the Annex in late December 2009 with my good friends Doug Milford and Eliot Hubbard–and with permission to photograph all but the John Lennon exhibit, in order to have a visual record of my work. Doug Milford shot the photographs posted below, and I thank him for his invaluable contribution to this post.
I was surprised and very saddened to learn that the great soul singer Howard Tate had died 12.2.2011 at age 72, reportedly from complications of multiple myeloma and leukemia. His Verve debut album (especially in its killer mono version) has been a personal favorite of mine ever since I first heard it, a few years after the original 1967 release.
After decades in complete obscurity, Howard made a stunning comeback in 2001 and thereafter enjoyed a career revival that brought him more attention — and, one hopes, financial reward — than he’d ever received during his first go-round. He toured the world and recorded four more albums, beginning with Howard Tate Rediscovered (Private Music/RCA, 2003). This disc reunited the singer with his original studio Svengali, songwriter/producer/arranger Jerry Ragovoy (who died 7.13.2011), and I wish I could say that the results were even close to their Sixties glory days. Nonetheless, I was honored to contribute liner notes for Rediscovered and have posted the full unedited version here. (A.S.)
• • • • •
On the night of July 21, 2001, in a subterranean Manhattan nightclub called The Village Underground, a packed house buzzed with anticipation. As the lights went down and the Uptown Horns band kicked off the first song of the set, a short, stout, nattily dressed man stepped to the microphone. And with the first notes of that first song, Howard Tate reclaimed his rightful place in American music.
We looked at Howard and Howard looked at us, and it was hard to say who was the more shocked and surprised to see the other. Just a few short years before, neither would have guessed that this moment would ever come to pass. But he who once was lost, now was found. And we, who once were blind, now could see: That before us stood one of the greatest living soul singers—indeed, one of the greatest of all time.
In the spring of 1967, a few months before his 28th birthday, Howard Tate released a self-titled debut album (later reissued as Get It While You Can) that became a revered classic of the Sixties soul era.
Born August 14, 1939 in the rural hamlet of Eberton, GA, Howard Tate had moved with his family to Macon and then Philadelphia, PA. His father preached in a Baptist church, and Howard sang with a youthful gospel group, the Bel-Aires, that later recorded a few unsuccessful r&b singles as the Gainors. When the group broke up, organist Bill Doggett recruited Howard as the vocalist for his popular combo.
Meanwhile, ex-Gainors Garnet Mimms and Sam Bell formed a new group called the Enchanters and in 1963 scored a breakthrough hit with “Cry Baby.” At No. 4, “Cry Baby” was the first “deep soul” record to crack the Top Ten (as well as a No. 1 R&B hit). It was, as author Robert Pruter later wrote, “a gospelized production so full of soul-saving, fire-and-brimstone ecstasies of the Black sanctified church that it singularly stood apart…Never before had the public heard anything so intense and so emotional on Top 40 radio.”
“Cry Baby” was co-written and produced by Jerry Ragovoy, a white Philadelphian (born September 4, 1930) who moved to New York in the spring of 1962. While Howard Tate was grinding out one-nighters with Bill Doggett, Ragovoy was expanding and refining his idiosyncratic style on records by such gifted, church-bred singers as Lorraine Ellison (the monumental “Stay With Me”) and Irma Thomas (“Time is On My Side,” a Ragovoy co-write later taken Top Ten by the Rolling Stones). Ragovoy’s carefully crafted arrangements and stately piano playing grafted elements of opera, Broadway, and Romantic classical music onto such proto-soul archetypes as the Impressions’ 1958 hit “For Your Precious Love.”
Tate and Ragovoy began working together within weeks of Howard’s departure from the Bill Doggett band. When his first Ragovoy-produced single “Ain’t Nobody Home” hit the R&B chart in August 1966, Howard was mixing mortar on a Philadelphia construction site. Still wearing his soiled work clothes, he was hustled onto a flight to Detroit to open for Marvin Gaye at the fabled 20 Grand. Upon landing, he climbed into a waiting limo just as a local DJ introduced “Ain’t Nobody Home” as “the Number One record in Detroit.”
“It was just unbelievable,” Howard told Jason Gross in a 2001 interview. “This is the only business [where] you can be poor as a Georgia turkey today, make a record, go to sleep, and wake up a multi-millionaire. That’s how quick it can happen.”
But it didn’t happen that way for Howard Tate.
Howard Tate/Get It While You Can introduced a singer of uncommon power and eloquence, with songs and arrangements tailored to his special strengths. The album spun off two No. 12 R&B hits; garnered favorable reviews in the nascent rock press; and later inspired cover versions of its Jerry Ragovoy-penned songs by
artists ranging from B.B. King to Janis Joplin to Grand Funk Railroad. But although Verve Records released the LP twice—in different covers, with different liner notes—Howard Tate/Get It While You Can just didn’t sell.
Two more Howard Tate albums followed. Singer Lloyd Price produced Howard Tate’s Reaction for his own Turntable Records, dubbing Howard’s vocals over instrumental tracks cut in Jamaica. The results sank more or less in tandem with the label after Price’s business partner, Harold Logan, was murdered in 1969. Tate and Jerry Ragovoy reunited in 1972 for the eponymous Howard Tate on Atlantic. But a few compelling songs (“Where Did My Baby Go,” “8 Days On The Road”) and Rags’ typically sharp arrangements couldn’t overcome a lack of promotion, and soon the third Howard Tate LP had come and gone.
Howard himself had taken just about enough from a business that promised so much and paid so little. As he would later explain to Jason Gross: “I was with guys that called themselves my road manager, and they didn’t know their way out of a wet paper bag. The booking agency I had, they stuck me down South on that chitlin’ circuit where…[local promoters] put 20,000 people in there and told you to go for yourself, scream ‘til your head fell off. They’d give you $500 and say ‘See you next year.’”
A dozen years after the release of Howard Tate/Get It While You Can, Howard had receded so far into the shadows that even the most determined searchers—concert promoters, record collectors, Jerry Ragovoy himself—could find no trace of him. The prosaic truth was that Howard had become a securities salesman for Prudential and the dedicated father of six children. He had, in his oddly apt phrase, “alleviated myself from the music business altogether. I didn’t talk about it. Nobody knew who I was.”
In 1976, a house fire killed Tate’s 13-year old daughter; he divorced in 1981, then married his second wife the following year. Somewhere along the line, he “started hanging out with the wrong crowd,” fell prey to drug and alcohol abuse, and drifted further into obscurity — even as the cult of Howard Tate expanded across the US and Europe.
Nineteen ninety-four brought a spiritual reawakening. “I was on my knees praying, and I heard a voice,” Howard recalls. “It said ‘I want you to go preach my gospel.’ I said, ‘Lord, I can’t go. Not me—I don’t want to be no preacher.’ And the voice said ‘You’ll go or else.’ So I knew that was an ultimatum.” Tate became a pastor at his own Gift of the Cross Church in Mount Holly, New Jersey; he dedicated himself to helping the homeless, the addicted, and the mentally ill.
On New Year’s Day 2001, a former member of Harold Melvin’s Blue Notes named Ron Kennedy encountered Howard Tate in a Willingboro, NJ supermarket. Kennedy told Tate that a South Jersey DJ named Phil Casden had been playing the CD reissue of Howard Tate/Get It While You Can on his AM radio show and pleading with his listeners for any clues to the singer’s whereabouts. Two days later, Tate and Casden were having dinner together. Casden posted details of their meeting on the Internet, and within hours Howard’s home phone began to light up with recording and performance offers from England and France, Germany and Australia.
Fast-forward to that fateful, thrilling summer night at Village Underground. Two days later, Jon Pareles wrote in The New York Times:
“When Howard Tate’s voice leaped into falsetto on his 1967 album…it was the sound of a man driven nearly beyond endurance by love and pain. He sounded just as powerful and just as blue at the Village Underground on Saturday night, in his first New York performance since he dropped out of music in the 1970s…Unlike some soul singers who have returned to the church, Mr. Tate didn’t proselytize. He just let his songs testify to the endless hopes and torments of love.”
Jerry Ragovoy was in the house that night, up from his home in the Atlanta suburbs. He too was amazed to hear how little Howard’s voice had changed. “It’s a slight bit huskier,” the producer noted. “But other than that, the tonality, the sonority, the falsetto—all that is still there.”
And it’s all there on Rediscovered: The voice of Howard Tate, the songs and arrangements of Jerry Ragovoy, the playing of the Uptown Horns. You don’t have to be religious to call it a miracle.
When the phone calls and offers began to come in, decades into a life outside of music, Howard Tate prayed for guidance. “When I prayed, God told me: ‘I gave you that voice. You never went to music school. You wonder now if you should sing secular or gospel? There is a beauty in all music. It’s the life you live more than what comes out of your mouth.’
“Just tell the people out there that I’m going to give the best I can give. They deserve the best.”
Marcus Shelby (born 1966 in Memphis TN) is an African-American bassist, composer and bandleader based in the San Francisco Bay Area. His lengthy professional résumé encompasses recordings, theatrical/film scores, music education, and assorted grants and commissions.
He also is the prime mover behind an ambitious project he calls Soul of the Movement: Meditations on Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. The bassist has a personal connection to the subject of this inspirational work: Several members of the extended Shelby family participated (and were arrested) in the “ I Am A Man” march by Memphis’ Black sanitation workers that would mark the final campaign of Dr. King’s life in the week leading up to his assassination on this day in 1968.
This clip features the Marcus Shelby Orchestra with lead vocal by Faye Carol on a stirring big-band arrangement of the Curtis Mayfield classic “We’re A Winner.” (This is the correct song title, not to be confused with another Mayfield/Impressions hit “Move On Up.”) Additional performances from Soul of the Movement may be viewed at http://www.marcusshelby.com/video.htm.
“I’ve got two daughters and I wanted them to keep the story going. Getting it from my ancestors and passing it on…Storytelling is an African tradition and African-American tradition. I feel blessed I had the opportunity to do my part.” — Marcus Shelby
BOBBY ROBINSON, who died January 7, 2011, was one of the unsung pioneers of the 20th century American record industry. That sun you see setting in the illustration at left might well represent not only Robinson’s own passing at the age of 93 but that of the entire half-century-long, world-changing epoch of rhythm & blues and rock & roll in which he forged his career. “He outlived the record business,” remarked Tommy Boy Records founder Tom Silverman as we sat with Sire Records’ Seymour Stein in a front pew at the United House of Prayer for All People on West 125th Street, where Robinson’s funeral was held on this bitterly cold January evening.
The grandson of former slaves, Morgan Clyde Robinson (called “Bob” by his entire family including grandchildren) was born 4.16.1917 in Union, South Carolina and later became valedictorian of his (segregated) high school. Obituaries in the NY Daily News and NY Times don’t clearly state when Robinson arrived in New York, which event may have preceded his Army service during World War II. While stationed in Hawaii, Bobby honed his entrepreneurial skills as both the entertainment director of live shows mounted for servicemen on Oahu and as (in his own words) “the biggest loan shark out there.” Following his discharge, Robinson claims to have returned to Harlem with nearly $8,000 in cash. It was an enormous sum in 1945: According to U.S. Census figures, the median annual income for non-White families and individuals was $1,294.
In 1946, Robinson paid $2,500 to buy out a defunct hat store located at 301 West 125th Street, just west of the world-famous Apollo Theater at #253. There he opened Bobby’s Record Shop, later and better known as Bobby’s Happy House. It was the first Black-owned music store on 125th Street — the commercial and symbolic heart of Harlem — and possibly the street’s first Black-owned retail business of any kind (accounts vary on this point).
This modest establishment became Robinson’s base of operations for his freewheeling career as songwriter, record producer, label owner and distributor — one of the very few whose active career spanned the decades from Fifties r&b to Eighties hip-hop. His Wikipedia entry includes a detailed discography, but Gladys Knight & the Pips, Elmore James, Lee Dorsey, King Curtis, Spoonie Gee, and the Treacherous Three (with Kool Moe Dee) are just a few of the artists recorded by Bobby Robinson and released on one of his several imprints including Fire, Fury, Enjoy, Red Robin, and Whirlin’ Disc.
“Kansas City” by Wilbert Harrison, “Fannie Mae” by Buster Brown, “Ya-Ya” by Lee Dorsey, “Number Nine Train” by Tarheel Slim, “The Happy Organ” by Dave “Baby” Cortez, “Tossin’ and Turnin'” by Bobby Lewis, “Rockin’ It” by The Fearless Four, and “Super Rappin'” by Grandmaster Flash & the Furious Five — if you’ve heard any of these songs, then you’ve heard Bobby Robinson at work.
By 1959, when Barrett Strong’s “Money (That’s What I Want)” became the first major hit for Motown founder Berry Gordy Jr., Robinson had already made the national r&b charts with multiple releases. One man became a crossover giant who built a recording and publishing empire, produced Hollywood movies and TV specials, and transformed his artists into icons. The other was a guy you could find, most days of the week, holding court in a Harlem storefront.
That guy didn’t move to Hollywood, or buy a chain of radio stations, or become some major label’s Executive V-P of Urban Music — he just kind of hung out. Yet by doing so, Bobby Robinson touched the lives of thousands of people, a couple hundred of whom showed up on this night to pay their respects. (One of the first I encountered was the ethically-challenged Congressman Charles B. Rangel, who was departing as I arrived.)
At some point (in the 1980s? the ’90s?), the Happy House was displaced by a Kentucky Fried Chicken outlet; Robinson moved his shop around the corner and slightly north on Frederick Douglass Boulevard. The store remained open for more than 60 years, gradually functioning more as a clubhouse and community center than active music retailer. Dan Charnas, author of The Big Payback: The History of the Business of Hip-Hop, lived a few blocks away; in a remembrance posted 1.9.2011, he wrote:
“Bobby’s Happy House…had a stream of visitors throughout the day, but nobody ever seemed to buy anything. The display cases were filled with rows of dusty, ancient CDs and cassette tapes. Folks were really coming to see Robinson: tourists from Europe on pilgrimage, neighbors and local characters stopping by between errands, old friends like Paul Winley checking on Bobby. Sometimes, like me, they’d wait for him. Bobby Robinson would usually saunter in mid-day — and what an entrance he would make. At 90, he was always clean, always sharp — usually in a bright-colored suit jacket that contrasted with his long, straight, shock-white hair. He walked slow, turned gradually, and sat tentatively. But when he looked at you, you almost felt zapped. A lot of life and light in those eyes…”
“As much as Bobby Robinson loved Harlem, Harlem loved Bobby Robinson. Even more atrocious than his eviction — just before the bottom fell out during the subprime mortgage crisis — is that the developer who sent him packing has done nothing with the building. [Emphasis added — A.S.] It still stands there, empty, boarded up, across from the Duane Reade and around the corner from the Apollo.”
Robinson’s funeral was a down-home neighborhood affair. Other than Tom Silverman and Seymour Stein, I spotted only a few music business veterans including Aaron Fuchs of Tuff City and DJ Chuck Chillout. I introduced myself to Vincent Davis, who claimed to remember me from 1985 (!) when I wrote the Elektra Records publicity bio for his artist Joeski Love. (Time to kill? Watch the story of “Pee Wee Dance,” Joeski’s hip-hop novelty hit. But I digress…)
If any of the many “name” artists recorded by Bobby Robinson were in attendance, they didn’t get up to speak or otherwise identify themselves. It wasn’t like Doc Pomus‘ funeral, in 1991, where I sat next to Kris Kristofferson and heard songs by Dr. John and Jimmy Scott. Instead, ordinary people — mostly but not exclusively Black, some looking hard-used by life — offered their tributes. Joe Jackson (not Michael’s dad) called the Happy House “a center of communication” and sang “Auld Lang Syne,” which I thought an odd choice. A woman declared “I stand here today with my right mind because of Bobby Robinson”; two others sang spontaneous, impassioned versions of the gospel standards “I’ll Fly Away” and “I Won’t Complain.”
Bobby Dunn hailed the deceased as “one of the greatest producers and songwriters.” (Gunn wrote or co-wrote “You Broke Your Promise,” the B-side of Gladys Knight & the Pips’ first Robinson-produced hit “Letter Full Of Tears.”) Another gentleman offered a litany of the many doo-wop groups on Robinson’s roster (the Velvets, the Kodaks, Earl Lewis & the Channels), prompting Seymour Stein to break into a sotto voce medley of said groups’ greatest hits.
Paul Winley, Robinson’s friend and competitor dating back to the Fifties, noted that “he was the first record shop owner to put a set of speakers outside the store. When James Brown first began to break out with ‘Please Please Please,’ I remember him sitting on one of those speakers outside the Happy House and telling people passing by ‘that’s me, that’s my song!'” We also heard from Robinson’s grandson and nephew, and from Bilal Muhammed (nee Jerome Robinson) whose father was Bobby’s cousin.
The Apostle H.M. Swaringer delivered the closing eulogy. He began with the hymn “My Living Shall Not Be In Vain” and launched into an evocative, free-flowing oration that touched on Robinson’s long relationship with the House of Prayer For All Peoples and the commercial history of 125th Street (the Braddock Hotel, Apollo Theater, etc.) along with a citation from the Book of Job. Bobby Robinson, the preacher noted, “came to the House of Prayer every day. He helped people.”
Amen, Brother Swaringer.
Rest in peace, Bobby Robinson.
Like the NY Times headline said: A Lot Of Jazz. Many More People.
But if you paid in advance and could deal with the sometimes-crushing crowds, the seventh annual Winter Jazzfest was one of the great NYC live entertainment deals of the year. For the online advance price of $35.00 plus the inevitable $5.00 “service charge,” I purchased a wristband good for admission on both Friday and Saturday nights to any set by any act in any one of the multiple WJF venues clustered around the historic Village intersection of Bleecker & MacDougal Streets.
There were three clubs in use on Friday and five on Saturday. The fewest number of acts to appear in any one of them was four, on Friday night at Le Poisson Rouge, where 89-year-old Chico Hamilton topped the bill beginning at 9:15 p.m. (I missed him). Every other venue was hosting nine acts per night, beginning at around 6:00 p.m. and running past 3:00 a.m. Each set ran about 50 minutes and the changeovers, at least the ones I sat through, went quickly and efficiently.
Naturally, I was not the only person taking advantage of this bountiful bargain: WJF wristbands sold out before 9:00 p.m. Saturday, seats were almost impossible to come by even at the seated venues, and some sets were packed to the firetrap level. (Zinc Bar was turning people away on Friday night, I never even tried to get in there.) I made the right move in going solo and thus able to maneuver independent of someone else’s level of discomfort, exhaustion, hunger, intoxication, etc.
FRIDAY, JANUARY 7
(1) JD Allen’s VISIONFUGITIVE! Conducted by Lawrence D. “Butch” Morris (8:15 p.m. @ Le Poisson Rouge) – Nearly a full house at this SRO venue in the former below-ground home of the Village Gate (1958-1993). But I manage to get close to center stage where Allen (tenor sax) plays some dense, fairly complex music with a large band conducted by Butch Morris: two basses, two drummers, percussion, vibes, four horns, and more. To my ears, the long (12-15 minute) opener never achieves lift-off although there’s a frisson of pleasure when the two drummers kick in together at about the halfway point.
After this piece, Butch Morris temporarily halts the proceedings to offer a show-and-tell demonstration of his “conduction” techniques — and rather than pedantic and boring, it’s informative and engaging. Morris pauses to explain his hand and baton movements while constructing a spontaneous composition from improvisational building blocks; at one point, he tosses into the front rows a batch of postcards imprinted with a detailed definition of “Conduction.” It reads in part: “The practice of conveying and interpreting a series of directives to modify or construct sonic arrangement or composition.” As the critic Howard Mandel wrote, Morris’ hand signals “convey instructions to repeat, hold, return, etc., but not specific pitches or beats; those are chosen by the players themselves.” He elicits some strong solos, including an extended foray by Allen, partly unaccompanied; and the piece as a whole is coherent, powerful, and (in my experience) unique in the context of jazz performance. I remember seeing Butch Morris in action several times since the late Eighties. But I realize that until tonight, I’d never really understood what he did.
(2) Jen Shyu & Jade Tongue (9:00 p.m. @ Kenny’s Castaways) – Speaking of something really different…This performance feels like it belongs on the concert stage, with better lighting and more room to move, rather than at the far end of this long-time Bleecker Street bar. Jen Shyu was trained from childhood in ballet, piano, and violin, and her WJF set incorporates dance elements along with her keyboard playing; she’s accompanied, with rapt attention and excellent musicianship, by Dave Binney (alto), John Hébert (bass), and Dan Weiss (drums). She sings in what sounds like three different languages: English, Spanish, and possibly Hokkien, the form of Chinese spoken by most people from Taiwan (Shyu’s parents are from Taiwan and East Timor).
On her Web site, Jen’s bio lists among her early accomplishments “playing [as piano soloist] Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1, 3rd movement with the Peoria Symphony Orchestra at age thirteen; placing…in the Finals, at age fifteen, at the Stravinsky International Piano Competition, playing piano solo works by Bach, Beethoven, Stravinsky, and Chopin; being the youngest student at Yale University’s Summer Drama Program at sixteen; serving as Illinois’ Junior Miss her senior year of high school and winning the Miss America Talent Scholarship at America’s Junior Miss with piano.” I myself managed to graduate high school and haphazardly complete four or five semesters of college.
(3) Charles Gayle Trio (10:00 p.m. @ Kenny’s Castaways) – The spirit of late-period John Coltrane and Albert Ayler lives in the music of tenor saxophonist Gayle, a seemingly ageless fixture of “downtown” music for the past 25 years (he turns 71 on 2/28/11). At AllMusic.com, Chris Kelsey enumerates his “long, vibrating, free-gospel melodies, full of huge intervallic leaps, screaming multiphonics, and a density of line that evidences a remarkable dexterity” — Charles Gayle has been playing in this style since the late Sixties without getting any closer to the musical mainstream. His set is like one 50-minute-long song, with only a single quote I can recognize (from a standard, something like “They Say That Falling In Love Is Wonderful”), and bassist Larry Roland and drummer Michael Thompson are with him every step of the way. It’s fairly awesome.
(4) Chris Lightcap’s Bigmouth (11:00 p.m. @ Kenny’s Castaways) – Never even heard of this bassist/composer, but his set follows Gayle and I decide not to relinquish a precious seat in the increasingly crowded room. Lineup is Craig Taborn on electric piano, tenor saxophonists Chris Cheek and Jeff Lederer, and Gerald Cleaver, drums; trumpeter Kirk Knuffke, another new name to me, sits in for half the set. Bigmouth is really good. Lightcap’s a strong, supportive bassist; his originals are melodic but not predictable, and the horns’ interplay remind me a bit of Ornette Coleman’s late-Sixties band with Dewey Redman on alto. I’d go see these guys again, for sure….It’s midnight, and although the night is relatively young, I head home to Brooklyn Heights.
SATURDAY, JANUARY 8
(1) Don Byron’s New Gospel Quintet (8:15 p.m. @ Le Poisson Rouge) – The free-wheeling Byron has kept this particular band together for three years: NGQ made its debut in the spring of 2009 at Jazz Standard. Performed to a full and enthusiastic house, this set is more expansive and more exciting than the one I caught last April at Jazz Standard. Certainly, having Geri Allen on piano raises the whole band to a higher level; she also turns in a couple of superb solos. Byron sounds great on both clarinet and tenor sax; Brad Jones (bass) and Pheeroan akLaff (drums) form a supple, propulsive rhythm section.
Meanwhile, vocalist DK Dyson lets loose her full complement of shouts, moans, swoops, bird calls, and glottal ululations, from “Precious Memories” and “Feed Me Jesus” through an especially stirring version of (I think) James Cleveland’s “The Last Mile Of The Way.”
(2) Charlie Hunter Trio (9:15 p.m. @ Le Poisson Rouge) – Hunter’s been recording since ’93 and gigging longer than that, but somehow I’ve never caught his act until tonight, when he leads a trio including Eric Kalb on drums and Michael R. Williams on trumpet. I thought I’d get the chance to see just how Charlie manages to play leads, chords, and bass lines simultaneously on a seven-string guitar; unfortunately, he remains seated and I can’t see him at all. After ten minutes of mildly funky mid-tempo jamming served lukewarm, I take my leave for Sullivan Hall and…
(3) The Curtis Brothers feat. Giovanni Almonte (10:15 p.m. @ Sullivan Hall) – Zaccai Curtis (piano), Luques Curtis (bass), Richie Barshay (drums), and Reinaldo De Jesus (congas) play high-powered Latin jazz that really cooks. Their efforts are undercut by vocalist Giovanni Almonte, whose delivery combines the least attractive qualities of Eddie Vedder and Nina Simone. The lyrics, presumably his, are a succession of vapid cliches and tired themes: let’s save the planet, let’s live in peace, you are/I am a beautiful person, etc.
(4) Nomo (10:45 p.m. @ The Bitter End) – Not most people’s idea of a jazz group, this eight or nine-piece band out of Ann Arbor MI mines the Nigerian Afrobeat grooves most famously plowed by Fela. They hit the Bitter End stage with a bang, propelled by rock-steady drumming and those distinctive Fela horn voicings. Sun Ra’s “Rocket No. 9” comes as a delightful surprise — I remember hearing NRBQ cover the same song live in the summer of 1969. Nomo keeps up the energy level until a female vocalist (whose name I don’t catch) takes front and center. Her singing fails to impress, the lyrics are eminently forgettable, and the Excite-O-Meter drops ten or fifteen points. But Nomo sounds like a very good dance band, especially if given more than 50 minutes in which to blow.
(5) Amir ElSaffar’s Two Rivers (11:45 @ The Bitter End) – With ElSaffar (trumpet, santoor, vocal), Rudresh Mahanthappa (alto sax), Carlo DeRosa (bass), Zafer Tawil (oud, percussion), and Nasheet Waits (drums). After the good-time party sounds of Nomo, the intellectual acuity, instrumental virtuosity, and global reach of this group combine to hit me with serious G-level force.
Two Rivers keeps flowing for 25-30 minutes, at which point ElSaffar switches from trumpet to the santoor. Wiki says: “It is a trapezoid-shaped hammered dulcimer…with seventy strings. The special-shaped mallets (mezrab) are lightweight and are held between the index and middle fingers. A typical santoor has two sets of bridges, providing a range of three octaves.” A unique and distinctive sound, for sure; unfortunately, most of the band has dropped out to let ElSaffar do his santoor-and-vocal thing, a little of which goes a long way for me. You can hear Two Rivers on MySpace, including the twelve-minute exploration “Menba’.”
(6) Underground Horns (12:45 a.m. @ The Bitter End) – With Welf Dorr (alto sax), Kevin Moehringer (trombone), Mike Irwin (trumpet), Ibanda Ruhumbika (tuba), Okai (djembe), Kevin Raczka (drums). Based on the enthusiastic endorsement of a woman standing behind me on line earlier in the evening, I stick to my bar stool to catch this Brooklyn band. Despite their upbeat energy, UH come across like a Berklee student tribute to Fred Wesley & the JB’s. Cliché riffs abound; the solos go on a while but mostly fail to develop. It’s 1:30 a.m. and I’m wondering how much longer I can hang.
(7) Noah Preminger Group (1:45 a.m. @ The Bitter End) – Noah Preminger (tenor sax) is one of the most critically hailed players under 30 to emerge in the past few years. I listened quite a bit to his 2008 debut, Dry Bridge Road, but was less favorably impressed the one time I saw him live. Tonight, however, Preminger is on from the first notes of his first tune — an Ornette composition, maybe “Toy Dance?” He has the searching quality that characterizes so many of the great soloists, building each solo with unpredictable note choices and a breathy tone. It’s 2 a.m. and the joint is barely half-filled — is someone really playing better jazz than this at some other venue? Seems hard to imagine.
Matt Wilson (drums) and John Hébert (bass) are right with their leader, but pianist Frank Kimbrough looks grim as he attempts to coax some music out of the club’s clangy, metallic, and quite possibly out of tune instrument. He almost succeeds, mostly sticking to the middle of the keyboard as he soldiers on through “Until The Real Thing Comes Along,” “Then I”ll Be Tired Of You,” and his own composition “Quickening.”
Meanwhile, Matt Wilson is showing no mercy to his good buddy: “Hey, Frank, is that a piano or a banjo?” he cracks with a broad grin. “Ladies and gentlemen, Frank Kimbrough on the pianjo!“ Such are the hazards and rewards of The Jazz Life…but wait ’til next year!
Last Saturday (6/6/2010), Leslie and I hopped the No. 7 train from Grand Central to MoMA PS1 in Long Island City. This semi-autonomous branch of the Museum of Modern Art is described on its Web site as “one of the oldest and largest non-profit contemporary art institutions in the United States. An exhibition space rather than a collecting institution, MoMA PS1 devotes its energy and resources to displaying the most experimental art in the world…MoMA PS1 actively pursues emerging artists, new genres, and adventurous new work by recognized artists in an effort to support innovation in contemporary art.”
On this particular day, the Oberlin College Alumni Association was offering a free guided tour to Oberlin grads (Leslie graduated with the class of ’77). I had not visited PS1 in years and was very impressed by the scope and diversity of the current “Greater New York” show, encompassing painting, sculpture, video, photography, mixed media, and two exotic koi goldfish (in a sort of living diorama by Tommy Hartung entitled B Roll). But my favorite among all the various galleries was the first complete NYC installation of the pictorial series Unbranded by the African-American artist Hank Willis Thomas.
Hank was born 3/17/1976 in Plainfield, New Jersey (the original stomping grounds of George Clinton and the nascent Parliament-Funkadelic, BTW) and holds degrees from California College of the Arts and NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts. Father Hank Thomas was/is a jazz musician turned film producer, property developer, and stockbroker; mother Deborah Willis (Ph.D.) is an accomplished photographer, widely published author, NYU professor and current chair of the Tisch School’s Department of Photography. Hank the Younger has been showing his work since student days in the mid-Nineties, but PS1 was my first encounter and he knocked me out.
The starting point for Unbranded is 40 years of selected magazine and newspaper advertisements created by Corporate America and aimed at Black America from 1968. Hank has computer-imaged the ads to eliminate all the original text and brand identifications, so that what we’re left with are remarkably revealing and absorbing portraits of black people (occasionally
in the company of white people) over four decades of American life, with each year represented by two different images. In place of the ad copy, Hank has created his own captions outside the frames, and these are sometimes poignant, sometimes hilarious, and sometimes…something else.
On his Web site, Hank Willis Thomas says of Unbranded:
“I believe that in part, advertising’s success rests on its ability to reinforce generalizations about race, gender, and ethnicity which can be entertaining, sometimes true, and sometimes horrifying, but which at a core level are a reflection of the way a culture views itself or its aspirations.
“By ‘unbranding’ advertisements I can literally expose what Roland Barthes refers to as ‘what-goes-without-saying’ in ads, and hopefully encourage viewers to look harder and think deeper about the empire of signs that have become second nature to our experience of life in the modern world.”
I should give props also to Hank’s fellow artist William Cordova (born 1971 in Lima, Peru) who shares this particular PS1 gallery with HWT. In the center of the floor, Cordova has constructed a maze from old LP covers, mostly r&b and disco — I believe the title is Laberintos (Labyrinths). This work demanded a little more attention than I was able to give it at the time: The tour group was moving on, and I was still buzzing from Unbranded.
As part of the “Greater New York” show, Hank’s masterful work is up through 10/18/2010. It’s rich in meaning, it looks great, and you really should see it for yourself.
It was early May, the gig was two weeks away, and things weren’t looking good for the star of the show, Jerry Williams Jr. a/k/a Swamp Dogg.
The iconoclastic r&b singer/songwriter/producer had not played New York City in over a decade. (His last local appearance had taken place at Coney Island High, an East Village rock club that closed in July 1999.) The upcoming show was booked at City Winery, an upscale venue more closely associated with the music of Amy Mann, Steve Earle, or Suzanne Vega than with old-school, hard-core rhythm & blues. Advance publicity was light, advance ticket sales were lighter.
Swamp Dogg was “coming off” his 2009 album Give ‘Em As Little As You Can…As Often As You Have To… Or, A Tribute To Rock ‘N’ Roll — a collection of songs written and/or made famous by the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Jimmy Reed, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Bruce Springsteen, among others. The CD was released by S-Curve Records through EMI — the first Swamp Dogg disc in decades to receive major-label distribution. Despite the best efforts of the S-Curve staff and myself (as his belatedly hired indie publicist), Give ‘Em As Little As You Can… soon went down in musical history as what S-Curve founder/label head Steve Greenberg ruefully described as “possibly the worst-selling album of both Swamp Dogg’s career and mine.” Although marred by its “canned” drum sound, Give ‘Em As Little As You Can… was nonetheless an audacious attempt to reclaim rock & roll as Black Music, a sui generis creation unlike any other album made by an African-American artist since I-don’t-know-when.
All in all, the stage at City Winery seemed set for deep disappointment if not outright disaster. Guess what?
Swamp Dogg killed. His set was a triumph.
The unknowing and unsuspecting among us were converted for life and sent forth into the night, frothing at the mouth and babbling in tongues of ecstasy. The true believers, your faithful scribe among them, were lifted to Soul Heaven on a pair of golden fried chicken wings (with choice of grits, black-eyed peas, or collard greens).
Swamp Dogg (lead vocals and electric piano) was backed capably and sympathetically by The Revelations of Brooklyn NY. I believe the personnel for this gig was Wes Mingus (guitar), Borahm Lee (keyboards), Josh Werner (bass) and Gintas Janusonis (drums) plus a three-man horn section. The set list went as follows:
1. “The Mind Does The Dancing While The Body Pulls The Strings” from Have You Heard This Story?? (Island, 1974)
We’ve waited with growing impatience through a solid hour of the opening Tomas Doncker Band (jammy and bluesy, with some good playing, weaker singing, forgettable songs) and another 15 minutes of changeover. Swamp enters from stage left, sits down at his keyboard, and gets things off to a rousing start: He’s in strong voice and looking resplendent in lime-green suit with matching hat, belt, tie, socks, shoes — hell, his drawers probably match. The audience, which fills a respectable two-thirds of this rather cavernous room, breathes a collective sigh of relief.
2. “Since I Fell For You” from Resurrection (S.D.E.G., 2007, with a cover shot of Swamp Dogg crucified)
Buddy Johnson‘s greatest hit, first recorded circa 1945, has been covered by everyone from Barbra Streisand to Tom Waits to the Sonics. Swamp got around to cutting the song in ’07 and sings the hell out of it at City Winery: The one-word description in my notebook says “Stratospheric!” Steve Greenberg turns to me and asks: “Why didn’t he put this on his S-Curve album?!”
3. “Synthetic World” from Total Destruction To Your Mind (Canyon Records, 1970)
The Revelations work up a nice MGs-type groove behind the Dogg’s impassioned vocal on this mid-tempo classic with its almost Dylanesque lines like “Friendship is like acid/It burns as it slides away…” Halfway through, Swamp Dogg launches into a semi-improvised rap — complete with Xanax reference — about suffering panic attacks while driving on Los Angeles freeways. Genius.
4. “Sam Stone” from Cuffed, Collared, Tagged & Gassed (Cream Records, 1972 — also includes “Lady Madonna” and Joe South‘s “Don’t It Make You Want to Go Home”)
The Viet Nam War was still raging in 1971 when John Prine released this heartbreaking ballad of a heroin-addicted Army veteran on his self-titled Atlantic debut. Swamp Dogg covered it the next year and over time the song became a cornerstone of his live shows. Tonight at City Winery, Swamp brings “Sam Stone” sharply up to date: “Nowadays, those GIs ain’t comin’ home with dope habits,” he intones mournfully. “They’re comin’ home in coffins, from Iraq and Afghanistan…”
5. “Born Blue” from Total Destruction To Your Mind – Another great performance, with Swamp Dogg stretching and scatting on the title phrase.
6. “In My Résumé” from Finally Caught Up With Myself (Springboard International, 1977 — also includes “Slow Slow Disco,” sampled by Kid Rock on “I Got One For Ya” from Devil Without A Cause)
At this point, the show has transcended the conventions of r&b live performance. It’s now a combination of Baptist tent revival, therapeutic encounter session, and after-hours blue mood, imbued with a profound sense of personal truth-telling courtesy of The Dogg. What more can I add but mindless superlatives: “great,” “awesome,” “wow,” etc.
7. “Total Destruction To Your Mind” Swamp Dogg takes us home with a rocking version of his personal anthem, re-cut for Give ‘Em As Little As You Can… (and nicely covered by roots-rocker Eric “Roscoe” Ambel on Roscoe’s Gang in 1988).
The 45-minute set has passed all too quickly; Swamp Dogg and the Revelations have played all of their rehearsed material — but the crowd won’t let them go. After some hemming and hawing and one false start, Swamp and the band launch into an impromptu but devastating rendition of Big Joe Turner‘s “Crawdad Hole” that is the best piece of flat-feet-on-the-floor, stand-up blues singing I’ve heard since Howard Tate‘s NYC comeback at Village Underground in July 2001.
Aaron Fuchs was still floating on the high of this show days later when he wrote:
“It was a rare occasion when a show so greatly exceeded my expectations. Aside from doing everything you’d expect from Swamp Dogg — all the songs you really wanted to hear, with stream-of-consciousness interludes — it was his entirely undiminished piercing tenor combined with his nods to the ages that made the show incredible. I have never, ever heard anyone cover Big Joe Turner’s ‘Crawdad Hole.’ And he ripped it.“
ADDENDUM: The unfortunate task of following this revelatory performance fell to the Revelations and their regular lead singer Tre Williams. I’d seen this group three times previously as headliners and always enjoyed them; I can recommend the debut CD The Bleeding Edge without reservation. For whatever reason, Tre’s vocal partner Rell Gaddis was AWOL from City Winery and their particular interplay — a neo-soul variation on hip-hop’s MC/hype man combination — was very much missed. Matters were not improved by the fact that perhaps three-fourths of the audience had left the venue immediately following Swamp Dogg’s performance.
During my 1989-2000 tenure at Epic Records/Sony Music, one of the nicer people I worked with was Epic VP of Marketing Al Masocco.
Our offices were on opposite coasts (me in NY, Al in LA) so I didn’t get to know him as well as I might have. But Al always seemed to be throwing himself into one marketing campaign or another, and usually had some complicated, hair-raising tale to tell, whether it was about gaining the co-operation of the Tragnew Park Compton Crips for an MC Eiht video shoot in South Central or negotiating with wary officials of the Cuban government to stage and film an Audioslave concert in Havana.
Al Masocco was (and still is) a completely unpretentious person who never seemed to care if anybody else — Spin, Rolling Stone, some joker at KCRW or MTV — thought his acts were “cool” or “hip.” With his boundless enthusiasm and non-stop chatter, Al struck me as a throwback to the even-older-school record biz guys of the Fifties and early Sixties. He understood implicitly that his job was not to sign, style, or song-doctor his acts but to sell the shit out of them, which is exactly what he did, day in and day out.
After a long stint at Epic/Sony and a shorter one with mega-management company The Firm, Al founded his own marketing venture Pulsebeat. He also established himself as a campus motivational/professional speaker, and I can attest that anyone who pays Al Masocco to talk will get more — much more — than their money’s worth.
I know that Al is a major rock memorabilia collector, especially of Beatles material, although as yet I haven’t had the pleasure of touring his closely guarded holdings. But until we spoke last month, I didn’t know he’d also amassed a collection of 140+ electric guitars, basses, and miscellaneous stringed instruments. It includes some very odd- and/or cool-looking instruments by manufacturers like Wurlitzer, Hayman, Kawai, Supro, Teisco, and Dwight — see sample photos posted on this page.
Al is now renting out these axes for film, TV, video, and still photo shoots. Guitar freaks and even some, er, regular people will enjoy the slide show — complete with a “Super Riff Medley” soundtrack — that he’s created for Pulsebeat Guitars.