Mark Stryker

If anyone's interested, here's my take on the program, which Eighth Blackbird performed in Ann Arbor a week prior to the NY concert. Mature Eighth Blackbird flies high: Ensemble performs beyond the fringe BYLINE: Mark Stryker, Detroit Free Press Apr. 12--It's been a thrill for metro Detroiters to watch Eighth Blackbird grow into a leading new music ensemble, because we've known about the group's charisma and skill longer than most. The sextet made its local debut at the Great Lakes Chamber Music Festival in 1997, a year after its founding at the Oberlin Conservatory. Earlier this year the group won a Grammy award for its CD "Strange Imaginary Animals" and on Thursday reached another milestone, a University Musical Society debut. The ambitious program featured music premiered last month. Steve Reich's "Double Sextet" found the ensemble performing live with a prerecorded tape of itself. "Singing in the Dead of Night" is a collaboration by the three founding composers of New York's Bang on a Can, David Lang, Michael Gordon and Julia Wolfe, with restrained but effective choreography by Susan Marshall. The chain of influences was alluring. Reich, 71, is a founding hero of minimalism, whose pulsating rhythmic grids, spare harmonies, vernacular leanings and self-reliant spirit left a huge imprint on the post-classical aesthetic of Bang on a Can, whose do-it-yourself model has inspired young ensembles like Eighth Blackbird. "Double Sextet" features Reich's trademark gleaming surfaces and phase-shifting rhythms, but there is also the sneaky melodic lushness that has crept into his music in recent decades. Piano and vibes (and their taped counterparts) acted a rhythm section, creating a web of head-bobbing, asymmetric rhythms. Violin, flute, clarinet and cello laid slowly revolving melodies on top, creating a glint so bright you almost needed sunglasses. In the slow movement, piano and vibes merged into a pool of open harmony and the melody took on a beautiful yearning quality that reminded me of a meditative John Coltrane ballad. The performance had energy but felt a bit stiff, as if the players were still settling into the work, and the impact would have been greater if the tape had been louder. The piece sounded less like a dialogue between equals than a live sextet with taped accompaniment. In "Singing in the Dead of Night," three sections by Lang surround movements by Gordon and Wolfe. The best music came from Lang (who won a Pulitzer for another piece this week). The bright and prickly mix of piccolo and glockenspiel and the complex rhythms in his prologue suggested Oliver Messiaen's birds with a groove, while the bell-like tolls in his central movement had the quiet intensity of poetry. Gordon's agitated movement pitted jaunty fiddling and woodwind jamming against a sliding cello, humorously sudden percussive clangs and even a touch of harmonica and accordion. Wolfe's night music started promisingly but seemed overly long. The music had a tactile quality that merged comfortably with Marshall's staging. There were two especially memorable moments of theater. In the first, one player so loaded another's arms with metal cans and percussion that he couldn't keep them all afloat. They sprang a leak, falling one-by-one until they all went in a final tragicomedic crash. Played against the gentle music, the scene was charged with existential angst that wouldn't have been out of place in a production of "Waiting for Godot." The other great moment came as the players pushed sand around on an amplified table during Wolfe's movement to create an eerie whoosh; at one point pianist Lisa Kaplan's whole body rolled on the table. Still, less is more in this idiom and the falling instruments and magic-sand tricks grew wearisome after several repetitions. On the other hand, the players -- Kaplan, flutist Tim Munro, clarinetist Michael Maccaferri, violinist Matt Albert, cellist Nicholas Photinos and percussionist Matthew Duvall -- attacked the music and theater with such vibrant virtuosity that it was easy to overlook the imperfections.

Detroit Free Press JULY 3, 2001 JOE HENDERSON: JAZZ MAN PUT FREEDOM TO WORK BYLINE: MARK STRYKER FREE PRESS MUSIC WRITER For most of his career, tenor saxophonist Joe Henderson, who perfected his craft in the crucible of Detroit's jazz scene of the late 1950s, had the unfortunate distinction of being the most underrated jazz musician on the planet. His peers revered him as an innovator, lining up three-deep at the bar to catch him in a club; students memorized his licks like scripture. Yet the wider jazz audience shrugged, and so did most critics, who should have known better. Then fate did a somersault. After 30 years in the trenches, Henderson -- who died Saturday at age 64 in San Francisco from heart failure brought on by emphysema -- became an unlikely star in the 1990s. A minor backlash against the young-lion craze in jazz prompted industry giant Verve to sign Henderson. Powered by major-label marketing muscle, he found an audience. The CDs -- crafty concept albums that included tributes to Billy Strayhorn, Miles Davis and Antonio Carlos Jobim -- flew out of stores, and Henderson suddenly found himself on the cover of jazz mags, pocketing headliner bread, polishing four Grammy Awards on his mantel and flying first-class, where he could stretch out his lanky frame. The irony was monumental. This was a musician known to colleagues as "the Phantom" because of his elusive personality, quirky behavior and analytical mind. On stage he played long solos, dense with ideas, with a soft, reedy sound as mysterious as smoke. He rarely spoke, not even to introduce tunes or sidemen. He just played his butt off. Every night. Every set. For 40 years. "I always wanted to be an improviser of the likes that hasn't been seen out here," Henderson told the Free Press in 1996. "And I learned one thing along the way that served me pretty well: I considered it a sin, in the same way God might consider an act a sin, to ever play an idea more than once. If the world didn't hear it that one time, well, too bad." Henderson was born in Lima, Ohio, on April 24, 1937, but came of age studying at Wayne State University from 1956 to 1960. He haunted the city's jazz temples like the Blue Bird and the Bohemian Club, rubbing shoulders with Yusef Lateef, Barry Harris, Terry Pollard and other local heroes. "It was a powerful scene," Henderson recalled. "One of the best learning, growing, getting-it-all-sorted-out scenes you could've been in on at that time." Detroit was a bebop town. If you didn't speak the language of Charlie Parker and Bud Powell, you didn't survive. Henderson arrived with his own sound; Detroit taught him harmony, tunes and the rules of bebop. But Henderson's ears were also open to the radical ideas of saxophonist Ornette Coleman, then upsetting the jazz world by throwing away the traditional rules of harmony and form. Henderson credited his Wayne State studies of Hindemith, Stravinsky and Bartok with keeping his mind flexible. Henderson's early records revealed a synthesis of the discipline of bebop with the exploratory freedom of the avant-garde. Henderson played free within structure. A whole gang of young musicians was working along similar lines in the '60s -- Wayne Shorter, Herbie Hancock and Bobby Hutcherson among them -- and their artistic victories became the basis of today's jazz mainstream. Henderson offered an alternative to the laser-like sonorities, modal improvisations and devotional manner of John Coltrane, the era's leading saxophonist. Henderson's roots were in the rhythmic freedom and wit of Sonny Rollins. No one played with more flexible rhythm than Henderson; he was a drummer channeling through the saxophone. His solos came out of his horn like Silly String. He'd suspend time and harmony in a fog of flickering trills and whirlwind arpeggios. He'd swoop from his high register to the basement of the saxophone in the blink of an eye. He'd start a phrase in a veiled corner of the beat, hold it up to the sun and then bury it again. He'd play anything at any time. Henderson's Blue Note albums from the '60s -- "Page One," "Inner Urge," "In 'n' Out," "Mode for Joe" -- contain much of his best work. He also recorded as a sideman with most of the key musicians of his time, including McCoy Tyner, Lee Morgan, Kenny Dorham, Larry Young, Horace Silver and Chick Corea. Several of Henderson's compositions have become talismans for musicians because of their beguiling structures, including "Recorda-Me," "Inner Urge," "Isotope" and "A Shade of Jade." And large chunks of his style can be heard in the playing of saxophonists ranging from stars like Branford Marsalis and Joe Lovano to fresh conservatory graduates. Henderson's final appearance in metro Detroit came in January 1997, when he performed at the Michigan Theatre in Ann Arbor with bassist George Mraz and drummer Al Foster. The last tune was Strayhorn's ballad "Lush Life," which the trio deconstructed in rubato time. Henderson wandered phrase by phrase through the song, ending each melodic cell with a symphony of improvisation lasting anywhere from 10 seconds to more than a minute. His playing made old men out of almost every other musician in jazz, and when it was over he slipped into the shadows without saying a word. {END} HENDERSON ON DISC Looking for the essential Joe Henderson on CD? Start with the the classics recorded for Blue Note in 1963-67. "Inner Urge" and "In 'n' Out" both feature pianist McCoy Tyner and drummer Elvin Jones and are favorites of musicians. "Mode for Joe" features a septet and Henderson's most finely wrought compositions. "Page One," his debut, documents his partnership with trumpeter Kenny Dorham and includes two calling cards, Henderson's "Recorda-Me" and Dorham's "Blue Bossa." Henderson contributed to dozens of other Blue Note sessions. Don't miss Dorham's "Una Mas," Lee Morgan's "The Sidewinder," Larry Young's "Unity," Andrew Hill's "Point of Departure," Tyner's "The Real McCoy," Horace Silver's "Song for My Father" and "Cape Verdean Blues." Henderson's Milestone sides (1967-1976) are collected in an eight-CD box. The music is inconsistent, but the best albums are indispensable: "Power to the People" straddles acoustic-electric sound worlds with Herbie Hancock, Ron Carter and Jack DeJohnette. "In Japan" is a firecracker. In the '80s, Blue Note released two volumes of "The State of the Tenor," a pair of sonically poor trio records taped at the Village Vanguard. The reissue repaired the sound and packaged both together. "Lush Life: The Music of Billy Strayhorn" kicked off Henderson's Verve contract in 1992; unfortunately, it's overproduced and suffers from green sidemen. But the authority of "So Near So Far" and "Double Rainbow" -- tributes to Miles Davis and bossa nova giant Antonio Carlos Jobim -- is breathtaking. Hearing 17 pieces play cockeyed Henderson licks makes "Big Band" (1996) a kick. But "Porgy and Bess" (1997), Henderson's last album, is again overproduced and flat.

Here's one from August 2001, about three months before Tommy died. I think it's the last major piece anyone wrote about him but I may be wrong. Detroit Free Press AUGUST 26, 2001 A LEGENDARY TOUCH THE DETROIT-BORN PIANIST TOMMY FLANAGAN BRINGS HIS SAGE, SATINY AND SWINGING BEBOP HOME FOR THE JAZZ FESTIVAL BYLINE: MARK STRYKER FREE PRESS MUSIC WRITER DATELINE: NEW YORK Tommy Flanagan descends the steep staircase leading from Seventh Avenue to the Village Vanguard and briefly surveys the empty club before shuffling to the piano. His hands fall lovingly on the keys as if he were shaking hands with an old friend. Flanagan -- one of the finest musicians produced by the golden age of modern jazz in Detroit and a headliner at the Ford Detroit International Jazz Festival -- first played the Vanguard as a sideman with trombonist J.J. Johnson in the late 1950s. More recently, Flanagan's all-world trios have spent many nights in residence at this hallowed temple of jazz, and he's recorded two exemplary albums here. But now, in the afternoon stillness, he plays for himself and the ghosts of Thelonious Monk, John Coltrane and the other departed jazz heroes whose photos line the smoke-stained walls of the world's most famous basement. One soft-spoken chord meanders into another until a melody emerges from the mist -- "Gone with the Wind," a 1937 gem that reminds you Flanagan doesn't know every tune, just the best ones. He glides into a walk-in-the-park tempo, improvising fluid ideas ripe with insouciant swing, fine-spun counterpoint and elegant bebop melodies whose single-note lines hang on the chords like Christmas ornaments. Flanagan's lyrical touch is legendary -- each note sounds like a pearl wrapped in silk -- and this is the first topic he addresses when the songs ends. "My touch comes from listening and trying to get a sound that I had in my head," he says in a gentle voice that rarely rises above a stage whisper. "I never did get much out of playing too hard. In fact, when I thought I was playing too loud, I'd use the soft pedal. I liked that -- you play harder but get a softer sound. I had an old, harsh-sounding piano at home, anyway." At 71, Flanagan plays like the hippest angel in heaven, seducing listeners through a sublime marriage of grace and guts, swing and sagacity, wit and warmth. It's been two years since he last performed in his hometown -- illness forced him to cancel a 70th-birthday concert at Orchestra Hall last year -- and his festival appearance marks the local debut of his latest trio, with veteran drummer Albert Heath joining bassist Peter Washington. Flanagan's poetic brand of modernism is so universally admired today that it's sobering to remember it wasn't always that way. Until launching the second act of his career in the late '70s, he was a secret to almost everyone but his fellow musicians. Most observers regarded him as a career accompanist. Flanagan's self-effacing personality and his resume worked against him. He spent 14 years as Ella Fitzgerald's pianist, from 1962 to 1965 and 1968 to 1978. (In between was a brief stint with Tony Bennett.) Flanagan recorded sparingly as a leader, releasing zero records under his own name between 1960 and 1975. He recorded prolifically as a sideman, however, appearing on such classic '50s LPs as Miles Davis' "Collectors' Items," Sonny Rollins' "Saxophone Colossus" and John Coltrane's "Giant Steps." The turning point came in 1978, when a heart attack put him in the hospital for 17 days. He quit smoking, cut down on drinking and gave his notice to Ella. Soon he formed the first in a series of trios specializing in nattily tailored interpretations of exquisite standards and underplayed jazz originals by Thad Jones, Monk, Tadd Dameron, Billy Strayhorn, Ellington and others. Flanagan became a fixture in the New York clubs and recorded a string of thrilling albums, mostly for small European labels. Not until 1998, when Blue Note released "The Sunset and the Mockingbird," did a major American label support Flanagan. By then his brilliance was received wisdom. "Flanagan's position is less a matter of besting the competition than bringing his powers to a peak where competition is irrelevant," critic Gary Giddins wrote a few years ago. "He's perfected his own niche, a style beyond style, where the only appropriate comparisons are between his inspired performances and those that are merely characteristic." Flanagan's style is deceptive. He is known for his satin touch, but he can play with a cunningly sharp attack and swings as deeply as anyone. He is a child of bebop and a master of bop's rhythmic displacements, harmonic challenges and the horn-like style pioneered by pianist Bud Powell. But Flanagan's roots also reach back to pre-bop pianists like Teddy Wilson, Art Tatum, Fats Waller, the transitional Nat Cole and the early modernist from Pontiac, Hank Jones -- all pianists with active left hands and refined elan. "I was first influenced by Teddy Wilson," says Flanagan. "He was a firm player, but he also had a beautiful touch. If that's your first inspiration, you really want to improve on it. In the last 20 years or so my volume has increased. In fact, I had a drummer once who left the group because he said the piano was too loud." Flanagan laughs at the irony: "Imagine that -- a drummer telling the piano player he was too loud." Michael Weiss, one of the legion of younger pianists who revere Flanagan, points out that a large part of his identity is his pianistic approach to dynamics, attack, pedaling and orchestration. "Each note or chord has a carefully considered sonority, as opposed to a generic kind of voicing," says Weiss. "He might start a melody in single-note lines, then play something in thirds, octaves or full chords. That carries over to his improvising. If he's soloing and ascends to a climax, he'll orchestrate that moment -- put a chord under the melody note to color or accent what he's doing." Flanagan manipulates the keyboard pedals like a classical virtuoso, employing the sustain pedal to connect his ideas in a smooth legato without allowing his notes to bleed into a puddle. "Sometimes guys just come and watch my feet," says Flanagan. "You know, there's a way of breathing when you use the pedals. It's like phrasing." Flanagan is a handsome, distinguished man, but he is more frail than in years past, and his clothes hang loosely on his small frame. He has a long face, tender eyes, a sweet smile and wears large round glasses. He lost his hair early, and only a wisp of white remains above and behind his ears. A bushy gray mustache almost hides his dimples. Flanagan does nothing in a hurry, least of all talk. He answers questions in stages, leaving long gaps of silence and looking past his interviewer into an undefined middle distance. Still, when the mood strikes, he is an agile conversationalist with a martini-dry wit. "Tommy may not say much, but when he does speak, it's the truth," says Weiss. Flanagan has lived on the Upper West Side of Manhattan since the 1950s, for the last 25 years on 82nd Street with his wife, Diana, a vivacious woman whom he married in 1976. Married once before, Flanagan and has three children from his first marriage and six grandchildren. The apartment is tastefully decorated and cluttered with Diana's books -- a former singer, she was a literature major in college and devours fiction, poetry, history, biography and music tomes. A Steinway grand piano stands in one corner of the living room opposite a sitting area by the window. Photos of jazz musicians like Charlie Parker and Ellington are scattered about, along with paintings, including a small landscape by Nancy Balliett, wife of New Yorker jazz critic Whitney Balliett. A framed caricature of Flanagan by the cartoonist Al Hirschfeld watches over the piano. On this afternoon, Flanagan and Diana nuzzle on the sofa while paging through the recently published "Before Motown: A History of Jazz in Detroit, 1920-60" (University of Michigan Press, $24.95). Flanagan points and smiles at the photos of lifelong friends like Barry Harris, Kenny Burrell, Elvin Jones, the late Pepper Adams and others who were part of a remarkable eruption of jazz talent in mid-century Detroit. Diana squeals at the pictures of her husband working around town as a teenager. "Oh, sweetheart! What a darling you were! I would have loved you!" "Stand in line," Flanagan deadpans. He lays the book down on a table and begins to reminisce about his salad days. In 1953, he joined the famous house band at the Blue Bird Inn, working alongside saxophonist Billy Mitchell, trumpeter Thad Jones and drummer Elvin Jones. At the Blue Bird, Flanagan first played with many of the musicians with whom he would later work in New York. "I couldn't have gotten very far without those days in Detroit," Flanagan says. "We had good role models. They didn't use that term then, but we had some people we respected who played as well as those people who came into town that we'd go see. We had people like Milt Jackson, Yusef Lateef, Lucky Thompson, Wardell Gray." Flanagan grew up in northeast Detroit in Conant Gardens. He was the last of six children. His father was a postman, and both parents loved music, especially his mother. Flanagan started on the clarinet at 6, but by then he was already climbing up on the piano bench, imitating the lessons he heard his brother practice. Encouraged by his mother, Flanagan started piano lessons at 10 and still has a fondness for Chopin and Ravel. He got interested in jazz when his brother started bringing home the latest Billie Holiday records, which featured Teddy Wilson on piano. "I've been living with this music since I was 6 years old," he says. Flanagan attended Northern High School, where pianists Roland Hanna and Bess Bonnier were classmates. In 1949, after Flanagan backed Harry Belafonte at the Flame Show Bar, Belafonte offered him a gig in New York. But Flanagan's mother thought her baby was too young to leave town, so a disappointed Flanagan stayed put. Then he was drafted and spent two years in the Army. When the orders came to ship out to Korea, he wanted to take the newest music with him, so he stuffed Thelonious Monk's Blue Note 78s into his suitcase. Eventually, Flanagan made it to New York, moving there in early 1956. Outside of music and family, his memories of Detroit are not all pleasant. "I always wished I'd left earlier," he says. "Detroit started to grind on me. There wasn't much freedom to move around. The police were horrible then. They'd hassle you in your own neighborhood. One night when I was about 12, I was walking by a printing shop where they'd found some subversive material and they stopped me, guns drawn. I said, 'What are you going to do? I'm just a kid.' " In New York, things moved swiftly. Within a year, Flanagan had subbed for Bud Powell at Birdland and recorded with both Davis and Sonny Rollins. He cherishes the memories: At the first recording session with Davis, he recalls, the trumpeter pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket containing a barely legible sketch of Brubeck's "In Your Own Sweet Way." Davis supplied the chord voicings for the famous introduction that Flanagan plays, but Flanagan devised the rhythm. Then there was the time J.J. Johnson's Quintet alternated sets at the Vanguard with Jack Kerouac, who would read from his books or extemporize. One night, Flanagan, Elvin Jones and Kerouac -- a world-class drinker -- ended up at Flanagan's apartment. "Before the morning was over, Elvin threatened to kill him," Flanagan recalls. "Kerouac said something outrageous and Elvin took offense. I think I did too, but Elvin was more menacing." Talked out, Flanagan stands up and slowly makes his way to the piano. Stacks of popular songbooks sit on a nearby shelf, and on top of the piano is a folder of compositions by Modern Jazz Quartet founder John Lewis. The pianist had sent the music to Flanagan for a possible CD before his death in March. Flanagan plays a few enigmatic arpeggios before slipping into the the Jimmy McHugh ballad "Where Are You?" with a fanciful twist of harmony that unlocks a back door to the song. He plays a chorus sotto voce and then a second with more volume, dialogue and emotion. The results are so eloquent that a visitor quickly requests "Last Night When We Were Young" to keep Flanagan at the keyboard. It's an unusually abstract pop song; Harold Arlen's melody and harmony move in odd patterns. Flanagan hasn't played it in ages, and he watches his hands with a puzzled look on his face, as if his fingers belonged to another pianist. When he gets stuck for a note, Diana, who seems to know as many songs as her husband, softly sings Yip Harburg's mature lyric from the sofa. The music shudders with feeling. When it's over, Diana has a tear in her eye and Flanagan a faraway look in his. {END} (SIDEBAR:) TOMMY FLANAGAN ON CD Tommy Flanagan has recorded prolifically as a leader since the late 1970s, and his work is remarkably consistent. The finest overall introduction to his trio is probably "Jazz Poet" (1989) with George Mraz and Kenny Washington, but it's hard to go wrong with any of the following: "Elypso" (1977), "Super Session" (1980), "Sea Changes" (1997), "The Sunset and the Mockingbird" (1998) and "Beyond the Bluebird" (1990), the latter featuring Kenny Burrell. Flanagan has also recorded a series of brilliant songbook albums devoted to John Coltrane ("Giant Steps"), Thad Jones ("Lets"); Thelonious Monk ("Thelonica") and Ella Fitzgerald ("Lady Be Good"). "Our Delight" is a gorgeous duet album with the Pontiac-bred pianist Hank Jones. Two early albums worth seeking out are "Overseas" (1957) and "The Tommy Flanagan Trio" (1960). Among Flanagan's countless appearances as a sideman, don't miss Coltrane's "Giant Steps," Sonny Rollins' "Saxophone Colossus," Miles Davis' "Collectors' Items," Kenny Dorham's "Quiet Kenny" and Ella Fitzgerald's "Ella in London."

Here's the email letter than went out this afternoon: Dear IAJE Family, It is with a great sense of loss that I inform you that despite drastic efforts to cut expenses and raise emergency funds, the IAJE Board has voted to file for bankruptcy under Chapter 7 of the Federal Bankruptcy Law. I want to thank profusely those who responded with their generous donations and offers of assistance following my last communication. While over 250 individuals contributed just over $12,000, this, along with the many other efforts and contributions of IAJE staff, Board members, and association partners, was simply not enough to address the accumulated debt of the organization or its urgent need for cash relief. In the next few days, a Kansas bankruptcy court will appoint a trustee to oversee all ongoing aspects of the association. This includes the ability to examine IAJE's financial records and mount an independent inquiry into the causes of it's financial downfall as well as disposing of the remaining assets of the association with proceeds distributed to creditors in accordance with Kansas and Federal law. The board will no longer be involved in operation of the organization and will at some point resign. IAJE as it presently stands will no longer exist. Approximately a week after filing, all potential creditors of the association will receive notice of the association's filing from the court. Members who desire additional information regarding the petition, including a complete listing of association assets and liabilities, may retrieve this, as it is a public document, through normal court procedures. Undoubtedly, however, you will have more immediate questions deserving of responses I hope to address in this report. Since the first communication to the membership outlining this crisis, there has been considerable public speculation as to its causes. As noted in that communication, years of dependence upon the conference as a primary (but unreliable) revenue stream and the launch of a well-intentioned capital campaign (the Campaign for Jazz), which generated a meager response but required considerable expenditures in advance of contributions, drove the association into insolvency. Sadly, the attendance at the conference in Toronto (the lowest in 10 years) exacerbated an already critical situation, depriving the association of the cash-flow needed to continue daily operations as well as the time needed to seek alternative resources. While ultimately not able to skirt the financial land mines placed in its path, I want to assure you the IAJE Board has acted responsibly, ethically, and with a sense of urgency ever since it was blindsided last fall with the discovery of the extent of the accumulated association debt. Since that time, the board slashed spending, set specific performance targets for the Executive Director, sought outside consultations, and enlisted the services of several past-presidents and strategic association partners in attempts to raise funds - sadly, with minimal success. It goes without saying, the board you elected is comprised of very accomplished, intelligent, and dedicated educators and professionals who have given generously of their time in service to this association and care about it passionately. Likewise, our entire professional staff, led by Associate Executive Director, Vivian Orndorff, and Executive Producer, Steve Baker, has worked heroically in the face of declining resources to meet the needs of the association and its members. I wanted to take this opportunity to thank both the board and staff for their service. I have been privileged and honored to serve with them. While there may be those who question specific decisions or strategies in efforts to meet this crisis, the dedication and integrity of these individuals should never be in doubt. As we move forward, one of the most pressing questions is how the operations of individual chapters and affiliated associations will be affected by this filing. Since our chapters are either separate corporate entitles or voluntary associations with their own boards, constitutions and bylaws; IAJE views them as completely independent entities. Ultimately, however, the trustee and the court will make this determination and it is anticipated that the trustee may request certain information from the chapters in this regard. Sadly, the 2009 IAJE International Conference in Seattle has been cancelled. However, there has been some discussion of mounting a regional conference in its place. At the moment, Lou Fischer, U.S. Board Representative is fielding inquiries: ljazzmanf@yahoo.com. For the time being, the IAJE website will remain up. However, the international offices of IAJE will close their doors at the end of the day on Friday, April 18th. Should there be additional questions you may submit them to info@iaje.org and every attempt will be made to respond to these as staffing allows. Today, we, the members of IAJE and the global jazz community, face an extremely important task. For, as we all recognize, the opportunities, impact, and work of this association are too vital to simply disappear. Whether you were first drawn to IAJE for its conference, its magazine or research publications, its student scholarship programs such as Sisters in Jazz or the Clifford Brown/Stan Getz All-Stars, its Teacher Training Institutes, the resources provided through its website or Resource Team, or any one of a number of other offerings; it is clear the mission of IAJE still resonates and its advocacy is needed today more than ever. We must, therefore, look at this as an opportunity to refocus the mission, scope, programs, and vision of IAJE (or whatever succeeds it) to better meet the needs of our members and the jazz community not only today but looking toward the future. I am, in no way, suggesting the membership turn a blind eye towards the need for an independent inquiry into causes and ultimately assigning responsibility for this situation. I ask you recognize the court appointed trustee, who will have access to all necessary documents and facts, is charged with that task. Our efforts and our passion, should be to collectively rally the community to recognize the importance IAJE has had and continues to have in the life and development of jazz and jazz education - seeking new strategic partnerships, new government structures, and a revitalized mission that embraces current needs. Already there are efforts to do just that. I know that Mary Jo Papich, who would have begun serving her term as President of IAJE beginning this July, is dedicated to recreating such an association. As many know, Mary Jo has been a tireless advocate for IAJE, serving it long and well. You will, undoubtedly, be hearing from her in the near future. When she does contact you, I urge you to join me in offering her every support and assistance. Of course, others may also seek to fill this void by promoting alternative visions for empowering, serving, and gathering the jazz community. While I generally believe such diversity is quite healthy, I would strongly encourage all such efforts and leaders to attempt to collaborate and seek ways to unite us in spirit and strength. Finally, I would encourage you to recognize and remember IAJE for all the tremendous good it has done in the past 40 years. Many individuals have contributed along the way, often at considerable personal sacrifice of their time and resources, to establish and advance the work of this association. Much has been achieved that can never be taken away! Therefore, the vision, effort, and shared passion that have fueled the growth of IAJE and its programs should not be forgotten or considered in vain. Rather, the spirit that is IAJE must be rekindled into a new vision for the future. Sincerely, The IAJE Board - Chuck Owen, President

DETROIT FREE PRESS AUGUST 27, 2000 PROFESSOR OF BEBOP AT 70, NATIVE DETROITER BARRY HARRIS SHARES THE SECRETS OF THE JAZZ TRADITION WITH STUDENTS IN NEW YORK BYLINE: MARK STRYKER FREE PRESS MUSIC WRITER DATELINE: NEW YORK On the Upper West Side of Manhattan, just beyond the shadow of Juilliard, the bejeweled conservatory of classical music, sits the Lincoln Square Community Center. A gritty gathering place cut from cold concrete, it is the current home to the longest running master class in jazz. The professor is pianist Barry Harris, one of the greatest musicians ever produced by Detroit. At 70, Harris remains the foremost bebop muse on the planet, channeling the spirit of Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Bud Powell and Thelonious Monk through his own foxy wit, harmonic imagination and rhythmic rumble. Widely recorded, Harris has worked with many of the key figures in jazz since the '40s. Less well known is that he has long been considered a legendary teacher, a mentor to scores of musicians since his days as a precocious teenager in Detroit more than 50 years ago. A bebop guru, Harris has codified the modern jazz language into an integrated system. Today, he holds weekly workshops in which, like a swinging Socrates, he guides students in a quest for Truth, Beauty and the hippest chords to play on "Body and Soul." The students -- fresh graduates from overly starched music schools, mid-career pros searching for new avenues of expression, middle-age amateurs with a passion for jazz and the warm camaraderie of the class -- flock to Harris. They come because of his subtle charisma and because his system comes stamped with Talmudic authority. In an age in which the traditional apprentice system has all but collapsed in jazz, Harris represents a direct link to the pantheon. "The tradition of learning a folk music is to learn it from the folk that do it," says pianist Rodney Kendrick, 40, who began studying with Harris 20 years ago and still attends class, even though he's recorded several CDs. "The only way you can teach this music is by example, as opposed to going to some schools where these cats tell you about ' 'Round Midnight,' 'Cherokee' or some song. They don't have a clue. They haven't played with anybody but the guy next door, who's just as clueless as they are." Harris teaches on Tuesdays. The students show up in waves: pianists at 6:30 p.m., singers at 8:30 and horn players (saxophonists, trumpeters, guitarists, even violinists) at 10:30. They pay a one-time registration fee of $30 plus $8 a night. The space is large and hollow, like an elementary school gym, with dingy light and two baby grand pianos pushed to one side like orphaned twins. As the clock ticks past 6:40 on a recent Tuesday, Yoko Kawaguchi, 31, moves to a piano and begins to play "Over the Rainbow" in a ballad tempo. Nearby, Harris cocks his ear, shuffles over to the piano bench and takes a seat next to her. Those milling about the room notice, and soon a dozen other pianists are huddled around them, some standing on chairs. Tape recorders are turned on. Manuscript paper is readied. Class is in session, though even Harris doesn't know the agenda. Kawaguchi, a newly minted graduate of Indiana University, works carefully through the song, measuring each phrase like a cook wedded to a recipe. When Harris hears a missed opportunity to add a new spice, to improvise, his hands dart to the keyboard. He plays a clever descending sequence of diminished and dominant arpeggios that excites a transition with flavor and texture. Kawaguchi smiles. She copies the notes, tripping at first. Harris repeats the idea slower. Back and forth they go, Harris making up variations, exploring the problem from several angles. "OK, get up," he says. The other students take turns playing the sequence. An hour passes. "Each class takes on its own shape," says pianist Michael Weiss, 42, a close friend of Harris who is also leading a band at the Detroit jazz festival. "Barry puts something on the table and says, 'Let's solve this together.' " Harris has always been fascinated with the nuts and bolts of harmony: the bittersweet lyricism of chords layered on top of each other; voice-leading and finding new harmonic colors to apply to standard songs the way a painter like Bonnard might use six shades of red in a landscape. The relationship between chords and scales is another favorite topic. "A scale gives you movement," he tells the class, repeating a lesson learned decades ago from tenor saxophone master Coleman Hawkins. "Don't play chords, play movement." Now it's time to play stump the teacher. Weiss, who has stopped by class to say hello, gets drafted into the colloquium on harmony. "Have you thought of this?" he asks, fingering complex chords derived from a minor scale. Harris looks puzzled. "Don't say nothing," he says before Weiss can jump in with an explanation. Then Harris tries the sequence, savoring each odd consonance like sips of an exotic wine. It's 9 p.m. the following day, and Harris is downing sushi at a favorite Japanese restaurant on 8th Avenue in Midtown. He breaks into a gap-toothed grin. "I must be the dumbest kid in the class 'cause I've been in it the longest, and I'm the biggest thief in the class 'cause I steal from everybody," Harris says in his gentle, gravelly baritone. Harris has hunched shoulders, a high forehead, a drooping bottom lip and soft, puppy eyes that peer above glasses. His hair -- full on the sides, thin on top -- is ivory white. A few black streaks darken his mustache. "The more I learn, the more I can see where Bird (Charlie Parker), Bud, Diz and those cats didn't do it all... You need to learn the rules so you can bend the rules, extend the rules and come up with new answers." Growing up in Detroit, Harris had two kinds of music teachers. Formal instruction began with his mother, a church pianist. But like all musicians of his generation, Harris learned jazz from the rhythm of the streets, on the bandstand, at jam sessions and by copying solos from recordings. Harris would stand behind his friend and contemporary pianist Tommy Flanagan and steal chords. Saxophonist and composer Frank Foster, who would later write dozens of classic arrangements for Count Basie, gave Harris a cheat sheet around 1950 crammed with orchestration tips that Harris still keeps. Harris anchored the house trio at the hallowed Blue Bird Inn, backing stars of the day like Miles Davis. A quick study, Harris soon took a leadership role in Detroit's close-knit jazz community, mentoring slightly younger peers like bassist Paul Chambers, trumpeter Donald Byrd and trombonist Curtis Fuller. All became stars. Harris' reputation grew, and musicians traveling through Detroit began stopping by his house to jam and study informally, including the nascent revolutionary saxophonist John Coltrane. Harris' system made him unique, and the fundamentals he devised in the mid-'50s remain the backbone of his teaching. Harris put the virtuoso improvisations of Parker, Gillespie, Powell and other modern jazz pioneers under a microscope. He discovered the musical syntax and grammar that makes the bebop language work -- scales, chords, passing tones. He then organized a set of rules that helps musicians play like natives, without an accent. "Barry's theory is derived directly from the practice, and more often than not in universities they have it backward," says Weiss. Not all of Harris' lessons have to do with the mechanics of music. Detroit-bred alto saxophonist Charles McPherson, 61, one of the leading keepers of the bebop flame, used to go to Harris' house nearly every day as a teenager to play. One day, Harris spied his report card littered with Cs. "Charles, this is real average stuff. You must be an average guy." "Yeah, well, what's wrong with that?" "Man, all your heroes, they're not average at all. Cats like Bird are very well-read. Bird could sit down and talk about philosophy and paintings; he was very erudite. You can't possibly play this kind of music and be an average guy. There's too much going on." The talk changed McPherson's life. He started reading. Made the honor roll. Taught him a lesson some musicians never learn: "The more you know the more you have to play about," McPherson says. "You have more to say, other than just F minor to B-flat-7." Harris inspires a striking level of devotion from his students, some of whom have been schlepping 90 minutes to class from Long Island every week for a decade. Schoolgirl crushes are not unusual. At class, a young student from Japan, who speaks little English, brings Harris special cookies from her homeland. Harris thanks her with grandfatherly pecks on the cheek. The students know that no other musician of Harris' stature is willing to practically give away his secrets at group seminars rather than pricey private lessons. They know if money's tight they can skip the cover charge. They know that much of the income Harris derives from the class covers expenses, and that it is not uncommon for him to pay airfare to Europe for several students when he conducts clinics overseas. "Everybody wants a piece of heaven, and when you see it, you go to it," says Kendrick. Like many teachers placed on a pedestal, Harris finds the adulation intoxicating. Yet nothing gives him more honest pleasure than the twinkling smile of a student graced by the sudden shock of discovery. "Everything's worth that smile," he says. Harris' classes have been permanent fixtures somewhere in New York since about 1970. "One day I forgot about the class," he recalls. "At 7 o'clock -- I was supposed to be there at 4 -- I realized I forgot, and I jumped in a cab up to 58th Street. Everybody was still there waiting for me! That's when I said, 'We're going to have the class from now on.' " By 10:40 p.m., the nearly three dozen singers -- whom Harris taught lyrics and elementary phrasing by rote -- have retired. Now Harris sits facing some 20 horn players and, like a hip drill sergeant, puts his squadron through rigorous calisthenics designed to train the fingers, ears and mind to work as a single unit. He sings melodic phrases and the class plays them back in unison. The instructions come quickly, given in numbers and letters that sound like secret code to the uninitiated: "Start on the tonic of A-flat and come down the scale, put a half-step between the 6 and 5 and stop at the 3rd of F." Harris links ideas together like the cars of a train, and soon the students are playing serpentine lines that jitterbug through the harmony, dancing with syncopation and leaping intervals. One idea leads to another and, before long, Harris finds himself orchestrating an arrangement based on a 55-year-old Gillespie introduction to "I Can't Get Started." Harris assembles the pieces like a puzzle. First the saxes croon supple chords. Then the trumpets play a nimble melody carved from curlicue rhythms and snazzy harmony. A lone tenor sax adds a moving counter-melody inside the ensemble. It's after midnight by the time Harris completes the eight-bar construction, and when the professor finally hears it played in a single take, he beams. "Oh man, that's fun!" {END}

If drafted, I will not run. If nominated, I will not accept. If elected, I will not serve. Actually, since there seems to be interest, I'll post a few things as I get a chance. Thanks for the nudge, guys.

I see my name has come up here -- Larry, thanks for the kind words. Means a lot coming from you ... I wish I had a homepage on the Free Press site that collected my best stuff, but, unfortunately, the only permanent link, which Larry provided above, takes you to a list of weekly what's-going-on-around-town columns, a tiny sliver of what I do and not a place for deep thinking or writing. I've asked our web folks to set up a page that kept my most recent jazz and classical reporting and criticism available in one place, plus some of the more substantial efforts from the past. (I cover both classical and jazz here, plus with cutbacks in recent years, the Detroit Institute of Arts.) I've also asked for a Detroit Jazz Corner that would keep evergreen links available to stories from the last dozen years about Hank Jones, Tommy Flanagan, Barry Harris, Elvin Jones, Charles McPherson, Geri Allen, Louis Hayes, Ron Carter, Kenny Garrett, Bennie Maupin and many others. So far my requests have fallen on deaf ears, but hope springs eternal. Onward.

Frank Sinatra sings the hell out of "Like Someone In Love" on "Songs for Young Lovers/Swing Easy." These were the first two Capitol sides from 1953/54 originally released on 10-inch LPs, then combined on a 12-inch LP (I think) and now on CD. Essentially stuff. Great version of "Violets for Your Furs," his first crack at "I Get a Kick Out of You" and lots more. Instrumentally, in addition to those already mentioned, Kenny Dorham plays it beautifully on Art Blakey's "At the Cafe Bohemia, Vol. 2" (Blue Note) -- same arrangment that became Lee Morgan's feature on Blakey's "Like Someone in Love."

I always had fun trying to play through some of the patterns in Slonimsky's "Thesaures" but also found it baffling since, as has been mentioned here, it's a descriptive rather than prescriptive book, and you have to have a lot of harmony already under your belt to truly assimilate the information in a meaningful way. The book does have a short intro meant to suggest how the materials can be applied to tonal harmony, but, again, it's not for beginners and the terminology can be dense, especially if your prior references are all jazz-education based. The book, of course, has a storied place in jazz lore. It was an important reference for Trane, who practiced out of it. McCoy too, and then Herbie studied it too, 'cause he heard that McCoy and Trane used it. I asked Herbie about the book once and he mentioned one specific place you can hear its influence is during the piano solo on "Driftin" from "Takin' Off." It's the lick in bar 6 of his second A section. He plays a rapidly ascending figure that in this bluesy hard-bop context sounds like it comes from outerspace. (Herbie didn't identify which pattern from the Thesaures this actually is, so if anybody can find it, you get a gold star.) In Lewis Porter's Trane's bio he notes that David Dempsy has tied the second eight bars of "Giant Steps" to one of Slonimsky's "ditone" progressions (dividing the octave into three parts by major thirds). A pattern on the top of page 40 is Trane's melody for the second half of the tune transposed to a starting note of C. Porter also points out that on page vi of the intro you can find essentially the same melody underpinned with chords similar to what Coltrane uses. (Porter's discussion of all this is on pages 149-150). Surely, other patterns and intervals in the Thesaures made their way into Trane's playing, and Slonimsky's ideas would seem to merge logically with his sheets-of-sound aesthetic and the later modal playing. For what it's worth, anyone looking for a practical book that to help expand your harmonic vocabularly of scales and arpeggios should take a look at Walt Weiskopf's "Around the Horn." Lots of information very thoughtfully organized.

On a personal note (and to brag), the sociologist Robin Stryker who also won a Guggenheim this year is my sister.

For the record, Miles once said, "I'd rather hear Thad Jones miss a note than Freddie Hubbard make 12" -- one of the great put downs in jazz. Not fair at all to Freddie's best playing but an apt description of Freddie at his worst. It's worth noting that in Miles' 1962 Playboy interview with Alex Haley he named Freddie in a much more positive context. PLAYBOY: You've won all the trumpet polls. After yourself, how would you rank others? DAVIS: After me! Hell, it's plenty great trumpet players don't come after me, or after nobody else! That's what I hate so about critics -- how they are always comparing artists...always writing that one's better than another one. Ten men can have spent all their lives learning technical expertness on their instruments, but just like in any art, one will play one style and the rest nine other ways. And if some critics just don't happen to like a man's style, they will knock the artist. That bugs the hell out of musicians. It's made some damn near mad enough to want to hang up their horns. Trumpet players, like anybody else, are individualized by their different ideas and styles. The thing to judge in any jazz artist is does the man project, and does he have ideas. You take Dizzy -- he does, all the time, every time he picks up his horn. Some more cats -- Clark Terry, Ray Nance, Kenny Dorham, Roy Eldridge, Harold Baker, Freddie Hubbard, Lee Morgan, Bobby Hackett -- a lot of them. Hell, that cat down in New Orleans, Al Hirt, he blows his ass off, too! Back to my view: I'm a fan, though certainly not an uncritical one and fully aware of the issues of taste and style-over-substance that can mar his later work. Of course everyone is entitled to their opinion, but, good God, I feel sorry for anyone who doesn't hear the brilliance of, say, "Birdlike," "D Minor Mint"(!!), "You're My Everything," "Lament for Booker," ""Fe-Fi-Fo-Fum," "Pensativa," "Blue Moon" (!) "Skylark," "Maiden Voyage," well, you could on for a very long time. For me, Freddie Hubbard in full flight, with his ego in check and his musicianship on high alert, is one of the great sounds in modern jazz. Not to mention his influence -- creating a new template on his instrument by marrying his astounding level of technique with personal articulation and phrasing, a uniquely fresh melodic conception and command of modern harmony, all of which defined the post-bop trumpet. Perfect? Not by a long shot. One of the greats? No question in my book. http://youtube.com/watch?v=lglmw1izZ9k&feature=related

Enjoying this thread and this particular post... Funny, when I saw that clip, the first thing I thought of was how much he sounded like Philly Joe at times. The explosive attack. I think another link between them is that both made extensive use of the classic drum rudiments as building blocks in their solos and fills -- maybe a drummer or someone with a better understanding of drum techniques than I have could provide details. There are 13 basic rudiments (I think) and then a bunch more ... I can tell when I player is schooled in them but I can't name more than a few.

From Down Beat, Sept. 9, 1976. Interview with Philly Joe Jones by Sandy Davis. Davis: Who are your favorite drummers? Jones: My favorite drummers are -- and always have been -- Max Roach, Art Blakey, Kenny Clarke, Buddy Rich. I always get looked at funny when I mention Buddy Rich. Shit! If any drummer looks another way when Bernard is doing his thing, he's not only crazy but I'll bet you'll never hear his name get any size in music. Max don't want to play like Buddy and I'm sure it's the same with Art, Kenny and the others; but really, who do you know can upstage Buddy Rich? Or get the same ovation from the audience? If you listen and watch Buddy and have hands and mind, you'll cop something. I played with his big band and have been in competition abroad with all the aforementioned, plus Shelly Manne and Louis Bellson. And then there's Mickey Roker, Freddie Waits and Billy Higgins -- nothing but drummers forever.

I think I may have mentioned this in an earlier thread about Jay Corre but Buddy's records were also among the very first I ever owned. I heard my brother's high school jazz band play "Big Swing Face" and that's what first hooked me into jazz when I was 10. I remain very fond of those World Pacific LPs, and it's not "first kiss" syndrome. I know what Jim is saying -- there's something about this band, Buddy, the charts, the vibe, something that emits a compelling charisma. It's definitely in a pocket -- not a Basie pocket mind you, but a pocket nonetheless. (Buddy would often sit in with Basie, which must have been great to hear.) Here's a slightly later edition of the band with Don Menza and Al Porcino. Does any film exist of the band with Art Pepper? http://youtube.com/watch?v=iJA1Ptr4s5Y

Thanks much for this part -- I'll check it out as soon as I have a moment. The forms of these tunes can be pretty tricky, not least because the band played them so loosely -- "Pinocchio" is a good example. I mean, exactly what are the changes? Plus, they hardly ever stick to the 18-bar form. Update: Found a bunch of hip transcriptions and analysis on Steve Kahn's site, including this disection of Herbie's solo on "Pinocchio" and the tune in general. http://www.stevekhan.com/pinocchioa.htm

Gang: The news here is the Sonny Rollins 1965 trio concert from Copenhagen with NHOP and Alan Dawson. Short snippets from "Oleo" and "St. Thomas" have floated around on youtube and elsewhere and I recently posted this link to "Oleo" in another thread. http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=59...h&plindex=1 (haven't been able to locate St. Thomas for a couple months now -- anybody out there have a link?) I'm told the whole concert is 55 minutes long. The clips I've seen contain some of the greatest playing I have ever heard from Sonny -- at his peak in the late RCA/Alfie period and on this night, to borrow an old Ross Russell line about Bird, "in a mad blowing mood." I hope the rest of the concert is as hot as what I've seen so far. Can barely wait.

To follow up on my previous post: After some emailing with Sonny's webmaster, he has replaced the version of "Lover" on his site with another version that is some three-minutes slower. Sonny again sounds like he's playing tenor, though the pitch correction still sounds off, running perhaps a full step sharp, but I can't tell for sure without a piano or my alto handy. Also, the last few minutes are especially inconsistent with a few seconds here and there where it rapidly speeds up. For all that, however, Sonny and Max just destroy. It's worth the $2.

Hey gang: Some questions about the Sonny Rollins-Max Roach-Jymie Merritt trio bootleg from Graz in 1966. A pitch problem was brought up on an old thread I recall -- on some issues the speed was running fast and, in fact, when I downloaded a version of "Lover" from Sonny's website tonight, the speed was ridiculous. Sonny sounded like he was playing an alto or a stritch or something (total time: 15:56). Disappointing (though Sonny is obviously playing his ass off). Anyone know of another legitimate source for a pitch corrected version? Or is there a way to slow down this one now that I have it or what software might allow me to do so? Thanks

When I last heard him in 2003 at the jazz festival here in Detroit, he was 78 and the life force was astounding. He did his shtick on "Moody's Mood" and "Bennie's From Heaven" and the yodeling, rapping and all the jokes -- still funny stuff no matter how many times you hear it. But when he played it was all biz. I recall a "Sonnymoon for Two" on tenor that was like a great tiger stalking his prey -- an edgy sound and a lot of contemporary dissonance (Jim's 100 percent right about his harmony). My favorite moment of the festival that year was watching Moody backstage before his set, cocking his ear to listen intently to a fine local octet as it played a lushly idiomatic version of "If You Could See Me Now." I remember thinking that here was a guy who played that tune 55 years ago with Tadd Dameron when the ink was still wet. What a hero.

http://www.jazz.com/features-and-interview...h-wayne-shorter

David makes a really valuable point about the CJQ guys writing the influence of Miles' band into the compositions themselves and about the open-ended feel of the music, especially Charles Moore's tunes. (Hadn't heard that he was in France, by the way.) I would note that Miles' guys were already doing this in their originals recorded in the studio by 1967-68, and it's interesting that Moore referenced "Miles in the Sky" (released in 1968) as the turning point for his peers in Detroit because many of those tunes are filled with shifting meters and feels. "Paraphernalia" shifts between 4 and 3; "Country Son" also morphs between 4 (fierce swing and even-8th note sections) and a ballad-like waltz section. The form on "Black Comedy" -- and I'm cribbing here from Belden's liner notes in the Columbia box because this tune is where I hit the wall in my own ability to decipher meters; I get lost every time I hear it; guess that's why I'm a writer -- is four bars of 6 against 4; two of 4/4, one of 5/4 and one of 6/4. It would be interesting to know when exactly the CJQ guys heard "Miles in the Sky" relative to the recording of their two sides. I'll ask Kenny. Re: "A New Conception." I'll certainly concede that the Herbie-Ron-Tony influence is clumsy at times and the totally free passages David mentions were Rivers' aesthetic not Miles' (one of the reasons he didn't last in the band). But just because they don't necessarily have all the tools to pull it off doesn't mean they aren't trying to assimilate the ideas. The point I wanted to emphasize is that this was a really early example of the Miles quintet's influence spreading to young players. After all, it was recorded in Oct. 1966 -- before "Miles Smiles," "Sorcerer" and "Nefertitti" were even released, so the recorded references they would have been dealing with were still the standards records, save "ESP." Plus, none of the originals had yet made their way into the band's live repertoire except for "Agitation." The shit was really moving swiftly in those days. David: Look forward to hearing your recordings of Charles' tunes. Keep us posted.

I can't help but wonder how much of that was really a Miles influence on Rivers? Didn't Williams play with Rivers before playing with Miles? So isn't it possible that there is actually no direct influence? Just a thought. The influence I'm getting at is speficially the way the Galps-Lewis-Ellington rhythm section as a unit emulates the approach of Herbie-Ron-Tony in terms of relating to the soloist and the hide-and-go-seek approach to time keeping.

Charles lives in Los Angeles where he teaches at UCLA (lecturer in ethnomusicology). BTW, he is also interviewed extensively in Ratliff's Coltrane book. Henderson's story is a tragedy. He suffers from mental illness and is a recluse. My understanding is that he hasn't really played since the CJQ disbanded in the '70s, except for a few reunions with the band in the ealry '80s; otherwise, silence. BTW, the drummer on the CJQ albums, Danny Spencer, is still active and playing great on the San Francisco scene. And to second JamesJazz, Kenny is going strong here in Detroit. Those CJQ sides on Blue Note hold up very well -- young firebrands working through Miles' 2nd quintet influence in real time -- a much different proposition than 25-30 years later. On a related note, I think one of the first clear examples on record of the influence of Miles' band is on Sam Rivers' "A New Conception," a quite magical and underrated all-standards Blue Note LP recorded in the fall of 1966. The trio of Hal Galper, Herbie Lewis and Steve Ellington is deep into a break-up-the-time looseness that comes right out of Herbie-Ron-Tony circa "My Funny Valentine," "Four and More," etc. The link is especially revealing because of the parallel standard repertoire. Interestingly, Galper and Ellington were Boston guys (so was Rivers of course) with long relationships with Tony. Don't know about Lewis.

Well, this is certainly more straight-ahead than Our Man in Jazz but both are killin'.

No shit... It's like I said about Wayne in another thread, there's certain players that I get "friendly" with, and for them, I dig checking out wherever they decide to go, because that's what most people I dig do - they move around, always curious, not in a "I Can't Decide Who I Am" type way, but in an "Let Me See What THIS Is All About, It Might Appeal To Me In Some Form Or Fashion, Some Of It". And sometimes where they go ends up being a dead end, sometimes they end up looking but not touching, and sometimes they actually find somethings that open them up a little more to be somebody a little different than they were before. As that pertains to Sonny, well, I remember Larry saying in one of our periodic Sonny Spats a few years ago that he didn't hear any joy in any of Sonny's later work (that's a paraphrase, iirc). And sorry, but that's just....not plausible in my mind. But ok, what can I say other than I hear it, he doesn't. It's just that I find the notion that something like this marks "the beginning of the end" for Rollins is something that I find nothing short of absurd, true only if it's your definition of what "the end" is, and true only if that definition is formed entirely from what you think the world is. Otherwise, there's been a lot of good-to-great music made by the man, and the end is nowhere in sight. Even if it ain't "like it was", it's still good-to-great (and yeah, some duds, too, like you say , you pays your money...) in the "like it is" world, and can't nobody do what Sonny Rollins does in that world but Sonny Rollins. I'm right with you on every point here, even if we disagree on the quality of these particular '75 performances. And speaking of "Alfie," what I love about this '65 trio performance is that he's coming from the "Alfie" perspective in terms of sound, thematic improvising, articulation, rhythmic control and melodic rhyme, but he's still swinging the shit out of I Got Rhythm. In a way, I think it's similar in meaning to the what Miles' quintet with Wayne and Herbie were doing with "Stella" -- taking bebop fundamentals and stretching them in a way consistent with their own histories.