I am finally entering the 21st century with regard to my reading habits by accepting the wonderful gift of (without any shameless promotion) an 'e-reader'. I knew that it was inevitable and only a matter of time; a time which has now come. The prospect of reducing the presence of physical 'things' in the house is definitely a concern for the future and now I have taken one giant leap in that direction. It is a somewhat satisfying feeling making such a major change to one's habits dispensing with the archaic and embracing technology and its many benefits. On the other hand, the regular usage of a laptop and cell phone (now combined with the reader) gives me a sneaking suspicion that, with all the electronic options for scheduling, documenting and communicating that are now available to me (in great abundance) I may be moving too quickly in the other direction.
. . . the wonder of modern, digital, recording technology enables one (literally. . . ONE, although not in this case) to conceive a composition of the musical persuasion and to create a record ("As in a record of an event, the event of people playing music in a room". . . Ani DiFranco) documenting a performance of said composition for posterity. Well that's what we're doing here. And, like most of like, good things are worth waiting for.
This tune was conceived quite a while ago as a sort-of 12/8, 1950s-style ballad (think Unchained Melody-like), lyrics dealing, somewhat nebulously, with the phenomenon of gossip. Jay took the tune and OHO-ized it, introducing a heavy rhythmic guitar riff to underpin the introduction (and repeated turnaround) and the unusually-timed, uptempo mid-section to incorporate sonic variety into this longer-than-pop-radio-boss-hit-bound-single-running piece.
Drums are soon to follow. We kind of like how its coming along. You? . . . .
Third-Hand Intelligence
work-in-progress recorded at The Bratt Studio (Bill Pratt at the helm) by OHO- Jay Graboski, David Reeve & Ray Jozwiak
My latest solo offering, Just More Music by Ray Jozwiak, featuring original, instrumental piano music is now available at - Just More Music by Ray Jozwiak
(To Access all Ray Jozwiak - Gonzo Piano music you can copy-and-paste this URL directly to
your browser: http://http://www.cdbaby.com/Artist/RayJozwiak)
. . . in the name of humor. Purportedly Sonny Rollins' own words. . . possibly. . . but undoubtedly re-arranged . . .
(from http://www.newyorker.com/humor/daily-shouts/sonny-rollins-words)
I started playing the saxophone when I was thirteen years old. There
were some other kids on my block who had taken it up, and I thought that
it might be fun. I later learned that these guys’ parents had forced
them into it.
* * *
The saxophone sounds
horrible. Like a scared pig. I never learned the names of most of the
other instruments, but they all sound awful, too. Drums are O.K.,
because sometimes they’ll drown out the other stuff, but it’s all pretty
bad. Jazz
might be the stupidest thing anyone ever came up with. The band starts a
song, but then everything falls apart and the musicians just play
whatever they want for as long they can stand it. People take turns
noodling around, and once they run out of ideas and have to stop, the
audience claps. I’m getting angry just thinking about it.
Sometimes we would run through the same song over and over again to see if anybody noticed. If someone did, I don’t care.
* * *
There
was this one time, in 1953 or 1954, when a few guys and I had just
finished our last set at Club Carousel, and we were about to pack it in
when in walked Bud Powell and Charlie Parker. We must have jammed
together for five more hours, right through sunrise. That was the worst
day of my life.
* * *
We always dressed
real sharp: pin-stripe suits, porkpie hats, silk ties. As if to conceal
the fact that we were spending all our time playing jazz in some
basement. I remember Dexter Gordon was doing a gig at the 3
Deuces, and at one point he leaned into the microphone and said, “I
could sell this suit and this saxophone and get far away from here.” The
crowd laughed.
* * *
I really don’t know why
I keep doing this. Inertia, I guess. Once you get stuck in a rut, it’s
difficult to pull yourself out, even if you hate every minute of it.
Maybe I’m just a coward. If I could do it all over again, I’d probably be an accountant or a process server. They make good money.
* * *
Once
I played the Montreux Jazz Festival, in Switzerland, with Miles Davis. I
walked in on him smoking cigarettes and staring at his horn for what
must have been fifteen minutes, like it was a poisonous snake and he
wasn’t sure if it was dead. Finally Miles stood up, turned to his band,
and said, “All right, let’s get through this, and then we’ll go to the
airport.” He looked like he was about to cry.
* * *
I
released fifty-odd albums, wrote hundreds of songs, and played on God
knows how many session dates. Some of my recordings are in the Library
of Congress. That’s idiotic. They ought to burn that building to the
ground. I hate music. I wasted my life.
. . . in proper order. . . they sound more like this . . .
(from http://www.mensjournal.com/magazine/sony-rollins-the-colossus-20130819)When I visited Sonny Rollins at his home in Germantown, New York, a semi-hardscrabble hamlet 100 miles up the Hudson River, the 82-year-old jazzman they call the Saxophone Colossus was doing his laundry. "Oh, man, come on in, man," Sonny said in his reedy, slightly high-pitched voice as he stuck his head out the back door of the modest house, blood-orange skullcap on his kingly, lantern-jawed head. Jumble of shirts fresh from the dryer in his arms, he led me through the cluttered kitchen to a sitting room. "Be with you in a minute," he said with a sigh.
For Sonny, certainly one of the greatest tenor-saxophone players in the history of the instrument invented by Adolphe Sax in 1841, and a key figure in jazz for more than half a century, it is a drag any time "the celestial Big Picture" is infringed upon by "the Little Picture," which the musician defines as "that day-to-day crap you have to put up with on this misbegotten planet.". . .
"That was my life back then – I thought it would always go on like that, never change," Sonny said. Now, on "the wrong side of 81," he could feel the metronome inside his head ticking away, each instant too precious to be squandered on the puny minutiae of the day-to-day.
For instance, only that week he'd spent nearly the entire morning down in the Big Apple, making an episode of The Simpsons. Sonny played a holographic image of himself that hovers, godlike, outside the bedroom window of perhaps his best-known mainstream musical disciple, Lisa Simpson. Sonny had three lines, which he dutifully repeated over and over again, coached by a voice on a speakerphone originating 3,000 miles away in Los Angeles. Later, Sonny said that taking all morning to produce a hologram visible only to a TV cartoon character was "kind of strange," especially for someone who'd managed to cut albums like Tenor Madness and Saxophone Colossus in a few short hours on a two-track machine located in Rudy Van Gelder's Hackensack, New Jersey, studio.
"Technology, man," Sonny said with a shrug. "All this little stuff interrupts my chain of thought. Consequently, I haven't been able to properly practice my horn the way I have to," he said, emerging from the laundry room in a loose-fitting khaki shirt, a pair of baggy gray sweatpants, and thick white socks stuffed into open-toe leather slippers. "If I don't get to practice, work on my embouchure and scales, then I can't play correctly, and if I can't play correctly, I can't work out my ideas, and if I can't work out my ideas, then I go crazy." . . .
One of the great stories in the annals of jazz, or any other modern creative endeavor, Sonny's two-year "sabbatical," time spent practicing alone on the desolate, decrepit walkway of the Williamsburg Bridge in New York, remains the jazzman's emblematic moment. It was a radical move. After all, Sonny had already fronted groups that included Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, and Max Roach. Saxophone Colossus, recorded in 1956 and including all-time classic performances of "St. Thomas," "Strode Road," and "Blue 7," established him as a star.
Yet Sonny wasn't happy. "It wasn't like I was playing bad," he told me. "I just knew I could get better, that I had to get better."
The original plan had been to woodshed in his Grand Street apartment on the Lower East Side, but the lady next door had just had a baby, and he thought if he played too loud he'd give the child "bad ears." That's what led him to the bridge – 135 feet above the roiling East River, he could really let loose under the sky and the stars with the whole city laid out before him. Musicians all over town thought he was nuts. Why did he need all this practice? He was the best; wasn't that good enough? But those people didn't hear what Sonny heard. He was nothing but a glorified beginner, Sonny believed, a work in progress. There were places he needed to go. When he got there, that's when he'd come back.
Tell Sonny that the image of the brilliant jazzman seeker – the lone figure amid the chaotic howl of the city, blowing his horn in quest of a bit of sanity – has always been a source of personal inspiration and he will be touched by the comment. Mention that he's your favorite player, along with Sidney Bechet and Johnny Hodges, and he'll shake his head slowly. "To be put with those guys, wow. That's a real compliment." Go on to say that you always hummed "St. Thomas" for your children when they were tiny, and a few years later your daughters made you a birthday card with a handmade tinfoil saxophone in the middle of roughly drawn treble clefs along with the words Sonny Rollins, and the Colossus will begin to tear up. . .
"You mean, like you're going to play this music and the rivers are suddenly going to run backward?" I asked, trying to be funny. After all, he was already perhaps the greatest single improviser in the history of jazz. No one had his emotional range, the ability to one moment be riffing like a musical stand-up comedian and then, abruptly, be tearing your heart out with the abject blues of the human condition. What about that fabulous opening to Monk's "Misterioso"? How about that spectacular ending to "God Bless the Child"?
This made Sonny laugh. When Sonny laughs, you know it. He bends his neck back nearly 45 degrees, casts his eyes skyward, and his mouth becomes a widening circle. Ha-ha-ha, he goes, loudly, like howling at the moon, albeit with perfect breath control.
"Don't you see, that's exactly the point," Sonny chortled as he clamped his skullcap onto to his head. "Those notes you mention, those notes have already been blown."
. . . I'm sure the latter is much more accurate . . .
OHO's
"Ocean City Ditty," the
CD single is now available at http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/oho4
(and, if
you're in town, at Trax On Wax on Frederick Rd. in Catonsville, MD)
My latest solo release, '2014' of original, instrumental piano music, can be downloaded digitally at:
(or you can copy-and-paste this URL directly to
your browser: http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/rayjozwiak4)
(from http://www.monkzone.com/monkzone.htm)
Minton’s, legend has it, was where the “bebop revolution” began. The after-hours jam sessions at Minton’s, along with similar musical gatherings at Monroe’s Uptown House, Dan Wall’s Chili Shack, among others, attracted a new generation of musicians brimming with fresh ideas about harmony and rhythm—notably Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Mary Lou Williams, Kenny Clarke, Oscar Pettiford, Max Roach, Tadd Dameron, and Monk’s close friend and fellow pianist, Bud Powell. Monk’s harmonic innovations proved fundamental to the development of modern jazz in this period. Anointed by some critics as the “High Priest of Bebop,” several of his compositions (“52nd Street Theme,” “Round Midnight,” “Epistrophy” [co-written with Kenny Clarke and originally titled “Fly Right” and then “Iambic Pentameter”], “I Mean You”) were favorites among his contemporaries.
Yet, as much as Monk helped usher in the bebop revolution, he also charted a new course for modern music few were willing to follow. Whereas most pianists of the bebop era played sparse chords in the left hand and emphasized fast, even eighth and sixteenth notes in the right hand, Monk combined an active right hand with an equally active left hand, fusing stride and angular rhythms that utilized the entire keyboard. And in an era when fast, dense, virtuosic solos were the order of the day, Monk was famous for his use of space and silence. In addition to his unique phrasing and economy of notes, Monk would “lay out” pretty regularly, enabling his sidemen to experiment free of the piano’s fixed pitches. As a composer, Monk was less interested in writing new melodic lines over popular chord progressions than in creating a whole new architecture for his music, one in which harmony and rhythm melded seamlessly with the melody. “Everything I play is different,” Monk once explained, “different melody, different harmony, different structure. Each piece is different from the other. . . . [W]hen the song tells a story, when it gets a certain sound, then it’s through . . . completed.”
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