Still lost in the world of jazz saxophonists. I've rediscovered Johnny Hodges. Hodges was the powerhouse lead alto behind Duke Ellington's amazing big band. Among the superfluous adjectives about his playing, I keep reading about his tone. A big, lush, not-too-strident sound that was still nimble enough to get around the changes with ease. Listening to recordings confirms the accolades.
Hodges played with Ellington's band for most of his career, with a brief attempt at leading his own band between February 1951 and October 1955. At a time when sax players had decided that Bird (Charlie Parker) had done everything that could be done on an alto (and they therefore switched to tenor, hence the resulting deluge of tenor giants) Hodges was able to prove that Bird hadn't done everything (still, have you really listened to a Charlie Parker recording? At times, it's otherworldly.)
Parker had the lock on bebop, sheer technique, and playing a chord progression to within an inch of its life, but Hodges had soul. I've been driving around lately with a recording of Johnny Hodges as soloist with Billy Strayhorn (Ellington's pianist/composer) and the orchestra. Like Woody Herman or Count Basie, he doesn't play a lot of notes, but the notes he chooses are perfect. Each phrase is exactly where it should be, and his tone is impeccable.
As a student, Hodges studied with Sidney Bechet (a saxophone great in his own right) beginning on a soprano saxophone. The Bechet influence can sometimes be heard in Hodge's control of the flexibility of his sound. He switched to alto in 1940, playing soprano occasionally until 1946, when he was given the lead chair in the Ellington band. Benny Goodman was a fan of Hodges, using him, along with some other members of the Ellington band, for the legendary Carnegie Hall Concert in 1938.
Some of his signature songs include Don't Get Around Much Anymore, and I Got it Bad (and That Ain't Good). Ellington, in his eulogy for Hodges, said: "Never the world's most highly animated showman or greatest stage personality, but a tone so beautiful it sometimes brought tears to the eyes—this was Johnny Hodges."
Friday, February 24, 2012
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Not dead yet
For the past two days I was under the impression that Sonny Rollins had died. I blame the TVs at the gym and their lousy subtitling. And CNN's confusing story presentation. Or the fact that I was reeeeallly far away from the TV at the gym and couldn't see what was going on very well. Anyway. Sonny Rollins is not dead. I repeat: not dead.
Why, you ask, is this so important to me? Well, he's a jazz saxophone legend for one thing. And I am nothing if not loyal to quality jazz saxophonists. Sonny was born Theodore Walter Rollins in New York City on September 7, 1930. He grew up in Harlem, started playing on the alto sax, then switched to tenor at age 16. Fellow tenor man Coleman Hawkins was a hero to the young Rollins, who tried to play like Hawk. Harlem, at that time, was teeming with jazz talent: Thelonious Monk, Jackie McLean, and Art Taylor and Sonny was soon playing and recording with J.J. Johnson, Bud Powell, and Miles Davis.
What sets him apart from other saxophonists is his creative ability. He seems to never run out of ideas while soloing, often playing extended choruses without repeating himself once. His most well-known tunes are Sonnymoon for Two, Doxy, and St. Thomas.
In June 2006 he was inducted into the Academy of Achievement, and in August of 2010, he was awarded the Edward McDowell Medal. This honor is given to individuals who have made outstanding contributions to their fields. Most recently, in March of 2011 he was awarded the Medal of Arts from President Barack Obama. This is the nation's highest honor for artistic excellence.
Why, you ask, is this so important to me? Well, he's a jazz saxophone legend for one thing. And I am nothing if not loyal to quality jazz saxophonists. Sonny was born Theodore Walter Rollins in New York City on September 7, 1930. He grew up in Harlem, started playing on the alto sax, then switched to tenor at age 16. Fellow tenor man Coleman Hawkins was a hero to the young Rollins, who tried to play like Hawk. Harlem, at that time, was teeming with jazz talent: Thelonious Monk, Jackie McLean, and Art Taylor and Sonny was soon playing and recording with J.J. Johnson, Bud Powell, and Miles Davis.
What sets him apart from other saxophonists is his creative ability. He seems to never run out of ideas while soloing, often playing extended choruses without repeating himself once. His most well-known tunes are Sonnymoon for Two, Doxy, and St. Thomas.
In June 2006 he was inducted into the Academy of Achievement, and in August of 2010, he was awarded the Edward McDowell Medal. This honor is given to individuals who have made outstanding contributions to their fields. Most recently, in March of 2011 he was awarded the Medal of Arts from President Barack Obama. This is the nation's highest honor for artistic excellence.
Monday, February 13, 2012
A night at the symphony. Or, How to get from the concert hall to Wisconsin.
This weekend I attended the Quad City Symphony Orchestra concert. They performed Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade, Op. 35 and Maurice Ravel's Bolero. Also on the program was a guitar concerto, that, though pleasant and performed well by the guest artist, just seemed a bit overwhelmed by the other two pieces that bookended it.
As I listened, it struck me how Rimsky-Korsakov managed to make a splendid 50 minute suite using, in essence, only two motives. These two motives are passed around the orchestra, made into feature cadenzas for several instruments (including the solo violin, who, on this performance, was outstanding), and seamlessly blend into each other. It was a wonderful experience to completely lose myself in a great work of art. Scheherazade was written in 1888, completed within four weeks. It is based on the 1001 Arabian Nights, which is the story of the Sultan who visited death upon his many wives after their first night. Sultana Scheherazade outsmarts the Sultan (and thus saves her life) by telling him entertaining stories for 1001 nights.
Ravel's Bolero is familiar to most people. It uses the insistent snare drum rhythm was a sort of heartbeat. The piece opens quietly, gently, very gradually opening up into a sinuous melody that is passed around to all members of the orchestra, including the addition of a soprano and tenor saxophone. This performance seemed a bit unsteady at the start. There was a false entrance from someone in the low brass and the soprano sax seemed to play in a caricature of what the part called for, awkwardly throwing in the pitch bends seemingly as an afterthought. The orchestra redeemed itself somewhat, though, by delivering a solid ending.
Bolero was a success at the time it was written, much to Ravel's dismay. He had a hard time understanding why this work, which he referred to as "orchstral tissue without music", was so popular. It is, almost exclusively, one simple idea (melody) played repeatedly over one other simple idea (the drum ostinato). It barely modulates and contains no development section. "...it is one very long, gradual crescendo."
For me, Bolero lives in The House on the Rock in Spring Green, WI. Why? Well, this odd attraction is full of fascinating automatons that are really modified musical instruments that have been engineered to play themselves. One of the first automatons you meet as you enter the House is one that plays Ravel's Bolero. It is one of only a few of the automatons that will play on its own and doesn't require a token to start. The piece haunts you as you explore Alex Jordan's House; its neverending, insistent pulse buzzing in your ear until you leave the House for the next section of the sprawling estate.
As I listened, it struck me how Rimsky-Korsakov managed to make a splendid 50 minute suite using, in essence, only two motives. These two motives are passed around the orchestra, made into feature cadenzas for several instruments (including the solo violin, who, on this performance, was outstanding), and seamlessly blend into each other. It was a wonderful experience to completely lose myself in a great work of art. Scheherazade was written in 1888, completed within four weeks. It is based on the 1001 Arabian Nights, which is the story of the Sultan who visited death upon his many wives after their first night. Sultana Scheherazade outsmarts the Sultan (and thus saves her life) by telling him entertaining stories for 1001 nights.
Ravel's Bolero is familiar to most people. It uses the insistent snare drum rhythm was a sort of heartbeat. The piece opens quietly, gently, very gradually opening up into a sinuous melody that is passed around to all members of the orchestra, including the addition of a soprano and tenor saxophone. This performance seemed a bit unsteady at the start. There was a false entrance from someone in the low brass and the soprano sax seemed to play in a caricature of what the part called for, awkwardly throwing in the pitch bends seemingly as an afterthought. The orchestra redeemed itself somewhat, though, by delivering a solid ending.
Bolero was a success at the time it was written, much to Ravel's dismay. He had a hard time understanding why this work, which he referred to as "orchstral tissue without music", was so popular. It is, almost exclusively, one simple idea (melody) played repeatedly over one other simple idea (the drum ostinato). It barely modulates and contains no development section. "...it is one very long, gradual crescendo."
For me, Bolero lives in The House on the Rock in Spring Green, WI. Why? Well, this odd attraction is full of fascinating automatons that are really modified musical instruments that have been engineered to play themselves. One of the first automatons you meet as you enter the House is one that plays Ravel's Bolero. It is one of only a few of the automatons that will play on its own and doesn't require a token to start. The piece haunts you as you explore Alex Jordan's House; its neverending, insistent pulse buzzing in your ear until you leave the House for the next section of the sprawling estate.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Ephemera
There really is a condition called amusia. It means that the individual's brain can hear music, but it can not comprehend it. In other words, the listener can't distinguish music from non-music. It's all just noise to them.
Astronaut Neil Armstrong played the euphonium. He even marched with the Purdue All-American Marching Band. In space, though, no one can hear you play.
Frederic Chopin is buried in Pere Lachaise cemetary in France. His heart, however, was removed from his body and buried in Poland. This was done at the composer's request.
Elvis Presley's manager (Col. Tom Parker) also managed a group of dancing chickens. Do you think that's where the King learned his dance moves?
The U.S. has more country music radio stations than any other type of music station. I feel conflicted about this.
Astronaut Neil Armstrong played the euphonium. He even marched with the Purdue All-American Marching Band. In space, though, no one can hear you play.
Frederic Chopin is buried in Pere Lachaise cemetary in France. His heart, however, was removed from his body and buried in Poland. This was done at the composer's request.
Elvis Presley's manager (Col. Tom Parker) also managed a group of dancing chickens. Do you think that's where the King learned his dance moves?
The U.S. has more country music radio stations than any other type of music station. I feel conflicted about this.
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