Lewis Nash: A DownBeat Feature From 2006, WKCR interviews from 2005 and 2006, and WKCR Musician Shows from 1993 and 1996

This post on the master drummer Lewis Nash contains the text of a DownBeat article that it was my honor to write about him in 2006, and a pair of WKCR interviews from that year and from 2005, and WKCR Musician Shows from 1993 and 1996. The 1996 Musician Show was a good one.

 

Lewis Nash (Downbeat Article):

Midway through a late Friday set at a half-full Village Vanguard during the dog days of July, Lewis Nash stated a medium-slow groove on the brushes as 83-year-old trumpeter Joe Wilder improvised six lovely choruses on Hoagy Carmichael’s “Rockin’ Chair.” It followed a series of songbook tunes and blues, and Nash could easily have settled for keeping time. But he was not, as the saying goes, merely “digging coal.” Instead, on each cycle through the form, Nash executed a different pattern and timbre on the snare drum, imperturbably articulating the beat with crisp precision. The back-of-the-bar patrons might not have noticed the subtlety and ingenuity of Nash’s design, but Wilder did, and he tossed his drummer a nod and a broad smile as he lowered his horn.

It was not an anomalous moment. As Andrew Cyrille noted several years ago in a 5-star Blindfold Test evaluation, Nash, now 47, has “dotted all the i’s while coming up with some great inventions in the traditional style of jazz.” After remarking that “all the great brush players like Kenny Clarke, Ed Thigpen and Philly Joe Jones would have to give kudos to that playing,” Cyrille added, “Lewis is working very hard on the drums to make sure that we all remember whence we came and also what’s happening on the contemporary scene.”

If the vocabulary of the aforementioned masters and a timeline’s worth of hardcore swingers stretching from Max Roach to Edward Blackwell is encoded in Nash’s rhythmic DNA, so are ideas drawn from drumset abstractionists like Cyrille and Jerome Cooper, dance-infused grooves from the funk and R&B that Nash played in his pre-jazz years, and a bracing array of Afro-Caribbean meters. He weaves them together smoothly, conveying tried-and-true swing and Latin rhythms with idiomatic authority. Then he tweaks them, working with a full complement of pitches and intervals across the drumset to animate his beats, displacing figures normally articulated on one component and playing them on another, positioning his phrases to suit the overall architecture of each piece.

Nash titled his 1989 debut album Rhythm Is My Business [Alfa/Evidence], and continues to use the motto. The self-description is apt. He was one of New York’s busiest drummers in the ‘80s, building his reputation on prestigious gigs with Betty Carter, Ron Carter, Sonny Rollins, Branford Marsalis, Don Pullen, and George Adams, and cementing it during a ten-year run with the Tommy Flanagan Trio. As the ‘90s progressed, Nash became an A-list freelancer, building a 300-plus album resume that includes Grammy-winners by McCoy Tyner (Illuminations), Nancy Wilson (R.S.V.P.), and Joe Henderson (Big Band); Gerald Wilson’s 2003 Grammy nominated New York, New Sound; important recordings by both Carters, Joe Lovano, Jim Hall, Horace Silver, Russell Malone and Regina Carter; and a slew of equilaterally oriented trios with Flanagan and such lustrous keyboard talents as Roland Hanna, Don Friedman, Kenny Drew, Jr., and Cyrus Chestnut.

“I am thrust into different situations day in and day out with people who may have completely different musical objectives and viewpoints,” Nash said last December from his Hudson Valley home. “I try to bring the same seriousness to each situation. If there’s written music, and time allows, I put the chart under a microscope. If you don’t assimilate the basic character of the piece, you can’t use your interpretative skills to be creative—you’ll still be hung up on how to get from this place to the coda.”

At the time, Nash was decompressing from a week in Osaka with a quartet of Japanese mainstreamers. That occurred not long after a one-nighter in Noumea, New Caledonia, with a pair of Hammond B3 organists, two weeks after he brought his own quartet to Taichung, Taiwan, for a four-night run. He was preparing for a week-long New Year’s engagement in Orvieto, Italy, to be followed by a three-day jaunt to Uruguay with pianist-composer Cedar Walton, an increasingly frequent employer.

“When you are rooted, you don’t have to be afraid to try new things,” Nash said. “You’re manipulating time, beat, phrase, and timbre within a continuity of groove and feeling, so when the timbres change, people may not know exactly what you’re doing, but they know something feels and sounds different than in the previous chorus. I try for subtle transitions. There has to be a certain sense of freedom, of not the commonplace. Sometimes a little craziness is necessary to break through.”

In a recent conversation, saxophonist Steve Wilson, Nash’s partner on a dozen or so speculative improv duo concerts since 2003, observed that Nash’s attitude that a form is less a ball-and-chain than an opportunity to stretch boundaries makes his tonal personality a first cousin to that of Billy Higgins, who suited the needs of such antipodal stylists as Walton and Ornette Coleman with equal effectiveness while always sounding like himself.

“Higgins was always listening, and that’s how it is with Lewis,” Wilson said. “He’s deeply aware of everything happening on the bandstand, and he addresses the entire legacy of jazz and the drums—all the way back to all the way forward. Everything he does is out of the logic of where the line is going.”

Since 2000, no leader has collaborated more frequently with Nash than Lovano, both on his bop-to-free nonet and his more recent freedom-within-structure quartet with Hank Jones. “Lewis’ rhythmic attack is precise, but his phrases are lyrical, not just patterns that you play over,” Lovano said. “If I say something in a melodic phrase, he will answer and say something back at whatever tempo. His approach is refined, but his playing makes you want to jump out of your seat; it’s a force of nature, but that force changes on every piece.”

Tommy Campbell, like Nash a Sonny Rollins alumnus, remarks on his encyclopedic command of the lexicon. “Lewis makes the most intellectual and technical things sound so natural and effortless that you forget about what it takes to play it,” said Campbell. “He uses so many different degrees of character on one groove or style. For example, he must have 20 ways to play a shuffle. He does all the little things, too. For example, he never makes unwanted sounds when he’s changing from sticks to brushes to mallets. In 20-plus years I’ve never seen him miss or muff a beat. He can go from soloing to the groove as fast as anyone. It seems he’s always in both places; it’s all one thing for him.”

“Lewis will stay right in the pocket, while doing some of the most creative stuff being played,” affirmed bassist Peter Washington, Nash’s long-time partner in Flanagan’s trio. “A lot of guys feel swinging and grooving holds them back. To him, it sets him free!”

[BREAK]

“I don’t know if I made a conscious effort to be adaptable,” Nash said. “I always played in a way that I felt would add flavor and variety rather than bring all the attention to me. I’m looking for the beauty in my instrument. There’s beauty in power as well. But a lot of sounds are available to utilize. People hear the tonal detail and clarity, and they tell me that my approach is like a percussionist in the symphony. But my concept comes out of hard-swinging jazz. I try to interject the energy and swagger of funky rhythms into swinging, straight-ahead music—although when you play the rhythms of R&B and hip-hop on a drumset tuned for playing jazz, the sound is not the same.”

Nash came to hardcore jazz rather late in the game. As a teenager he played football (cornerback) and played drums for fun in dance bands around Phoenix, Arizona, his home town, before catching the jazz bug.

“My mother listened to a lot of blues—B.B. King and Muddy Waters and so on,” Nash said in July. A T-Bone Walker jump blues on the car stereo cosigned the statement. “I was less attracted to Rock elements in the drumming of Tony Williams, Billy Cobham, Jack DeJohnette with Miles, and other guys who played fusion, than to the funkier, danceable things. My influences went from James Brown’s drummers or the feeling of Al Green’s Stax records to the people who laid the foundation in jazz drumming. Fusion influences came later, as my knowledge of music increased, whereas that’s the first stuff some people from my age group got into.

“R&B wasn’t played as loud and hard in the ‘60s and ‘70s. More guys played time on the ride cymbal, like in jazz. Once disco and a certain period of funk became prominent, everything was on the hi-hats, and the bass drums and everything else got a fatter, heavier sound that you wouldn’t normally play in a jazz context, so the genres started to separate sonically.”

During the disco era, Nash, who majored in broadcast journalism at Arizona State, was a fixture on the sparse Phoenix jazz scene, playing in local rhythm sections with hired gun saxophonists like Sonny Stitt and Art Pepper. He led his own combo, and wore bells on his ankles in a duo with saxophonist Allan Chase that opened for acts like Old and New Dreams, Sun Ra, and the Art Ensemble of Chicago.

On the strength of a grant to study drums with Max Roach and a concurrent phone call to audition with Betty Carter, who hired him on the spot, Nash moved to Brooklyn in the winter of 1980-81. There he joined a talented crop of young drummers who included Kenny Washington, Marvin “Smitty” Smith, Jeff Watts, and Ralph Peterson.

“We had a lot of leeway to pursue our individual approaches,” Nash said. “For instance, Art Blakey or Jimmy Cobb might influence how you kept time on the ride cymbal, while at the same time you’d study the solo concept of Max or Elvin. The major innovators from the ‘40s through the ‘60s dealt with a true swinging jazz conception that wasn’t terribly influenced by rhythm-and-blues, and didn’t drastically change that approach. But the advent of genre grooves from soul and funk and R&B, and the greater visibility of Latin and Afro-Cuban elements, caused the concept to adapt from the swinging, triplet-based ride cymbal feeling to a less linear straight-eighth feeling.”

Ensconced in New York, Nash refined his approach, going to clubs to watch Higgins, Elvin Jones, Art Blakey, Arthur Taylor, Billy Hart, Victor Lewis and Freddie Waits, figuring out which techniques to use and which to discard. On the road with Betty Carter from 1981-84 and as an ongoing member of Ron Carter’s two-bass quintet and nonet for the subsequent decade, he found tough-love laboratories in which to apply his discoveries.

The singer insisted on precisely calibrated tempos and feels, but took great pains to discourage her young accompanists from playing sets by rote.

“My whole time with Betty, at every rehearsal, she stressed not to lean on clichés, to search for something fresh to play,” Nash recalled. “You knew you couldn’t go on automatic pilot; she’d turn and say, ‘You already played that; play something else.’ You’d be on edge, wondering what change of pace is coming.”

“Ron likes to use a lot of different colors,” he continued, adding that he considers the bassist a primary mentor. “He taught me a lot about tuning, and on some of his music I could be more percussionistic, and utilize finger cymbals, wind chimes and castanets. Steve Kroon often was playing percussion, and I incorporated what Steve did into my drumset.”

“Betty told me that he read music very well,” Carter said. “One thing to his advantage is that he plays the form. Many drummers don’t. I had Lewis take up vibes, to help him visualize the piano keyboard when he soloed. He did very well. He started to study composition, wrote some nice melodies, and expanded his view of the drums as more melodic than they normally are thought to be.”

“I tune the intervals wide enough to give the impression of melodic movement up or down a scale when I play a fill,” Nash elaborated. “I like to interject phrases not just to fill space, but to continue articulating the line I just heard the soloist play. If it’s a horn player taking a breath, I’m almost thinking of continuing his linear thought process until he returns the horn to his mouth, and maybe inspire his rhythmic direction.”

During the ‘80s, while Nash was refining these ideas, Marvin “Smitty” Smith developed ways to make complex meters flow with Steve Coleman and Dave Holland. Jeff Watts began to merge the rhythms of timba with the patterns of Elvin Jones. Ralph Peterson, Carl Allen and Herlin Riley layered New Orleans streetbeats into swing feels. Younger drummers went to their gigs, copied them, and mainstreamed each vocabulary increment into next-generation argot. With the exception of a year of steady touring with Branford Marsalis, Nash played with established, older musicians “with one foot in the history of the music,” and interacted less frequently with his peer group.

“I wanted to immerse myself in the lineage, to interact with movers and shakers in the music from further back,” he said. “I knew I wasn’t going to lose my desire to be creative or forget how to explore.”

Some think that Nash’s impact on the younger branches of the drum tree is less pronounced than it ought to be.

“Most of the younger drummers weren’t in the audience when Roland Hanna and Ron Carter and Tommy Flanagan were playing,” Washington said. “But on every level, Lewis brought something to the drums as unique as the guys who played with Branford and Wynton or M-Base.”

“Once critics hop on a guy’s bandwagon, young drummers looking for someone to listen to will go that way,” Carter said. “Lewis isn’t flashy or domineering in the negative way that drummers can be. I can’t think of another drummer in any age category who plays brushes so well. Not many read as well as he does, and even fewer know how to tune the drums. But critics are less aware of these aspects, and they don’t tune into Lewis when they talk about drummers who are important and can take the drum scene another step, unfortunately for them and for the history of the drums.”

“My influence would have more to do with the sound of the instrument and the clarity of execution than any stylistic development,” Nash remarked, and younger drummers agree.

“Lewis can play with authority like Elvin Jones and also the way Vernell Fournier played with Ahmad Jamal,” said Yellowjackets drummer Marcus Baylor, a former Nash student. “That’s a lot of ground to cover. He’s the most musical drummer of our time period, one of the musical drummers ever.”

“A lot of situations that I play in cause Lewis to pop into my mind,” said Kendrick Scott. “I’ve studied his playing so much that I think, ‘Oh, what would Lewis play right here? It would probably be perfect.’”

[BREAK]

“We’re not supposed to stay where Tommy was,” Nash said during a January engagement at Dizzy’s Club Coca-Coca, where a quartet under his leadership—Washington, pianist Renee Rosnes and vibraphonist Steve Nelson—was performing Flanagan-associated repertoire. “He gave us a carpet and said, ‘Okay, I’m giving you these tools; now what are you going to do with them?’

“Tommy didn’t necessarily want me to play in a way that was reminiscent of the ‘40s or ‘50s or ‘60s. He wanted me to play with him right now—which was the ‘90s. He was an open book. When I did things that come out of developments more recent than you might associate with his roots, he’d look up and I’d see him smile and his eyes gleam. If you remain open moment to moment with all your intelligence and skills, and don’t preconceive or predirect where you’re going, that’s as fresh and modern as you can be, whatever style you’re playing.”

In 1998, Nash decided that it was time to augment his numerous opportunities “to interject my ideas and musical viewpoint in groups where I’m a sideman” and construct a context to allow him “complete freedom to express what I feel.” He organized a septet, and booked himself into the Village Vanguard, the first of several Vanguard combos of various sizes, comprised of long-time associates and talented youngbloods. Building on his yearly Vanguard gig, he’s expanded his activity, and in 2003 and 2004 recorded the Japan-market CDs It Don’t Mean A Thing and Stompin’ At The Savoy, with Washington, Nelson, and pianist Jeb Patton. As of this writing, his 2007 calendar includes 10 weeks as a leader.

During the JVC Festival in June, Nash played the Vanguard with a quintet comprising Wilson, Washington, trumpeter Jeremy Pelt, and pianist Gerald Clayton. The less-traveled repertoire, spanning the ‘60s through the ‘80s, included well-wrought tunes by Walter Davis, Jr. (“Pranayama”), Don Pullen (“Sing Me A Song Everlasting”), Thad Jones (“Ain’t Nothin’ Nu”), Kenny Barron (“New York Attitude”), James Williams (“Alter Ego”), and Johnny Mandel (“I Never Told You”). Nash emceed and took a couple of drum features. Otherwise, he gave the soloists much rein, swung mightily, and functioned, as Washington noted, “as the same supportive, musical drummer.”

“Everything depends on how daring you want to be,” he said. “Parameters exist in any musical situation, and they force you to get the most from the least. You try not to limit yourself to ‘this is how you’re supposed to play this kind of music.’ You jump in, let your ears dictate, and keep all options on the table. I might borrow some sound or approach from an avant garde context that works in the middle of trading fours on a blues. Sound can cross genres and styles. It’s just a sound. It’s your job to figure out how to use that sound tastefully and in context. The more things you’ve done, the more you’ll be able to interject something new.”

————

Lewis Nash (WKCR, December 1, 2005) – re Nash-Wilson duo at Sweet Rhythm:

TP: [MUSIC: McCoy Tyner-Lewis Nash duo]

Duets. Lewis records so much and in so many different contexts and situations, that doing an hour on your work is like looking for the needle in the haystack. You’ll be quite present in NYC area in December and directly after the New York. Next week at Dizzy’s Room with Donal Fox and George Mraz. The following week is week one of Cedar Walton’s annual fortnight at the Village Vanguard with Roy & David. Then Umbria with Joe Locke. Then at Dizzy’s Room on January 10th with Flanagan tribute, with Renee, Peter & Steve Nelson. Frequent associates.

How did the duo project with Steve Wilson come to pass? You go back a ways, and you a few records with him on Criss-Cross in the early ‘90s.

LEWIS: That’s correct. Steve and I have played through the years in various situations. As far as the duo format, I enjoy that with the horns, and, as we just heard on the cut with me and McCoy Tyner, with the piano, and I’ve done duo with organ, of course, duo with guitar even. The duo situation is a challenge in many ways. In other ways, it’s pretty much just like any other time you go to play music. You deal with certain repertoire or whatever, with one another musician, and you try to make music as best you can interacting with that person.

TP: But this is a working duo, of sorts, and a duo you’ve both chosen to stick with. It’s not a one-off situation.

LEWIS: That’s right. Steve came to mind for me when I was thinking about doing this as someone I enjoyed playing with, number one, and also someone whom I felt I’d have a nice working rapport with musically for a number of reasons, not least of which is that his time is so great. So when someone has really good time internally, you can try a lot of different things which don’t necessarily have to spell out where you are metrically or in a form. A lot of times, Steve and I come out at the right place as if it just happened naturally. I don’t have to worry about making sure that I mark time for him when we’re playing. He’s one of the musicians I enjoy playing with in any situation, but particularly in the duo.

TP: How would it differ than playing in a rhythm section with Peter Washington or George Mraz, two of the master jazz bassists on the planet?

LEWIS: First of all, there’s a lot more space without the chordal instrument being there. How that would differ from a bass and drum situation is that the sound of Steve’s instrument, of course, won’t be in that bass range, to fill out some of that range I’ll often play different patterns or motifs between the low toms and the bass drum, things like that, to give some weight and low-end sound to the duo. Sometimes Steve will even play bass-type lines, whether walking or harmonically in the bass range. We basically try to give as much of a feeling of arrangement and orchestration as we can with the two instruments.

TP: You mentioned to me that your duo playing goes back to college days when you attended Arizona State University, where one of your fellow underclassmen was the saxophonist Allan Chase, who now runs the jazz department at New England Conservatory. I think you mentioned that you and he would open up as a duo for groups like Old and New Dreams, the Art Ensemble of Chicago…

LEWIS: Mmm-hmm. Sun Ra.

TP: George Adams and Don Pullen. So not all your fans may know that you have roots in that direction as well as creating modern extensions and variations on the masters of jazz lifeblood, Kenny Clarke and Max Roach. People who played with those people appreciate your playing for your ability to put your own spin on what they did in an idiomatic manner, but they don’t necessarily know about that other aspect of your tonal personality.

LEWIS: Well, those were interesting times. It’s before I moved to New York. I was still going to college. It was a good time and a good place for me to experiment with some different things, and Allan Chase and I had a duo, and we played around Phoenix. We opened for those people you mentioned, groups like that. That’s when I first met Ed Blackwell, when he came to Phoenix, playing with Old and New Dreams. I met the guys in the Art Ensemble of Chicago. I was always open to fresh things. Even though, as you mentioned, a lot of fans and listeners may not be aware of that experience I’ve had in that realm, still I always try to bring, even to the more conventional (for want of a better word) situations I play in…I always try to bring a feeling of freshness and openness to those situations that you might expect in a more open musical situation.

TP: One thing that might also be surprising to some people is that you came to hardcore jazz fairly late in the game. You weren’t a teenage student of every record of Art Blakey and Philly Joe Jones. It didn’t really happen until college.

LEWIS: Right. In my high school years I was playing a lot of R&B, Funk, Earth, Wind & Fire, James Brown type stuff, and I was playing football and playing sports, and being a jazz musician was the furthest thing from my mind.

TP: Is there any connection between the way you developed—not starting early, but learning rudiments, time, vibe, etc.?

LEWIS: You know, I wonder. I don’t know if I can say with any certainty. But the fact that it was always something I did for fun and I never thought in those earlier days about “this is what I want to do for a living, this is what drives me, this is what I’m here to do”—I didn’t have those thoughts. I was a broadcast journalism major, and my mentor…I didn’t know him, but Max Robinson, who used to be on ABC News, the first African-American anchor. I wanted to do things like that, and follow in those footsteps. But the music started to rope me in.

TP: When did it start to become apparent to you that you were going to become a musician and not a voice?

LEWIS: I’m a voice on the drums, I hope. But I had a professor at Arizona State whose name is Charles Argersinger. He still teaches in Washington State now. One day he pulled me aside in the hallway at Arizona State, and he asked me point-blank: “Lewis, you’re not a music major, are you.” “No.” “You’re not planning to go into music as a career, are you?” “Nope.” He said, “I think you’re making a mistake.”

TP: Why did he think that? Did he say?

LEWIS: He didn’t really spell it out, but I assume he’d heard a lot of young musicians and people he felt had potential or didn’t have potential, and he probably… He did say that “‘I think you’re someone who could go somewhere in this, and you should think about it.”

TP: What qualities were people hearing at that time? You were playing in Phoenix in rhythm section, behind Art Pepper or Sonny Stitt. What were those experiences like? Were they harsh? Were they supportive?

LEWIS: They were demanding, but not harsh. I met Sonny Stitt on the stage. I played a week. We had no rehearsal, we just came in as the local rhythm section. Of course, he used to do that all the time. The first tune he counted off I think was Cherokee at some breakneck, ridiculously fast tempo, and that was, “Hello, I’m Sonny Stitt.” Those kinds of experiences for a young musician…it’s great. It just throws you right into the fire.

TP: As far as learning the correct tone… Were you thinking by that time of the way Max Roach might be handling this situation, or Billy Higgins, or Philly Joe Jones, or Shadow Wilson, etc.? Were you trying to bring any of that vocabulary to bear by that time?

LEWIS: Definitely.

TP: How did you do that without seeing them? Drums is kind of a visual instrument, isn’t it? You have to learn to put your body in position to make transitions and so on.

LEWIS: That’s true. I didn’t have very much exposure to these great drummers—I should say none—in terms of watching them. I didn’t see any of the great names drumming-wise… Actually, that’s not true. I did see and hear Dannie Richmond with Mingus in the late ‘70s, and Blackwell. But Max and Elvin, Tony Williams, until I came to New York, I didn’t have a chance to observe them up-close, the way we do, putting them under the microscope and watching every little thing they do.

TP: How did you pick up vocabulary?

LEWIS: What I heard on the records, I tried to emulate and find the best way to reproduce those kinds of sounds and phrases, and hope that what I came up with was close.

TP: you came out of Phoenix with Betty Carter, didn’t you.

LEWIS: Yes, I did. Another into-the-fire type situation. Freddie Waits actually recommended me to her. I had met him. He came through Phoenix with the Billy Taylor Trio.

TP: I recall you saying that she was very specific and precise about tempos and feels, but wanted you to be creative within those parameters.

LEWIS: That’s very correct. It’s a good way of putting it. She knew exactly what she wanted, and sometimes we didn’t quite know how to give her that in the best way, but we’d try to find it. It was a challenge to play with her at that stage of my career. It was probably the best thing for me then.

TP: The same could be said for a number of musicians in your generation who came up in that tough-love crucible that was the Betty Carter band.

[MUSIC: “Stomping At the Savoy”; “Tickle-Toe”; then with Celtic Jazz Collective, w/ Paddy Keenan on bagpipes]

TP: You were saying that part of the appeal of performing with Steve Wilson is his musicality, his time. You both share a quality of being extremely well-grounded in the fundamentals. He plays a lot of big band sections, studio things, but when it comes to improvising and doing something creative, he’s completely prepared to do that as well. You’re a few years older, but coming out of similar experiences. Last year, there was a month when you did a weekly duo at Sweet Rhythm. How did it evolve from beginning to end.

LEWIS: Each time we did it, of course, you build on the previous time in terms of ideas, the way things evolve musically. That was good for us, because we’re both busy doing so many other things, and we have a limited amount of time that we can dedicate to the duo projects. So when we had that string of performances, that really helped us to solidify the sound we heard for the duo at that time.

TP: Did the sound evolve over the month, or did it remain on the template on which it began?

LEWIS: I don’t know if the sound evolved, but the way that we approached probably became freer than when we first started. We’re still trying to find that happy medium, that balance between freedom and the opposite of that…

TP: Freedom and form, or whatever it is. You’re the kind of musician who’s able to find freedom within form in situations that other people might handle by rote. You take those fundamentals and you always seem to find a new twist or some vocabulary of your own. How much do you work on that off the bandstand? How much comes to you when you’re on the bandstand?

LEWIS: I would say that a lot of it comes while you’re on the bandstand in the middle of the moment. But you have to be daring, brave enough to take a chance in a particular situation where it’s easy to play it safe. I’m always trying to make whatever I play be logical. Just because it’s logical doesn’t mean it has to be corny or rote. But some of the most creative things done in a musical situation I think can be considered logically a part of what’s going on without them being done over and over again or something common.

TP: But you play on a lot of one-off sessions. You might not have played with the person before. You might be seeing the music for the first time. A lot of money is at stake—studio time. How do you keep both processes going, the imperative of trying to do something to at least satisfy even yourself that you’re not doing it the way it was done before, but also fulfilling the function? Is it a process of logic really?

LEWIS: It really is. I think so. I can think of many recording sessions where just what you mentioned is the case. You’re seeing the music for the first time. You’re probably not going to play it again after that live, it’s just for this recording, but maybe the music is challenging in certain ways, maybe form-wise or changing meters or something you’re just not familiar with, or maybe it’s musicians who you don’t play with all the time, so you’re still trying to establish the kind of rapport in the studio playing. So when you have these kinds of challenges, you always fall back on your basic musicianship. For horn players, it might be: Am I playing in tune? Am I reading this part correctly? Am I making these changes? And so on. For me in the rhythm section: “Am I setting up the figures, or am I making the transitions in the music smooth enough so there’s a certain flow where the other musicians can do whatever it is they need to do? Am I helping make sure that everyone who’s playing feels a certain comfort zone that allows them to play to the best of their ability? Is the time feel steady? Am I helping them to feel whatever changes might be going on in the music to the best of my ability from the drums?

TP: A lot of people in jazz particularly, when improvising on their instruments, think of other instruments. Trumpeters think of saxophones, that sort of thing. In that regard, I’ll bring up a comment I once read from Max Roach, which is that you don’t play melody on the drums, you play rhythmic designs on the drums, which is a slightly different thing, and almost gives the illusion of melody. I don’t know if you would subscribe to that statement or not. But one characteristic of your tonal personality is that you play rhythmic designs within the flow of a moment. Can you talk about creating in that way?

LEWIS: The melodic impression comes from the fact the rhythmic variations that may be played on the drumset give the feeling of a melodic line in the way the rhythms are put together. Every melody has a rhythmic component. So when you’re expressing yourself in phrases which have the same types of rhythmic components that melodic lines have, then you’re going to give the impression that you’re playing a melody. But this kind of linear approach to playing the drums of which Max Roach was the founding father in the music is something that really attracts me. It’s something I like to do or attempt to do. I’m always trying to find a way to keep that approach to playing the drums somehow involved in the evolution of the music, so that’s not just thrown away or thrown out as something that was done in the past, but it’s being made to find a contemporary way… I don’t know if that’s the best way of putting it. But a way of today’s creative jazz playing or creative improvising, utilizing that approach to the drums as well as all the other ones.

TP: Try to parse that a bit. By “today’s approach to the drums,” are you talking about incorporating the way drummers play in contemporary dance-oriented music, or the broader rhythmic palette that’s more commonly available to jazz drummers now?

LEWIS: I mean that in the sense that a lot of other influences have become a part of playing this music, influences from the various so-called world musics, and also in terms of the more recent developments in drumming going back to the ‘60s and ‘70s with Tony Williams and Elvin and Roy Haynes, who has been a part of it, it seems like, forever—and still is. That kind of freshness, without losing the approach of that linear style. I guess always trying to find a way to keep that as a part of the equation.

TP: Playing 100-150 gigs a year with Tommy Flanagan for ten years, and many gigs over a long period with Ron Carter, would be a very good way of honing those skills and that sensibility.

LEWIS: I would say so, yes. And all of the recording sessions as well. Because there you have a chance to hear back right away things that you try, and you can go in and listen and say, “Oh, okay, that didn’t come out quite like I wanted it to; I can go back and try a different thing again.” So being in the studio a lot has been helpful in refining or defining whatever it is I’m trying to do.

[MUSIC: From Sea Changes, “Verdandi”; Love Letters, NTB]

TP: You’ve done five-six dates for Japan with this group (Chestnut-Mraz-Nash), and performed about a month ago at Dizzy’s Room with them. By the way, wasn’t Elvin Jones the drummer on the original performance of Verdandi, which Tommy Flanagan made a staple of his ‘90s repertoire. With Manhattan Trinity, it’s a configuration put together for the studio that becomes a working group. It must be very different when you do it live.

LEWIS: Yes. Especially since we hadn’t really established a live group personality yet. Everything had been done in the studio.

TP: And the producer gives you the tune list and tells you to do something with it.

LEWIS: Yes. But given the level of musicianship with Cyrus and George, we could pretty much do whatever we wanted and make it work. So it’s a great situation to be part of.

TP: We were talking about being creative and fulfilling the function in the studio. We’ll play now one Grammy-winner and one Grammy-nominee record that Lewis was part of. You performed on Nancy Wilson’s RSVP this year, which won the 2005 Jazz Vocal Grammy, and you appeared on Gerald Wilson’s 2004 Grammy-nominated date, New York Sound.

[MUSIC: Nancy Wilson, “I Let A Song Go Out Of My Heart”; Gerald Wilson, “Jeri,” from In My Time]

TP: Since 1998, you’ve been leading ensembles of varying sizes—septets, quintets, quartets, trios, been in the Vanguard, been at Dizzy’s at the Kaplan Playhouse. No records yet, though. Only a couple of dates with trios for the Japanese market on somewhat circumscribed repertoire. It seems every year that you’re doing more and more, gradually building up repertoire and a base of concerts on which other people can draw in recognizing you as a bandleader. What are your aspirations in this regard?
LEWIS: I think they are never-ending for someone who desires to continue to grow musically. I think about various things I’d like to do every day that I haven’t done yet. Wearing the bandleader hat takes a lot of work and takes a lot of time and effort, but it’s worthwhile to watch things come to fruition that began as just an idea or a thought. With that in mind, I’d like to do a lot more things in the future. Nothing specific comes to mind right now, but we have unlimited possibilities.

[MUSIC: Diaspora, from Blues for Marcus]

[END OF CONVERSATION]

———-

Lewis Nash (WKCR, June 26, 2006):

[MUSIC: Kenny Drew Trio, Apasionata]

TP: That featured one of the most prominent drum-bass combinations of our time, Lewis Nash and Peter Washington, who’ve been playing on bandstands countless during the ‘90s with Tommy Flanagan, and are performing together this week in the Lewis Nash Quintet at the Village Vanguard. Since 1999, when you first seriously undertook leading groups and performing out with them… This will be your second group-leader gig this year on New York bandstands. You were at Dizzy’s Room in January. You’ve played often with a septet, and lately a trio as well with Steve Nelson and Peter Washington, and a duo with Steve Wilson. Is this quintet a new band for you?

LEWIS: The newness this week is basically having Gerald Clayton on piano. In the past, generally it’s been Mulgrew Miller or Renee Rosnes or no piano, and others on occasion. But Gerald is a fantastic young musician who is certainly going to make a name for himself. Many people are aware that he’s the son of bassist-arranger John Clayton.

TP: New repertoire this week?

LEWIS: A few things. We do have all this various repertoire in a soup, and each night, depending on the vibe or feeling, I decide whether we’re going to play it or not. Basically, this week is not so much about new repertoire, although I generally like to do a gig in town when I do have something new to offer. But I didn’t want to let a whole year go by without playing at the Vanguard. So this week really is about our creativity on the stage in the moment no matter what we play, because there won’t be any incredible unveilings of new material.

TP: Do you approach your role, your performance in any different manner when you’re leading a group versus playing as a sideman? Does your point of view become the guiding flow for the performances when you’re leading the group? Although of course, it would in other ways when you’re a sideman.

LEWIS: Of course, since it’s more or less my musical vision in that sense, I am providing some direction for how I want it to go pacing-wise and all of that. But I am actually trying to allow everyone else to establish a direction without dictating where I feel it should go. I don’t like that kind of dictatorial way of approaching it from a bandleading standpoint. I like to be open to the input from everyone else. So while I am selecting the set and the pieces, and kind of deciding how long they’re going to be and all that, I just give some basic parameters and then let everybody go where it’s going to go.

TP: You’ve also developed a circle of people around you, good friends with busy schedules who’ve made time to play on your gigs and help develop the sound of your band.

LEWIS: You bring to mind several things to me. For me, I was listening to and enjoying Bill [Stewart]’s interview on the way here, and some of the things you were talking about… As a sideman, I have a lot of different varieties of things that I’m really happy to do, and fortunate to be able to do. So I get a lot of different looks and feels, musically speaking, from all these different things I’m doing, so when I come to do my thing, I can bring elements of those various things to mind. But also, I don’t feel like I have to necessarily explore some of the other things that I explore in other situations to greater depth just because it’s my situation. I might feel like I can do some other things. And those things may change each time I play live as a leader. But I’m so satisfied that I don’t feel a need to explore so many different varieties of things in my own situation. I can concentrate on certain things.

TP: Has being a leader evolved your own drum technique or sense of flow as a drummer? Do you find that you do certain things that are idiosyncratic to you more readily than you would in sideman situations? Ways of hitting beats…

LEWIS: Not so much now. Maybe in the earlier years of deciding to do things as a leader, that might have been the case. But I’m not even sure then how much it was the case. Because so much of how I approach the instrument and how I approach making music with people is consistent, no matter what. So whereas there may be things I’m less apt to do in one situation versus another because of the type of music or the style or whatever, I think generally there is a consistent thread that you can hear running through everything. I can tell it’s me. Whether it’s a piece of music that’s quirky and out, or if it’s a piece of music that’s straight down the middle, swinging, I know how I touch the drums, I can hear that same consistency throughout that. I think that’s an important thing.

TP: You went out with Betty Carter in 1981. So you’ve been a working professional New York musician for 25 years. There’s 25 years of musical history that you’re part of now. In an overall sense, what are some of the salient things you’ve seen change in the musical ideas people are articulating now vis-a-vis 1981, when you came up. There are continuities, but it’s a very different world.

LEWIS: You could say that in many respects. I’m not sure I’d be the best arbiter of that. I came here in 1980 the first time, and I was going around to hear as much music as I could possibly hear. At the same time, I was taking some lessons with Freddie Waits. There were certain guys who were working quite a bit. Billy Hart seemed to be everywhere in those days; he was playing every week somewhere, or it seemed like two different places a night at times! Some of the greats were still leading bands—Woody Shaw, Dexter Gordon, Art Blakey, Betty Carter (whose band I was in). There were these kind of iconic leaders who were still around, and young guys wanted to be in their bands and hone their craft and whatnot. For me, I tried to bring a certain sensibility to the music. When I got here to play with Betty, before that in Arizona, I had been playing a lot of different things with people who’d come through town—Sonny Stitt and people like that when they’d pick up a rhythm section—but I also had an ear to the more exploratory things. I had a duo with saxophonist Allan Chase, and we opened concerts in Phoenix—before I even moved to New York—for Old And New Dreams, which is how I met Ed Blackwell and Dewey and Don and Charlie Haden. Then we opened for the Art Ensemble of Chicago, we opened for Sun Ra., playing this duo. I had bells on my ankles. We were doing a lot of interesting and exploratory things. So I always had an ear to those kinds of things. But what I realized was that I didn’t want to marginalize myself… I don’t know if that’s really the right way of putting it. But I wanted to take advantage of whatever I could get from the people who had been the movers and shakers in the music further back, the Betty Carters and Ron Carters and Tommy Flanagans and people like that. I didn’t want to not be able to associate myself with that lineage.

TP: You didn’t want to cut yourself off.

LEWIS: No. So I felt like, okay, at some point in the future, I can always… I’m not going to lose my desire to be creative, I’m not going to forget how to explore. So I wanted to make sure I immersed myself in where the music was coming from to such an extent that I had an opportunity to interact with these great players. So over time, I have fortunately been able to do that. People like Horace Silver and McCoy and all these different people I’ve played with, all of that has contributed to whatever it is I’m offering as a bandleader, I hope.

TP: Another thing I touched on a little earlier with Bill, we were discussing about the ways in which over the last 15 years odd meters and world rhythmic structures have become more part of the musical vernacular rather than slightly more exotic, as it was in the ‘80s. From your perspective, as someone who became established during the ‘80s, before people like Danilo Perez and Ed Simon came to town, and when Steve Coleman was just starting to deal with the things he did with Dave Holland… How do you see those developments affecting the rhythmic template of jazz these days? Has that changed a lot?

LEWIS: I think it’s just become more of a wide palette, I guess. The stuff has always been there, people have been exploring things from Max and Brubeck and various people in the ‘50s, and there’s already a precedent in world music. So I think the foundation was already laid for people to explore a lot of different things, whether it’s odd meters, whether it’s interesting and different harmonic ideas or structural things with tunes that are not necessarily 32-bar song forms of AABA. People have been exploring a lot of different things for a long time. What you have to learn how to do is incorporate all of it, and not be afraid of any challenges, and then also not be afraid to be basic, too. You can be complicated and simple, and both things work. Also, everyone has a different thing to contribute to this thing. We’re not all supposed to do the same thing.

TP: Did anything new happen in the last 15 years? How would say the sound of jazz in 2006… If you’d left the planet in 1990, came back now, and hadn’t heard any jazz since, what changes would you discern?

LEWIS: I leave the planet on a regular basis, but I do come back. You know, Ted, I really never think of it in those terms. But I suppose the same way there’s new technologies… If you left the planet, came back 15 years later, and the Internet. So I imagine for your ear, yes, but when you’re in it, you can’t hear or observe the changes so clearly, I guess. It might be like if you go away and come back home and see someone who was an adolescent when you left, and when you come back they’re grown up but it’s the same person. That probably didn’t answer your question.

TP: It didn’t, but that’s fine. As Charlie Parker once said immortally on that video, “music speaks louder than words.” In 2003-04, or maybe in 2004-05 you did a few recordings for M&I, the Japanese label…

[MUSIC: “Tico, Tico”]

What’s it like to play so much with the same bass player? You’ve played a lot with George Mraz over the years, with Christian McBride and Ron Carter. But the names Washington and Nash go together in a certain interesting way. How has it evolved?

LEWIS: There are certain vibes that you feel from musicians when you play with them for the first time. Even though I’ve played with a lot of different bass players, as you’ve mentioned, the special rapport I have with Peter… I have a special rapport with the other guys you mentioned as well. But with Peter, I don’t have to worry about whether he’s going to be doing what I need him to do to make everything come across like I’d like it to. You were asking me if I’m thinking about the directions of how things are progressing as we’re playing with my group. With Peter as the bass anchor, there are certain things I know are going to be in place, and I don’t have to worry about those things. They are unspoken things. It’s telepathic almost. So it’s kind of a comfort zone, a comfort level having him there that allows me to feel free to do a lot of things that I might not attempt.

TP: Can you name what a couple of those things might be?

LEWIS: He can sense when I’m orchestrating things a certain way and breaking the time, exactly what to do to keep the forward momentum of the time going, so it doesn’t seem like we both pulled the rug out from under everyone else. In other words, we kind of share the duties of keeping the forward propulsion of the music going. Also, sometimes I can just look to him and nod if I want to change the feel, and he knows to go wherever I’m trying to make it go. His ears are wide open. He picks great notes in his walking bass lines. I’m often keying off of the bass for the harmonic structure and framework of the tune much more than the piano comping or something like singing the tune in my head. I’m more focused on the movement of the bassline.

TP: I recall reading Max Roach saying that there’s no such thing as melodic drums, but there is such a thing as rhythmic design, and people sometimes confuse rhythmic design for playing melody on the drums. You seem always to be very conscious of rhythmic design within the forward motion. How has that concept evolved for you?

LEWIS: That rhythmic design that Max was talking about, in the sense he’s speaking about the melodic interpretation… Another word I’ve heard for it is linear. I tune the drums in a way that the intervals are wide enough that it can give the impression of melodic movement. If I play certain fills, and the drums are extremely close in the tuning, you don’t get the sense of separation and you don’t get the sense of movement up or down a scale. So if I tune the drums at wider intervals, then it seems to give more of an impression that I’m playing some types of melodic things. I like to interject phrases that are not just drum fills, but maybe necessarily a continuation of the line I might have heard the soloist just playing, except I’m articulating it on the drums, so when he takes a breath (if it’s a horn player), I’m almost thinking in terms of continuing his linear thought process on the drums until he puts the horn back to his mouth, and maybe inspire him to go rhythmically in one direction or another, rather than just a drum fill for the sake of filling space and very drum-oriented—I might make it more linear.

TP: Let me repeat a couple of questions I asked Bill Stewart before. I asked him early on in his career how aware he was of the history of the drums in reference to his own development, and, if he emulated other iconic drummers, who some of those drummers might have been. That led to asking him at what point he got beyond those influences and began to assimilate them into his own thing.

LEWIS: Of course, anyone who gets involved in this music at the drums is going to have to go through a certain group of players if they’re really going to say that they’ve studied the music and the history of jazz drumming. For me, in my earliest development, before I really started playing jazz, I was playing a lot of R&B and funk, and that’s pretty much what I was playing. So I wasn’t as… Coming from an R&B, funk and blues… My mother used to listen to a lot of blues—B.B. King and Muddy Waters and that stuff. Coming from that kind of background, I wasn’t necessarily as attracted to the Rock elements, the fusion stuff so much. Even though I could appreciate the drumming aspects of Tony and Billy Cobham and the guys who played in the fusion genre, I was more attracted to the funkier, danceable things at that time, in those earlier years. Then once I became aware of people like Max Roach and Roy Haynes and Philly Joe Jones, Elvin, Jimmy Cobb, and all the various people, then I started to explore the possibilities of that approach to playing the drums. So my influences went from James Brown’s drummers and the Stax records, Al Green and that whole feel, to the guys I just mentioned in straight-ahead jazz, Kenny Clarke and those people who laid the foundation in jazz drumming. So in a way, I have less of the influences of, say, the fusion era, like Tony and Billy Cobham, Jack DeJohnette with Miles, in that context. That stuff actually came later rather than earlier, whereas for some guys that’s some of the first stuff they got into. Whereas for me, I got into the other stuff, and then I kind of backtracked. With my knowledge of music being a little greater, than I think I was able to appreciate and assimilate more of the elements of the more modern players…

TP: How would you assimilate vocabulary? Playing along with records and trying to replicate the style?

LEWIS: Yeah. Playing along. Because then you turn it up loud, or you have headphones and you’re playing along, and you can almost interject yourself into the band, in a sense. That’s one way of beginning to assimilating some of the vocabulary, just playing along.

TP: Were a lot of these guys coming through your town?

LEWIS: No, not that many people came through Phoenix. I didn’t see much.

TP: Probably you’d heard Ed Blackwell before you opened for Old & New Dreams.

LEWIS: Yes.

TP: But seeing him probably put a whole different spin on what he was doing.

LEWIS: Definitely. But I didn’t get to see that many great players. Only towards the end, before I eventually came to New York in the late ‘70s… As I mentioned earlier, Sonny Stitt came through town and I played with him, and I’d meet and see other people that way. I heard Tony Williams with VSOP I think in ‘78 or ‘79. Yeah, I began to see and hear a few people like that. But coming to New York and being able to sit in the front row of the Vanguard to watch and listen to Elvin, yeah, there wasn’t anything like that going on in Phoenix, I’m afraid.

TP: Many young aspirants will be sitting in the catbird seat or the Vanguard this week, and get there when the doors open at 8:15 to get a bird’s eye view of Lewis Nash and quintet… This puts you together with Billy Hart, who as you said was playing everywhere when you came to town… Dark Shadows.

[MUSIC: “Dark Shadows:; Ray Bryant (RRB), “Glory, Glory”; Hannibal-George Adams, Cry]

We heard Lewis getting into a very African conception of the trapset. I think you said you heard Sunny Ade’s talking drummers and were trying to get that quality, as well as Edward Blackwell. And it doesn’t get any more fundamental than Glory, Glory.

We’ll hear recordings Lewis made with several people who recently passed on. Jackie McLean, and John Hicks, with whom you performed on three Joe Lovano nonet recordings. Did you ever record trio with John?

LEWIS: I didn’t record trio with John, but I made gigs in trio with him. He brought something special to any situation. But in the Lovano dates and in the nonet, John was such an integral part of the sound of that group.

TP: That nonet gig is an interesting one, because there’s lots of room for you to roam and travel rhythmically and sonics to weave in and out of. Since Lovano himself likes to play drums… Unfortunately, the only tracks that are applicable are 10-16 minutes…

[MUSIC: w/ Jackie McLean, “Little Melonae”]

LEWIS: It was an interesting date, because I think that may have been the first time that Jackie and Junko met, in the studio. Of course, that happens quite often in jazz anyway. I remember it very well, because I remember someone in the studio mentioning something about intonation, probably someone associated with the label, some peripheral person, and I remember hearing Jackie say, “I’ve played out of tune my whole life; why should I start playing in tune NOW?” I thought that was the funniest thing I had… It was tongue-in-cheek, it was just everything. It lightened up the session and allowed us just to go ahead and play. It was a funny comment.

TP: When you hear Lewis Nash, you’ll be hearing someone who’s embodied the experiences of playing on a regular basis, at one point or another, for ten years with Tommy Flanagan, on many occasions with Tommy Flanagan’s good friend Sonny Rollins, with Ron Carter for years, with Betty Carter, with McCoy Tyner, with Don Pullen, and with just about every significant musician who made a mark on jazz from the 1940s on up, and even going to a date with Doc Cheatham and Benny Carter and Hank Jones. All those experiences are encoded in Lewis’ playing and performance and presentation in one manner or another, and you should not miss him when he’s leading a band.

[MUSIC: w/ McCoy Tyner from Illuminations, The Chase]

 

************

Lewis Nash (Musician Shows, Feb. 10, 1993 and August 21, 1996):

1993

[Lewis Nash, “106 Nix”; Tommy Flanagan Trio, “Something Borrowed, Something Blue”-Mraz-Burrell-Nash; Jimmy Heath, “Gingerbread Boy”; Art Blakey, “Wee-Dot”-Clifford Brown, Lou Donaldson, Curley Russell, Horace Silver]

TP: We’ll go into depth on some of the drummers who influenced you as a drummer developing your style and sound. And “Wee-Dot”…

LEWIS: That, of course, was the great, the one-and-only Art Blakey, who’s been such an influence on so many drummers. That record was I think the third jazz record that I ever bought with my own money. Even now, when I listen to it, it takes me back to that time when it was really fresh and I was hearing it for the first time and really tuning in to what Art Blakey’s playing was all about.

TP: I gather you didn’t tune into jazz until you were a freshman at college.

LEWIS: When I was in high school, during the junior and senior years, I played in an ensemble that played… They called it a jazz band. Stage band. Those school situations. Without really any prior knowledge. But I had been playing the drums for a while, and a guy who was in the band said they needed a drummer. I went, and I didn’t really know much, except I had heard TING, TING, TA-DING — I’d heard the ride cymbal pattern. But really no knowledge of any jazz history or anything. There happened to be a good teacher there who would bring tapes and records to school. But it still didn’t really reach out and grab me the way it did later.

TP: what were you listening to then?

LEWIS: I was listening to a lot of R&B in high school, and funk stuff – James Brown… At the time I was in school, it was between 1972 and 1976. So you had Kool and the Gang type groups, and Earth Wind & Fire, Parliament, that kind of stuff. Of course, before that, at home, when I was growing up, I heard stuff from Motown and of course James Brown and Stax and all that Memphis…

TP: That’s what your parents are into? Are they jazz fans?

LEWIS: no, there was no jazz in the house. Really. A lot of blues. My mother liked the Blues – B.B. King, Howlin’ Wolf, Lowell Fulsom, I can remember a lot of those records. Johnnie Taylor. People like that. And a lot of gospel music. But not really any jazz.

TP: Were you playing drums, though?

LEWIS: I was playing the drums. I started, I was about 10 years old.

TP: Were you playing with your friends…

LEWIS: Garage-type bands, I guess you could say that. But I was playing in school with the concert band, marching band, that kind of stuff.

TP: So you developed a fundamental technique.

LEWIS: Exactly, and I started learning to read. Actually in the 4th grade I started, playing the snare drum at school.

TP: So when you got to college and were introduced to jazz, it was with somewhat of a clean slate, but yet you had this fundamental technique.

LEWIS: In other words, in high school when I was playing, it was a jazz group and we played what could be called jazz tunes, but I wasn’t personally drawn to it as much as I was later. Why, I don’t know. You never know why certain things are. But later, I was drawn to it with a vengeance.

TP: You’ve told an interesting story about your introduction to jazz, which would be a good one to share, I think.

LEWIS: Maybe you’re talking about the story in the record store. But I’ll backtrack a little bit before that. The first jazz album that I ever owned was a gift to me. At the time I was playing high school football, and I had a good game, so my brother-in-law said…

TP: What was your position?

LEWIS: I was a defensive back. Safety. So I had a good game, and he said, “I want to treat you to something.” So we went to the record store. He knew I liked music. I was looking up on the wall, and I saw this record cover with this guy looking hip, his face, you know, and I saw there was a song on there called “Killer Joe.” The only thing I knew about it was that we had played it. I didn’t know anything at this time about Benny Golson or the original Killer Joe or anything like that. It was a song that I remembered from stage band, that we played. And I remember on the music…this is an interesting aside… On the stage band music it said to play “swing a la Philly Joe.” I remember asking the band director who was Philly Joe. He told me and everything, but it didn’t really click in yet.

So I said, “‘Killer Joe’ – maybe I’ll get this record.” It was Quincy Jones, Walking in Space, and on there were Grady Tate, Ray Brown, Hubert Laws, a lot of different musicians. This was the first jazz record that I owned. After that, the first one that I bought with my own money… It was later; I was a freshman in college. I went to the record store. This is when you could get records for $3 apiece, or $2-something on sale. Anyway, I went in and the sales-person was someone I recognized from Arizona State, in the jazz department. He was a saxophone player. His name is Allan Chase. I said, “Allan, can you recommend something for me to listen to?” He went right over to the John Coltrane section and said, “Have you heard this?” He held up Blue Trane. He explained that the drummer was Philly Joe Jones, so here’s that Philly Joe again.

I get it, I take it home, and I’m in love with this record now. So I go back again. “Allan, I want some more stuff like that.” So he realizes I’m checking out Philly Joe, so he gets Milestones and Round About Midnight for the two Miles Davis disks. I take those home, and I listen to those, and I fall in love with those. Then I go back again, and I want something like that but different, or something like that I probably said to him. So he recommended Art Blakey at Birdland, Volumes 1 & 2, which was my introduction to Art Blakey.

TP: Did you then try to emulate that?

LEWIS: Well, of course. I started trying to figure out how these drummers were doing what they were doing, and how they got the music to feel so good and how they got to swing so hard, and how they got the sound they got out of the drums. Of course, it was a recorded sound, but you could tell from the records that they were really taking care of business. So I definitely emulated at that early stage as much as possible.

TP: But you weren’t able to see…

LEWIS: No.

TP: A lot of musicians have a sort of visual continuity; you get up under someone and watch how they do it. But your early process was picking apart and analyzing recordings.

LEWIS: Well, in Phoenix, Arizona, there wasn’t very much to see in terms of the name people especially. There were some people playing there. But even at that point…I mean, I’d never been to a jazz club; I’d never been to a club, period. I was a late-comer to the whole thing.

I started listening to the records first, before I heard any really serious jazz being played on any level live. I’m kind of glad, because I don’t know what I would have heard first there. But there were actually some good musicians there who helped me, which we can talk about later.

TP: First, though, we’ll hear a solo from a James Brown record that’s dear to your heart.

LEWIS: This was the first drum solo, period, of any kind of music that I tried to learn. I don’t know exactly the year, but it’s the James Brown band doing “Soul Pride.”

[James Brown-Clyde Stubblefield, “Soul Pride”]

LEWIS: As I said, that was the first drum solo I ever learned. I listened to a lot of James Brown in that early period. We’d have dances in elementary school, and most of the stuff that would get the kids up to dance the quickest was the James Brown stuff.

At this time I was listening to some other drumming. The Meters and the drummer with them, whose nickname is Zigaboo. He used to play some interesting rhythms, and the sound of his drums. His snare drum sounded more like a really tight tom-tom. It was almost wasn’t a snare sound. It was like a field drum type sound or something. Anyway, those rhythms he played were really hip and funky, and I listened to a lot of that stuff during this period, too. Of course, not forget the standard R&B stuff, because I wasn’t listening to any jazz then.

TP: Were you listening to the drummers as well as the general sound?

LEWIS: I was focusing on the drums. I was playing the drums at the time, and I was trying to figure out how to do what they did and get the same sounds and all that.

TP: Any world music, African music?

LEWIS: Not at that time?

TP: We’ll move now to a set featuring Philly Joe Jones. “Two Bass Hits” is from the first Miles Davis record you heard. What was your impression on that first listen? [END OF SIDE 1]

LEWIS: [BEGINNING OF SIDE 2] …spent some time sitting down at the instrument and becoming a master of it. It felt great. It sounded like he was thinking about what he was playing. All of those things. I was completely taken. So for me, his solos and the stuff that he did behind other people’s solos was pretty much the peak of jazz drumming. Of course, I hadn’t heard that much at this time, but I figured how could anything be better than this? Anyway, I think we were talking about the things from Milestones that I liked the most. “Billy Boy” is one, of course, and the other one is “Two Bass Hit.”

[MUSIC: Miles Davis 6, “Two Bass Hit”; Miles-Coltrane 5-“I Could Write a Book”; Coltrane-“Lazy Bird”-1957]

LEWIS: That was from the first jazz record that I ever bought with my own money. It’s Lee Morgan, Curtis Fuller, John Coltrane, Kenny Drew, Paul Chambers and Philly Joe Jones, who we’re focusing on as a big influence on not only me but I’m sure ever other jazz drummer out there in some way.

But before that we heard “I Could Write A Book” from the Relaxing record, which featured Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Red Garland, Paul Chambers and Philly Joe.

We could do a whole show on Philly Joe’s influence on me. There’s the stuff he did with Tadd Dameron, “Stop, Look, Listen,” that kind of stuff. With Hank Mobley, there’s Workout. I could go on and on with all the great things he’s done on record.

TP: Next we’ll hear Max Roach, primarily with Clifford Brown.

LEWIS: Of course, I’d heard his name before, going back to when I still didn’t know that much. Of course, the record which I had listened to with Art Blakey, Live at Birdland, featured Clifford Brown. So I wanted to get some more stuff with Clifford Brown because I thought his playing was great and I wanted to hear some more of it. So I was told — I’m not sure by whom, maybe Allen at the record store or someone else — about the Clifford Brown and Max Roach group, and that they had a lot of sides out and I should check out some of those. So that was my introduction to the group with Clifford Brown and Max Roach.

TP: What was your initial impression of Max?

LEWIS: How could he play solos like that, that made so much sense and were so creative? That was probably the first thing. His drums were tuned in such a way that they just flowed; they had a melodic thing about them. Also, how could he play so fast? Those were probably the first things that I thought?

[MUSIC: Max Roach-Clifford Brown, “Daahoud”; Max solo, “For Big Sid”; “The Drum Also Waltzes”-Drums Unlimited; Bird-Max, “Au Privave”]

TP: One thing we can say is that Max Roach turned the drumset into a concert instrument within the jazz framework.

LEWIS: Right. The things that Max did, we could probably safely say that they grew out of things that were done before, of course, by Big Sid Catlett and Kenny Clarke and drummers who were before him, and Max brought the soloing concept to another level, at least in terms of the way he approached the drum solos. He, probably more than anyone else during that period, put the drums in the forefront as a solo instrument.

TP: You’re a situation where you have to play styles from different periods, What’s it like for you to play in a pre-bebop context vis-a-vis the modernist drum context? Do you think of it that way?

LEWIS: I don’t consciously try to play, say, in a manner that’s pre-bebop, for example, for want of a better way to say it. The way that we play now can work with the older musicians because it’s an extension, and it’s not separate from it. As long as you’re aware of the tune and you’re aware of what the soloist is playing, and you’re interacting with them, then it really isn’t too out of character to just play the way we know as modern drumming, stuff that came out of bebop, with someone like a Benny Carter… It works. Max, as a matter of fact, came out of Benny Carter’s band.

Through Max… We heard Bird just a moment ago. We’re going back to this period when I was absorbing all this new information, and I wasn’t really yet aware of the chronological history of how things developed in the music. By listening to Max Roach with Clifford Brown, and then buying some more Max Roach records, and reading a little bit and finding out that he’d been playing with Bird in the 40s, I got to Bird through Max, in a strange kind of way.

TP: Freshman year of college, you’re a jazz neophyte. Talk about where you’d progressed with your jazz education by the time you were a senior.

LEWIS: I had been really listening a lot… By the time I got to that point, I’d met some musicians who were actually making a living playing jazz. And some of those people loaned me records, and they told me what things I should be listening for and listening to and that kind of thing. I spent a lot of time staying up late, just listening to records and trying to absorb about the music as I could. So I really went on a kind of accelerated learning process during that period.

TP: Were you playing in any jazz bands in college? Did that start then?

LEWIS: Yes. My first professional gig was with a guitar player who I just saw the other night, as a matter of fact. His name is Jerry Byrd, and he was in town with Freddy Cole. I think he’s originally from Pittsburgh. Anyway, he’s a guitar player who at the time was living in Phoenix. I think I was18 or something like that. I was in college at the time. He’d asked some of the musicians if there was a drummer at the school who they thought could handle this gig that he had, and they recommended me, and that was my first professional gig – with him. He played in a kind of Wes Montgomery style, I guess you could say. That was the beginning of my professional jazz gigging experience.

TP: And although Phoenix wasn’t a center of any kind, there were places to play.

LEWIS: Yes, there were a few places to play.

TP: Did you wind up being a regular in the Phoenix clubs?

LEWIS: Yes.

TP: Who are some people who came through that you had a chance to work with, and some of the musicians on the local scene?

LEWIS: As far as who was there in Phoenix, there were 3 or 4 people who were really important to me. I mentioned Jerry Byrd, who was my first gig. Then he recommended me after that gig to another musician, a pianist named Charles Lewis, who is still there playing. Charles I worked with for a couple of years. He was important because he was the first person to… I’d go to his house for rehearsal, and he would let me work out things on rehearsal and on the gig that ordinarily many leaders might not have the patience for. In other words, I’m taking a solo, and it’s meandering and going nowhere on the gig, and he’d just let me kind of find my way out of it, back to the tune or whatever. He was really patient with letting me figure out what it is I should be doing at the drums in his group. We played a lot of straight-ahead music and also some Latin things. He was the first person to loan me records of Tito Puente and Larry Harlow and Eddie Palmieri. He would comp with his left hand on the Afro-Cuban type stuff and he’d play timbales with his right.

TP: So you were able to get a broad range of rhythmic experience. Were other musicians passing through town?

LEWIS: A few. First, I mentioned Charles and Jerry Byrd. Prince Shell was another, a pianist and arranger who used to lend me records to take home and make a copy of and bring back. He would sit down with me and have me listen to all different kinds of music. This is when I first started to listen to any other world music, whether it’s Egyptian music or music from South America or music from Africa. He was the first person I saw who had these different kinds of musics on record, and I would make tapes of different things. Of course, he had all the jazz things.

TP: Did you find you were able to incorporate that into what you were doing?

LEWIS: Not at that time, no.

TP: Next we’ll hear Kenny Clarke, represented by one selection. In all histories of jazz, observers talk about what Kenny Clarke and Max Roach did. But please put it in your own words…how Kenny Clarke and Max Roach opened up the beat.

LEWIS: It’s interesting to me… I’m sure the people who were around before Kenny Clarke and Max Roach did what they did would have their perspective. But for me, listening to this first and then going back and hearing what, say, Jo Jones and Sid Catlett and Cozy Cole, etc., did before this, is a different way of hearing it, I guess. In any case, the drummers began to lighten up on the bass drum considerably, and in some cases not play it all except for accents. The left hand started to be more active in comping in a way that was interactive with the soloist, and also interactive within the context…

[END OF SIDE 2]

TP: What did this do to the overall sound of the jazz ensemble?

LEWIS: It probably made it have a more open and freer sound and feeling, I’m sure. The soloists felt freer because the rhythm wasn’t locking them in as much. But it was still present and still swinging. The thing about the bass drum, what a lot of drummers…what we call “feathering” the bass drum now… We still play it, but it’s very light and it’s felt more than it’s heard, as opposed to in the 30s, when they were really playing it hard.

TP: I think certain drummers during the 40s and 50s who combined both the prebop and bebop styles, like Shadow Wilson or Osie Johnson, who generated incredible swing.

LEWIS: That’s right. You can’t categorize these things too particularly. Because there’s a lot of drummers who cover a lot of different ground and who fit into a lot of different situations.

TP: It’s perhaps a cliche or redundant to say this, but this music is really a continuum and styles meld into each other and overlap.

[MUSIC: Miles-Klook, “Walkin’”; Miles-Cobb, “Ah-Leu-Cha” and “No Blues”]

TP: Lewis, you said that you used to practice to “No Blues,” that you wore out several copies putting on Wynton Kelly’s solo. You know that solo very well.

LEWIS: I used to put on Wynton Kelly’s solos from this double record set, from Friday and Saturday night. This band was swinging so hard and Wynton Kelly’s solos were so great, I would just put them on over and over again and set up a ride cymbal and try to ride…play along — and I would play along with it, and make an attempt to get the feeling that he and Jimmy Cobb and Paul Chambers had in the rhythm section.

TP: A few words about Jimmy Cobb.

LEWIS: He was a very big influence on my approach to the ride cymbal feeling, and just the intensity, I guess you could say of the ride cymbal. I like to try to emulate the way he fit in particular with Paul Chambers. The ride cymbal pattern and the bass player walking can fit together in such a way that it’s like one – and it swings so hard. So I was really influenced heavily by Jimmy Cobb’s approach to the ride cymbal.

TP: Paul Chambers has been a prominent presence on this Musician Show, appearing on many of the tracks. You were speaking before about bassists – Paul Chambers, Sam Jones – and the idea of the rhythm section.

LEWIS: Speaking of the bass players, we heard Paul Chambers with Philly Joe and here with Jimmy Cobb – and we’re going to hear him again. It’s so important… As I was acquainted with the music early on, I started to see that the same names would start popping up on all these records, and the things that I liked the most, that I felt were really swinging the most, would generally have either one or two or all three of the same people on something else that I thought would have the same feeling. That would be Art Blakey with Paul Chambers or Philly Joe with Paul Chambers or Jimmy Cobb with Paul Chambers, or George Duvivier or Sam Jones… All the great bass players and drummers just could find a way to lock up with each other. As far as the things that influenced me in particular, there always seems to be a lot of Paul Chambers involved, with whatever drummer.

TP: But within the rhythm section, it’s not only the drummer; it’s the three in conjunction…

LEWIS: Working together. With Red Garland… Each of the pianists and bassists and drummers would bring something of their own,something different and unique to each situation. Always with that feeling, though – the real feeling of what jazz is all about.

TP: Many of our audience may be wondering where Art Blakey is. Here he comes. For reasons of time, we’ll take Art Blakey outside the Jazz Messengers, and hear him on two dates as a “sideman,” although of course he shapes the piece.

LEWIS: We’ll start with something from Hank Mobley’s Soul Station, which is one of my favorite records. This is Hank Mobley with Wynton Kelly, Paul Chambers and Art Blakey – “Dig Dis.”

[SIDE 4]

[MUSIC: Hank Mobley, Dig Dis; Miles Davis-Cannonball, “Somethin’ Else”]

LEWIS: The great Art Blakey on drums. Those were great examples of how Art… I mean, Art is known for so much — for solos, for all of his intensity, and for his power. But he could settle into a groove with the best, and not have to do a whole lot of really ferocious, and just swing.

TP: And also shape the focus and flow of the piece through what he’s doing in an unerringly correct way.

LEWIS: The one and only.

TP: When d id you first see the Messengers and Art Blakey?

LEWIS: I first saw Art Blakey in 1979. If I’m not mistaken, the band at that time was Billy Pierce, Charles Fambrough, Valery Ponomarov and Bobby Watson. My mouth was open after watching him do what he did.

TP: By now, you’d been involved in jazz for a while. You were post-neophyte.

LEWIS: Yes. That was the first time I came to New York. I wasn’t here to live yet. I came during the summer-time; I was studying with Fr4eddie Waits. So I went to hear as much music as I could hear, and I heard him then.

TP: Around 1979, were you just getting out of college?

LEWIS: Mmm-hmm. I went back to Phoenix, and then I moved to New York finally in 1981, in the spring, the late spring, when I joined Betty Carter.

TP: How did she… She heard you in Phoenix? Somebody hipped her to you?

LEWIS: Freddie Waits recommended me to her. I came and played for her, and that was the beginning of a four-year relationship.

TP: I guess that was your opportunity to get into the post-graduate nuances it seems musicians need to have.

LEWIS: Just to be around the great musicians, so you can absorb what’s really going on. You couldn’t do that in Phoenix. Once in a while… You asked me about this earlier, but I didn’t really elaborate about who I’d played with passing through Phoenix. I had a chance to work a week with Sonny Stitt. I worked also with Jimmy Witherspoon. Johnny Coles came through. Not very frequently, but every so often there’d be groups coming through, and I had a chance to play.

Working with Sonny Stitt for a week was…I think I was 18 or 19… It was great. We met on the bandstand. “Hello, young man.” Then he stomped off “Cherokee” or something, really fast, and that was the beginning of the night.

TP: At the end of the night, you mentioned before, “Young man, you sounded good.”

LEWIS: Yeah, you know, I’m sure he was being cordial, being nice and encouraging. Anyway, I did have a chance to do that a few times. But once I came to New York, I was able…

TP: Next up is music with Roy Haynes.

LEWIS: Roy Haynes to me is perpetually modern. He was modern in the 40s, he’s modern now. I don’t know how he does it, but he just stays on the edge, and his playing is always great to my ear. To me, he had a certain spark that maybe a lot of people liked playing with him for that very reason. He had a way of really lighting up, getting things going, stoking the fires, or whatever kind of adjectives you want to use…

TP: Without necessarily being loud either.

LEWIS: No. He could play trio. He could play large groups. He could play with singers, as he did with Sarah.

TP: Drummers have so many different functions to play. Your current situation is a case in point. Last week, you’re playing behind a 12-piece group, playing Dizzy Gillespie forcefully, propelling the band. This week you’re with the Tommy Flanagan Trio. The following week you’ll remain at the Vanguard with Mulgrew Miller and Peter Washington. Can you speak about the different necessities, so to speak, when you’re working in those situations?

LEWIS: The thing last week with the 12-piece big band: First of all, you’ve got the 9 horns, and we had a strong trumpet section, with Faddis and Roy Hargrove and Claudio Roditi. That music required a really wide dynamic range and sensibility to play. Trio playing requires that as well. But you’re not going to get a trio to sound like a 12-piece band. I tuned my drums a little bit deeper to get some weight for the big band. I think I played with the sticks that were a little bit heavier, not all the time but some of the time. Conceptually, it’s not that much different. The idea is to swing and to color the music, and whatever is required in terms of that, and to make the accents and set up the band so that the horns come in in the right fashion, and really, like I was saying, be a sparkplug or the initiator of the feeling. That’s the same no matter what context.

It’s just a little more heavily weighted with the big band, I guess, and there’s more people up there so you have a lot of different ideas of where the time is. So the time function is a little more important maybe in the big band, in the sense that I have to make sure that everyone is hearing clearly what’s going on, and that everyone comes in when they’re supposed to, based on where my beat is, or the beat that the bass player and I are establishing.

TP: Do you do a different accompaniment for each player as you familiarize yourself during the week. I remember Art Blakey with the Messengers would give everyone a personalized backing.

LEWIS: That may be true to a certain extent. I think certain players make you feel a certain way if you’re playing behind them, the way they approach their solo, and after you get to know how a player does that, you can expect a certain feeling to come about when this person is playing and you’re playing behind them. Maybe some soloists will make you want to play a lot more, and some will want to make you play a lot less behind them, depending on what they hear at the moment. So that’s true, yes.

[Roy Haynes, “Snap, Crackle” (1963-Rahsaan, Flanagan, Henry Grimes); Haynes-Chambers-Newborn, “Sugar Roy”–PC, Phineas Newborn, Roy Haynes-1958]

LEWIS: I’d intended to bring a tape that had some things I listened to early before I even became aware of the jazz tradition…

TP: We would have heard Parliament, Stax-Volt…

LEWIS: I’m sure some folks will be happy they didn’t hear all that. But in any case, I wanted to play some of those things — the gospel stuff that I heard around the house, the blues and the early stuff. There wasn’t really any jazz around the house, but one of my older sisters had joined the Columbia Record Club, so they sent her a copy of Miles Smiles. I think that might be the first time I put on anything by Miles Davis. I don’t remember how old I was, 12 or something, I don’t know…

TP: So you actually heard Tony Williams first.

LEWIS: I mean, I put it on and I took it off, because I didn’t know what was going on. I couldn’t make any sense out of it. I think “Orbits” is on it…

TP: “Footprints,” too.

LEWIS: Maybe if I had put on one of those. But I don’t know. I wasn’t ready for it.

TP: You were ready when you were ready. We’ve focused primarily on five drummers…

LEWIS: The ones who were an initial influence on me in my outlook on drumming. But there’s so many other ones who helped shape this way that I look at playing the drums. For example, Art Taylor, who played on countless recordings, and one that comes to mind that I bought earlier on was “Giant Steps,” and I heard “Countdown” with him, and that made me want to go and buy other things that he played on. Then there was Louis Hayes with Horace Silver and all other different situations with Cannonball, etc., who was a big influence on my approach. Vernell Fournier with Ahmad Jamal. Ed Thigpen – I heard stuff earlier on with Oscar Peterson Trio. Ed Blackwell. Also Roy Brooks (mentioning Horace Silver). Frankie Dunlop with Monk and Ben Riley with Monk and with other situations (Ben Riley I heard with Lockjaw Davis). I also heard with Lockjaw, on some of the organ groups, Arthur Edgehill and Al Harewood – some of the hardest swinging stuff with the organ and tenor. Tony Williams. We’ve just touched on a few. But the ones we talked the most about tonight were the ones who were instrumental in getting me interested in even doing this.

TP: We’ll conclude with (a) something featuring Billy Higgins…

LEWIS: Billy Higgins, definitely one of my influences, who I’m sure everyone recognizes as one of the greatest jazz drummers we have today.

[MUSIC: Bobby Hutcherson, “La Alhambra” – 1981-McCoy-Higgins-Herbie Lewis; Nash-Mulgrew-Nelson, “Monk’s Dream”]

1996

[MUSIC: Lewis Nash, “Let Me Try”-1988]

TP: Today we’ll be interspersing recent recordings with Lewis, who is one of the most recorded of contemporary jazz drummers, and by people who have influenced him and whom he admires. A few words about your ideas in selecting the material tonight.

LEWIS: I wanted first of all to bring some of the things are best representative of what I’m doing now, today. That includes things by the Tommy Flanagan Trio, who I’ve been working with for the past five years, different things with all different size groups, from big band and trio, and I’ve tried to bring a variety of things style-wise that represent what I’ve been doing the past few years.

[MUSIC: Jackie McLean-Junko Onishi-Lewis, “Little Melonae”-1996; Lew Tabackin, “Wise One”-I’ll Be Seeing You-Concord-1992; Horace Silver, “Serenade To A Teakettle”-THE HARDBOP GRANDBOP, 1996]

TP: Three tracks from recent recordings featuring Lewis Nash, all showcasing different aspects of his sound and approach, and showcasing the versatility, creativity and precision that make him one of today’s most in-demand drummers.

Before we get to the first set of influences, let’s talk about the beginnings of Lewis Nash, the drummer. You came up in an area that isn’t exactly a hotbed of jazz, although I know there was someone. What was your first inkling of jazz music and that there is such a thing as jazz drumming?

LEWIS: Well, you’re right. Phoenix, Arizona, was not at that time, nor is it now, a hotbed of jazz activity. But once I started to play, there were people who were able to guide me and give me some direction. But the earliest memory I have of just playing the drums comes from stories that my parents and my older sisters tell me about me banging on the pots and pans in the kitchen, and putting together different sizes of cardboard boxes to get different sounds. I don’t remember much of that. As a matter of fact, I don’t remember any of that. I was probably 3 or 4 years old – 5 maybe. In any case, they tell me that’s what happened.

I do remember joining the elementary school band in the 4th grade, really based on watching a guy do a roll, and I knew that I didn’t really know how to do that. It sounded so nice, and I wanted to know how to do that. He said, “You should join the band and you’ll learn how to do this.” So I did. So from the 4th grade on through all of my schooling, I played in some sort of organized musical situation in schools.

TP: Did you have good instructors?

LEWIS: Very good, as a matter of fact. From the very beginning, I had teachers who stressed “practice-practice-practice.” So learning the rudiments…In drumming we have what we call the 13 essential rudiments, but it’s actually 26, and infinite amount of variations on all of those. But you’ve heard the terminology “paradiddle,” “5-stroke roll” — all those things are important to first just being able to articulate different stickings. When I say ‘stickings,’ for those of you who are not drummers, it’s just combinations of strokes with the two hands – double strokes, singles, etc. So I learned at an early age to practice and practice and practice.

TP: And got your 26 rudiments…

LEWIS: I’m still working on those.

TP: Can you recite them off… No, we won’t do that to you now. When did you start playing in little ensembles then, outside of say school marching band or whatever?

LEWIS: In a jazz sense, I didn’t really play until high school.

TP: Before that you were doing?

LEWIS: R&B. Funk stuff. The first bands I played in on a regular basis when I was in high school were bands covering tunes by groups like the Commodores and Earth, Wind & Fire and James Brown, people like that.

TP: Were you checking out Maurice White’s style, or the drummers who played with James Brown, and try to get some of that sound, make it idiomatic and personal?

LEWIS: Most definitely. The Meters. That stuff I remember from my childhood. I didn’t really begin to listen to jazz in the way that we listen — the way musicians listen, trying to assimilate and learn from the music that we’re hearing — until I was in college. I guess in a certain sense, I’m a latecomer to that way of listening. Before that, I was basically playing R&B and Funk, and I didn’t really have any idea that I’d be a professional musician.

TP: do you mean in high school you were trying to replicate the styles rather than put your own personality into it.

LEWIS: Right.

TP: You were an athlete, weren’t you?

LEWIS: I was a football player in high school, and track as well. Believe it or not.

TP: I believe it. How about a few words of elaboration? What was your position?

LEWIS: I played free safety. I was captain of the football team in high school. Most people can’t believe that when I tell them that now, based on my… I’m not 230 pounds and 6’5″. But I had fun doing it.

TP: How about track?

LEWIS: I ran… At that time we weren’t thinking metrically. It’s 400 meters now. But I ran the 440-yard dash, or run they used to call it. I had a pretty decent time.

TP: There’s some pain involved in that particular event.

LEWIS: Definitely. When you round that last curve.

TP: So the discipline that you applied also, I take it, went into your athletics as well.

LEWIS: I would think so.

TP: Does one have to be athletic to be a good drummer, do you think? I’ve heard some drummers talk about what they do as a form of dance or positioning to be set up to do the things they need to do.

LEWIS: I think to a certain degree that’s very true. You have to have stamina in order to do this. When guys are taking strings of 10 horn players taking solos, the bass player and drummer is back there still digging away through all of that. So it doesn’t require a certain amount of stamina and athleticism to do it.

TP: So through high school you’re not dabbling in music, but not really considering it as your life’s work. You get to college, and what happens?

LEWIS: Well, I got to college, and I started to… Of course, I was taking electives in the Music Department at Arizona State, where I went to college. All of this time, because I’ve been involved in playing the drums and playing music in school for so long, it just seemed so natural for me to continue to play, although I wasn’t looking at it as a career objective at all. But what happened was, several of the people in the Music Department would ask me why I wasn’t a music major and why I wasn’t thinking of pursuing music as a career. I had never thought of it. I didn’t have anyone in my family who was a musician. I didn’t really know anyone personally who made their living playing music. So it really never occurred to me that I could do that, or that I should do that. Plus, I had an academic scholarship, and I was trying to keep my grades up and all that.

TP: What was your major when you got to college?

LEWIS: When I first got there, I was a broadcasting major, believe it or not. Then I switched to marketing in the business school. What happened was, some of the local groups heard me play in the college jazz ensemble, so one of the local pianists asked me to play some gigs with him, and the word started to get around that there’s a guy who plays fairly decent over at the college, and I started to get more gigs. Then I started to learn from some of these players who were from other places. Some of the guys were from Chicago or from Philadelphia, and maybe they were in the Air Force or just happened to end up in Phoenix for whatever reason. So they would recommend things to me to listen to, who to listen to, and how to listen. That’s how that started.

TP: We’ll hear some of those things, beginning with Jimmy Cobb with Miles Davis. He was and is very much respected for the cleanness of his articulation, the articulation of every stroke. I know musicians refer about this when they speak of you. What did you glean from him?

LEWIS: Jimmy Cobb impressed upon me that the ride cymbal itself… Aside from all the other things he was doing on the drums, when I would put on this particular cut we’re going to hear, or anything from this record, which is Miles Davis In Person: Live, Friday and Saturday Nights at the Blackhawk, Jimmy Cobb’s cymbal beat would pull me in and I would just zero in on it. I used put on this and just play along with it with the ride cymbal, just so I could try to emulate what he’s doing. I still am, actually. But really, talk about clean, articulate and a deep groove, that’s a perfect example.

[MUSIC: Miles-Mobley-Kelly-Chambers-Cobb, “If I Were a Bell”-Blackhawk-1961; Miles-PJJ, “No Blues (Blues #2)”; Miles-Sonny-Klook, “Airegin”-1954]

TP: These tracks offered a great contrast for how different drummers can influence a rhythm section, or indeed the sound of the whole band. You were talking about the different groove – which is ineffable, yet I know you can articulate this – that was attained by Jimmy Cobb and Philly Joe Jones. The whole character of the ensemble is different.

LEWIS: As you said, it’s sometimes difficult to articulate the subtle differences like that. But when you’re dealing with two great drummers, like Philly Joe and Jimmy Cobb, they played with the same group of musicians and brought their own color, shall I say, to it. Their own approach, their own sense of swing, their own sense of dynamics. Both of them made the group sound incredible.

TP: One thing I hear, which I’ll run by you and then take lumps… Philly Joe Jones is all angles, commentary, signifying, pushing, prodding; Jimmy Cobb has more of an even throughline in the groove all the time…

LEWIS: Again, you run into the problem of how to define these things. I can see what you’re saying, although in certain instances Philly Joe would just play in the way you describe how Jimmy Cobb would play – and vice-versa. They had so much variance in the way they approached the drum.

TP: You articulated some incisive characteristics of Jimmy Cobb. A few words about what characterized Philly Joe Jones as a drummer, and specifically what you garnered from him.

LEWIS: For me personally, I liked Philly Joe’s interaction with the group in the sense that his snare drum accents would be varied in dynamic level. He would play really subtle things, and then he would play a rimshot at just the right place. But more importantly than that, his technique was very clean and articulate, which I tended to like more, at the time I was listening to the two of them… When I wanted to focus on my soloing and phrasing and sticking, things like that, I would listen a lot more to Philly Joe’s phrasing. I think that he influenced me quite a bit the way he got around the drums, I guess would be the way I’d say it.

TP: We concluded the set with a track featuring Kenny Clarke – please encapsulate.

LEWIS: Kenny Clarke’s ride cymbal is probably for me one of the most identifiable sounds in jazz history. If I hear a recording and he’s on it, right away, just from the sound of that ride cymbal, I can tell that it’s him. The reason is the kind of forward momentum that it has. It’s constantly pushing… You almost don’t hear the in-between beats. You hear the quarter-note pulse. He’s articulating everything in between, but each of the quarter notes is evenly placed. Consequently it gives that forward momentum. He’s not leaning heavily on 2-or-4 in the ride cymbal or 1-or-3 – they’re really even. That gives a certain push to the music, the way he articulated.

TP: On the first two tracks, the bassist was Paul Chambers. Can you speak a bit to the way the drums and bass interlock?

LEWIS: A very important thing. I often say to young drummers, or drummers with less experience playing, that one of the best ways to figure out what to play and what not to play is to play with great bass players. You can say the same thing to young bass players. If they play with a great drummer, or a drummer plays with a great bassist, all of a sudden things become really clear if you do it on a regular basis, without even much verbal dialogue. Because this person has been doing this for so long, and in with such a high quality of players that it just tells you what to leave out and what to keep in. What we call the hookup between the drummer and bassist is very important. Nothing else is going to take off if that’s not hooked up. If the drummer and bassist are feeling the beat in different places and it sounds like it, nobody else in the band is going to feel comfortable.

TP: When we left off your biography, you’re in college, getting your chops together and your feet wet, as it were, in the desert, in jazz music. Let’s discuss the events that to your becoming a professional drummer. Did the decision come suddenly to you, or did it gradually seem like the logical thing to do?

LEWIS: More like that. As I said, I started to get calls from different professional musicians around the city, and they continually were asking me what I planned to do with music. I really didn’t have any plans with music. I planned to do something else. I didn’t really know what else then. But enough musicians who had the kind of knowledge that I respected, and also who I felt had my best interests at heart, continued to tell me that I should really seriously consider thinking about music as a career choice, based on my abilities and potential. At some point, I suppose I started to listen more closely and I started to think about that. Really, even at the time I came to New York, I still hadn’t wholeheartedly… Well, not at the time I came but just before I came to New York, I was still going back and forth about what I should do. I think I had decided that I wanted to play music, and I knew I wanted to come to New York and see what was going on. But being in Phoenix and having never been to New York, it was vague about what to expect.

Actually, the first time I came was in 1979. And at that time, I was studying with Freddie Waits, who had come through Arizona with Billy Taylor’s trio and I heard him there. We established a rapport and I stayed in touch with him. So I came and studied in the summer of 1979. I went back to Phoenix. After that, having come to New York and experienced that, then I knew. After that, there was no doubt what I had to do. So it was just a matter of preparation to come back. What happened was, Freddie Waits recommended me to Betty Carter, so I came back to work with Betty.

TP: Did you come after Clifford Barbaro?

LEWIS: No. Kenny Washington and then Greg Bandy.

TP: What became apparent to you in studying with Freddie Waits in New York that you had to do to prepare yourself to be a New York musician?

LEWIS: There was a certain kind of intensity that I hadn’t really experienced. When I came in 1979, I went out to the clubs. I went to the Vanguard to see Elvin. I sat right in the front. I was of course like run over by a freight train – there was so much power and so much finesse, too. I heard him play brushes live for the first time. I couldn’t believe it, what a great brush player Elvin was, because I’d always associated him with the sticks, of course. Although there are examples of his playing brushes on record, it was hearing it live that really made me realize what a master of the brushes he was.

I had a chance to hear so many different players. The thing that really hit me was how intense it was. It doesn’t mean that it was too serious. I mean, the guys were having fun. But there was just a certain head that the guys got into when they went onstage to play the music. I realized that even though we’re enjoying it, it’s a serious business, and you have to be serious about your art form and you have to be serious about your instrument. So I went back to Phoenix with all of that in mind, and thinking, ok, I have to get back here at some point.

TP: You had a very thorough apprenticeship with Betty Carter, who’s nurtured many of our strongest younger musicians for several generations.

LEWIS: Right. From 1980 to 1984 I was with Betty. It was one of the best things that could have happened to me at that time in my life.

TP: How does she impart information to a drummer? She incorporates a lot of dynamics in her phrasing and in her tonality. What was it like to adjust to that?

LEWIS: One of the first things she talked about, even in the first rehearsal I ever did with her, was color. She said watch her for color. By that, she was talking about the dynamic changes. Maybe she’d want a sudden shift in dynamics from extremely soft to extremely loud in a couple of beats. I always had to keep my eye on her for direction where she wanted the music to go. It wouldn’t be the same every night. So I learned about the spontaneity involved from working with her. And she loves to groove, definitely, so I really had a chance to figure out what it means to establish a deep groove. I had help, of course. Curtis Lundy was playing bass at the time when I was in the band. I played with several different pianists in her group – Khalid Moss, Benny Green. But she always stressed the fact that she didn’t want things to sound the same, or she didn’t want us to start thinking in cliches. Always searching for something different. I think she still approaches it that way. She probably always will.

TP: Lewis works in many situations, but he’s been the steady drummer in the Tommy Flanagan Trio for five-six years now. We’ll hear a preview of the most recent Tommy Flanagan Trio… [etc.] Speaking of bassists, I guess you and Peter Washington have developed a strong rapport over the years as well.

LEWIS: Definitely. I can’t say enough good things about playing with Peter Washington over the past several years, with Tommy and all the other different groups. So yes, we’ve established quite a rapport.

TP: Talk a bit about the dynamics of playing in different groups? What specifically do you have to pay attention to when you’re playing in the trio?

LEWIS: Well, in the trio, I think you have right away a wider range of possibilities available. Because the sound, the air space I guess you could say, is not filled with other instruments. You have no horn players. You have no other chordal instrument. So the piano trio has a lot of flexibility with that dynamic range. You can play extremely soft. If I lay out somewhere, it gives another texture. This could apply to any other group, too, as well, but especially in the trio. When I change cymbals, for example… We do that in all situations. But in a trio, it seems to stand out more.

TP: In the Tommy Flanagan Trio, how responsive is he to the drummer, and how much does he lead you in terms of what you play?

LEWIS: There’s a whole lot going on there. I love playing with Tommy. I don’t see how any drummer could not enjoy playing with Tommy. The reason I say that is because rhythmically Tommy grew out of the Bud Powell school. Of course, he’s a lot more than that. But I’m just saying that to say that the rhythmic sense is really keen, and he hears drums immediately. If I play something that he likes in comping, he’ll either…he doesn’t have to play exactly what I play, but he could answer it in a certain way, which he does, or he’ll play something equally rhythmically interesting for me to react to. People continually make comments to us about the rapport between the drums and piano, which I think is a great observation and a great to our listening abilities.

TP: I think you and Peter Washington need to devote all your focus and attention, because he will change tunes or play introductions that take you in unexpected directions.

LEWIS: No question.

TP: We’ll hear “Verdandi.” It was a feature for Elvin Jones on its original issue, from 1957.

[MUSIC: Tommy Flanagan 3, “Verdandi”-Sea-Changes-1996; TF3, “Let’s”; Oscar Peterson-Ray Brown-Lewis, “St. Tropez”; Ray Bryant-Ray Brown-Lewis, “Dr. Freezee”–Double RB-1996]

LEWIS: “Verdandi” has another title, “Mean Streets.” actually, all of the drummers who played with Tommy have played that feature with him – Arthur Taylor, Kenny Washington. It’s a staple of his repertoire.

TP: This doesn’t seem to happen so often with drummers as, let’s say, with a tenor player who has to play “Body and Soul” or an alto player playing a Charlie Parker tune. In emulating the drum solo repertoire, you have to find a different path, a different tack. Talk about the challenges.

LEWIS: hmm. You’re right. I guess there isn’t a particular tune that you have to play on the drums necessarily. But I suppose… You’re talking about soloing in particular?

TP: particularly in emulating a solo that’s part of the drum canon.

LEWIS: In general, you have to study the phrasing of a great soloist in order to emulate it. For me, in the modern sense of soloing (when I say “modern,” I’m talking about from the 40s up to now) there’s a certain linear approach. Some people might call it melodic, and some people might say they hear melodies when you play this way. But that’s just to differentiate from a rudimental approach, let’s say, the way drummers were playing in the 30s – a lot of snare drum technique and things like that. Then, when you get further into the 40s with Max Roach and Kenny Clarke and Denzil Best and Shadow Wilson, people like that, even before that with Big Sid Catlett and people like that…it changed that rudimental approach to drumming to something more lyrical. I think most of us today base our styles, where we might be trying to evolve personally, on that approach rather than the snare rudimental way of playing.

TP: Do you think that the term “melodic drumming” is an accurate term? Does one play melodies on the drums. Max Roach is known for playing this way, but he’s also been quoted denying that he plays melodic drums, but rather plays developmentally on rhythmic patterns.

LEWIS: Right. I think probably the reason that’s said is because we have a limited amount of tones available at the drumset. We don’t have 88 keys and we can’t really play chords. So maybe that’s what he’s talking about. But I think you can give the effect of a melodic statement. But it’s a rhythm instrument. So when all is said and done, we are dealing with rhythmic variation of different pitches.

TP: Let’s talk also about the unique aspect of the trap drums. Have you studied much hand drums, for instance?

LEWIS: No, I haven’t actually. Just a little bit, but not very much.

TP: Perhaps it seems like a rudimentary question, but can you talk about the challenge of creatiing a unified whole out of what’s indeed an assemblage of separate components?

LEWIS: As you know, the instrument that I play evolved here in the United States, and it had its start in…guys would put together different pieces, from, say, a marching bass drum and a snare, and just suspend the cymbal in a certain way. That evolved eventually into what we call the modern drumset. The way we look at it today, or the way I like to look at it, is as one instrument. So oftentimes, when I’m practicing, I try to make the parts, my two hands and my two feet, contribute to one whole rhythmic motion. As you can see, it’s difficult to say in certain terms exactly what it is that we’re doing. But I think you want a unified whole to come from these four parts, and the four parts can play four different dynamic levels at the same time, or they can even play four different rhythms at the same time. They can play high and low tones, and that gives a different feeling. Ed Blackwell was someone who I used to watch with such admiration doing that kind of thing.

TP: Almost motionless, too.

LEWIS: Yes. He sat down one time and was showing me: “Your right foot does this, and your left foot does this, and your right hand this and left hand that.” There are books about four-way coordination and four-way independence. But it’s one thing to play something out of a book, and it’s a whole other thing to play something that makes somebody want to dance, and it’s still demonstrating this four-way coordination and independence. It’s really coordination. It’s not really complete independence, I don’t think. It’s not operating independently. They are co-dependent in a certain way.

TP: Back to the two features for you in that last set, “Verdandi” and “Dr. Freezee,” are those notatable, strictly. You’re a fully trained musician, who reads music. In learning those solos, is it by ear or do you notate what they’re doing?

LEWIS: It’s both. You can transcribe drum solos. It’s been done. I’ve done it, and there are people who are very good at doing that. I’ve had some of my solos transcribed, but it’s really hard to play them back because you’re playing spontaneously at the time you play it, and somebody puts it in front of you to play, it’s kind of a shock to see that… The first thing out of your mouth is, “Is that what I played?” It’s a challenge even to play your own ideas when they’re written down. But yes, all of those things can be notated.

TP: In the next set, we’ll return to influences, turning to Max Roach, who more than any drummer has turned the art of playing trap drums into an art form, particularly through his amazing solos. Some of those solos were first premiered on a mid-60s recording for Atlantic called Drums Unlimited, and we’ll hear “Big Sid,” dedicated to Sid Catlett.

LEWIS: My first introduction to Max’s playing was I believe the quintet with Clifford Brown and Sonny Rollins, “Daahoud” and all of those tunes. It really was a pleasure to hear somebody phrase and be creative on the drums in a solo context like that. I hadn’t really heard it done that way before, at the time I first heard it. He was a major, major influence on my whole approach to soloing on the drums, as he was on Philly Joe, and his own contemporaries, and all of us through the whole lineage.

[MUSIC: Max Roach solo, “For Big Sid”-1965; Art Blakey & Messengers, “Mosaic”; Jamal-Crosby-Fournier, “What’s New”]

TP: When “What’s New” came on, after the thunder and sturm und drang of “Mosaic,” Lewis was saying, “Yes, shhhtttt….”

LEWIS: I really enjoy listening to Vernell for a few different reasons. One I’d have to say is his touch. Here we go again with one of those terms that could mean a lot of different things. But the way he touched the drums in that trio with Ahmad Jamal is like artwork to me, especially the use of the brushes. It’s just a classic sound. It’s a way of playing the drums which is…the groove is deep, yet there’s lots of color, there’s lots of space, there’s definition, it’s not wishy-washy but it’s still light and airy at the same time. Or, he could play heavily when he needed to. He’s one of the guys who you really feel the bass drum; when he accents something, it has weight to it. I always liked the way Vernell used the bass drum in that trio as well. Those are a couple of things I like about it.

TP: I think one aspect of New Orleans drummer is the emphatic integration of the bass drum into the kit, which probably comes from the function of the bass drum in parade drumming. Idris Muhammad has described his concept as deriving from standing between the bass drummers in the marching bands in New Orleans.

LEWIS: Right. Idris is another drummer who, when you hear him play, you feel the weight of the beat. I remember the first time I heard him play, I could feel his ride cymbal in my chest. It’s that kind of weightiness to the beat. And the groove is first and foremost with most of the drummers who are out of New Orleans, and especially in those days…and even now.

Another thing about Vernell is that Ahmad would change direction pretty quickly, and it seemed like nothing passed him by. Even though he was just basically playing time, the little subtle things that he would do are really the things that caught my ear in that trio.

TP: Art Blakey also got a low sound from the drums, a heavy sound, though never ponderous, of course. “Mosaic” is one of many classics by the Messengers, and millions of words have been uttered about Art Blakey. What are yours?

LEWIS: Well, he’s probably the first… Actually, the first time I went to the record store with my own money to buy a jazz record, it was Art Blakey. Is that true… Well, near the first time. I think I might have gotten Milestones or Round About Midnight first. But somewhere in that very beginning stage, when I first started to buy records, I bought Live at Birdland with Clifford Brown, Lou Donaldson, that group, and right away I said “Wherever this style came from, I love it and I need to buy some more of this.” So I went back to the record store and said to the salesman… You have to remember, at this time it’s all new to me. I am trying to figure out what’s going on. The guy who worked in the record store happened to be going to college with me. His name is Allen Chase…

TP: Who is a distinguished, and is currently Chairman of the Jazz Faculty at New England Conservatory.

LEWIS: That’s right. We went to school at the same time. The first time I went in there, he asked, “Do you know who Philly Joe Jones is?” and “Do you have any John Coltrane records?” I said “no.” I wasn’t really familiar. I’m in college at this time already. It’s kind of a late start. But that’s what it was…the first one I bought was Blue Trane. Philly Joe was on there, and Trane of course, Curtis Fuller, Lee Morgan, Kenny Drew. I went back and I said, “I want some more of this kind of music,” so he recommended to me with Philly Joe Milestones and Round About Midnight. Then I went back again and he said, “Ok, a different drummer; try this one, Art Blakey” – and it was those Live at Birdland sessions. It was a good thing he knew what he was talking about. The salesman can lead you astray sometimes.

For all the times I heard Art on record, I didn’t really feel the impact until I actually saw him and heard him live. It was really overwhelming to watch him and hear him and just feel what he could do with the music. One of my biggest influences of all time is Art Blakey. He could mold young musicians, could make inexperienced musicians sound experienced. He could make a boring chart sound exciting. He could just do all of that. There’s recordings of Art where he doesn’t necessarily play as hard as…you know, with all of that ferociousness that we attribute to him. There’s a Hank Mobley record called Soul Station that’s Art Blakey, Wynton Kelly, Paul Chambers and Hank, and Art plays some really subtle things on there. He just grooves, stays down pretty…

TP: He was a real link as well to what you described as the premodern sound of drums. He kept the primal essence of a big band drummer like Chick Webb with the modern phrasing and vocabulary.

LEWIS: Right.

TP: Can you speak a bit to the utility to a contemporary drummer of the pre-war styles of drumming. You were distinguishing before between one as more rudimentary oriented and the other being more complex and linear. For example, when listening to Sid Catlett, Baby Dodds, Chick Webb, Jimmy Crawford, other top drummers of the period, what do you take from it and how does it filter into what you do?

LEWIS: Let me think. Those drummers played for dancers a lot, probably most of the time. They knew how to make someone just leap out of their seat onto the dance floor, because the groove and the feeling and the propulsion was just so…

TP: Chorus lines, too.

LEWIS: Exactly. I guess if there’s anything I would get from them aside from the great beat that they had, it was just the ability to make music feel a certain way so that people would want to dance or clap their hands or shout or whatever. In a certain sense, we’ve gotten so involved in ourselves in terms of our chops and how creative we’re being and all of this, and we forget to make people feel something. That doesn’t mean that we have to simplify everything. We can still be complex and still be creative and all that. But around the world, people still love to dance. I don’t think that’s ever going to stop.

TP: Sometimes they’re dancing to drum machines.

LEWIS: Well, that’s too bad.

TP: But the drum machine will never replace a jazz drummer.

LEWIS: It sure won’t replace Art Blakey; that’s for sure.

TP: The next two tracks feature the rhythm section of Mulgrew Miller, Christian McBride and Lewis Nash, who function like a well-oiled machine as the cliche goes. First is from Hand In Hand, Mulgrew’s 1993 recording for Novus – “Leilani’s Leap” with Kenny Garrett on alto saxophone; and Steve Nelson on vibraphone.

[MUSIC: Mulgrew, “Leilani’s Leap”; Lovano-Mulgrew-McBride-Nash, “Little Willie Leaps”; Eddie Henderson, “Dark Shadows”; JALC with Lewis, “Things To Come”]]

TP: “Dark Shadows” featured the double drums of Lewis on left channel and Billy Hart in the right, with Eddie Henderson on trumpet, Kevin Hays and Ed Howard…

Let’s talk about playing lucidly at the tempo on “Little Willie Leaps.” One thing about the 1940s and bebop is that tempos like that have not been played before or even since. Once Roy Haynes was up here with his son Graham, and I asked Graham if he had a question, and he asked, “How did you play those tempos?” So that’s the question. Playing something logically, lucidly, organized, like that.

LEWIS: Well, I don’t know if there’s one secret; there’s probably a couple. I played tempos that fast when I first came to New York and played with Betty Carter. So I got a jump start, so to speak, on those. Betty would take things at breakneck tempos like that, and then all of a sudden she’d be at a ballad so slow, as Kenny Washington likes to say, you could go out for a cup of coffee in between beats. She had all the extremes. So I had a lot of practice playing at those tempos. Also, another person who likes to play those kind of breakneck tempos is George Coleman. You have to not take it so seriously. I find that if I smile…just take your mind off the fact that it’s moving along that quickly. I know a lot of people are probably saying, “Yeah, sure.” But it really involves trying to relax the rest of your body. Not so much your hand and your arm that are playing the tempo, but the rest of you. Not letting your shoulders tense up. Breathe. Don’t hold your breath.

TP: Is that the case for all tempos? To what extent now are you counting or actually thinking specifically about the rudiments of what you’re doing?

LEWIS: You start to feel the tempos. Max used to play tempos like that, and even faster, and Sonny Rollins. In those days I guess it was something everybody did. Not many people do it these days. But you don’t really count. You have to feel where the pulsation is. At those tempos you can’t be counting 1-2-3-4-1-2-3-4. It’s like you feel certain parts of the pulse, and you keep the momentum going, and you keep a certain cycle of pulse going, I guess would be a way of saying it. Remember the forward momentum I was talking about with Kenny Clarke? The same thing. At this tempo, you have to keep the momentum moving forward. With those hits that were going on in that “Things To Come” that we heard, the horn players all had to have great time in order to execute like that – and they did. That’s another thing. Everyone has to have great time, not just the drummer.

TP: The drummer helps, though.

LEWIS: Definitely.

TP: The track featuring you and Billy Hart together shows some of the delights and difficulties of jazz in the studio. You’d be hard-pressed to think of two more imaginative drummers than Lewis and Billy Hart, with contrasting styles, but across a wide range. You went in the studio and were presented with the music and had to figure out what to do on the spot.

LEWIS: Right.

TP: So in that situation, you didn’t have an opportunity to work with the music for a few days and get something going.

LEWIS: That happens quite often in the studio. Even if you have a rehearsal a couple of days before, if it’s not a working group… All of us who play could give examples of how a piece of music has evolved over a period of a tour for several weeks or even several months of playing music, from where it was when you first got the piece of music. So oftentimes, a studio version of music hasn’t evolved to the place where it’s going to be. Miles Davis’ group in the 60s with Ron Carter and Herbie and Tony and Wayne is a perfect example of how the music could evolve through playing live. If you listen to some of the things at the Plugged Nickel sessions, that music that they played and played on subsequent nights; after they’d played it a certain way, the next night they’d add something else, take something else away. That’s across the board with all groups and all pieces of music.

TP: Yet, being a contemporary in our day and age, with the marketplace being what it is for recordings and the type of travel you have to do, you’re faced with that situation a lot — going into a studio and being presented with music to play. How do you stay fresh and creative in a situation like that?

LEWIS: You have to be daring. And to be daring in the studio is really a trip, because oftentimes, in order to make something work, you have to play much more simply than you might have thought after… You play something, and you go in the booth and listen to the playback, and you say, “Hmm, I’m playing too busily here” or “I’m playing too much in there; I should leave more space.” So it’s an editing process that goes on. But even doing that, we don’t want to make the music boring and too much the same. So you have to carry with you a spirit of daring, to try things, because that’s what we’re supposed to be doing. The sound of surprise, and this creative thing that we’re supposed to be carrying on is to do something that hasn’t been done quite that way. Maybe not everything, but something out of a piece of music has to…

TP: Having internalized hundreds of thousands of different sticking and timbral combinations, you come up with variants just by dint of having played so often.

LEWIS: Right. I think one thing that helps in the studio is the level of the musicians involved, and the comfort level they have with each other also allows… Even if it’s the first time and they haven’t played the music on the road, it allows for a lot more freedom and creativity because the trust factor is there.

TP: Speaking of a live band, a superior recent document of same are the two Joe Lovano Quartet recordings, both taken late during a week at the Vanguard. On “Little Willie Leaps’ you did some rather extended exchanges with Joe, and you were mentioning that people don’t necessarily realize the demands that are placed on a rhythm section. You once related to me a story from the days you were playing with Sonny Rollins, that someone timed you playing about 40 minutes of exchanges with him at some point.

LEWIS: We played fours at least 30-35 minutes; someone timed it close to 40. It’s the first time I’d ever done that, and especially on that level with somebody like Sonny. I would think to myself every time we’d get to a four…we were exchanging fours, and after a while, after maybe 10 minutes, 15 minutes, I felt like I couldn’t come up anything…I wasn’t thinking of anything new to play — and just when that thought would come to my mind, Sonny would play something rhythmically that would lead me to something else to play. So the guys out front can definitely be a big inspiration to us in playing the drums.

TP: Lewis could not let a Musician Show without presenting music by Arthur Taylor and Elvin Jones, both with John Coltrane, who could take 40-minute solos himself in the band with Elvin.

LEWIS: I really miss A.T., and I’m sure the whole jazz community does. I feel fortunate I had a chance to listen to him many, many times live. The last time that I recall here in New York, I actually was on my way somewhere else and I had to get there, and I stopped in for one set and I ended up staying all night and I never got to the place I was going because he was playing so great. One of the greats of all time.

[MUSIC: John Coltrane-Flanagan-Chambers-AT, “Countdown”; Coltrane 4-Elvin, “Liberia”]

LEWIS: Those rolling triplets. Elvin is one of my favorites of all time. The feeling is just like a drum ensemble in complete agreement with each other. I don’t have words to describe it. It’s just a great feeling listening to Elvin play. You have to pay attention. You’ll get lost listening to Elvin if you’re trying to count and everything, because sometimes you can’t count. You just have to feel where his pulse is coming from. I’ve seen horn players start looking at each other, like, “Where are we?” Because it’s complex, but it’s really simple at the same time in a certain sense. By “simple” I mean direct. Not uncomplicated, but direct. Elvin states the beat. Tommy Flanagan talks to me a lot…well, he doesn’t talk to me a lot, but I’ve asked him, and he told me how he likes playing with Elvin. There’s a certain feeling he… It’s one of those things again; here we go again. It’s hard to really say why. It’s just a certain feeling that he gives that probably allows Tommy or whoever it is who likes playing with Elvin to be more themselves.

I think that’s probably part of the art of accompaniment, or the reason why people like to play with you. Not so much that they like what you play (I’m sure that is a big part of it), but you playing with them allows them to play the way they like to play.

TP: It’s as though your individual stamp creates a dynamic space or aura that gives whatever is going on its particular vibration.

LEWIS: For sure.

Unfortunately, we didn’t get to play things by all my favorites. I’m influenced by so many people, including my peers, who of course we can’t get to. But Frankie Dunlap, Frank Butler, Billy Higgins, Ben Riley, Charlie Persip, Connie Kay, Mickey Roker, Tony Williams, and names I haven’t called who I’m sure play a big part in my whole outlook on this thing. I’d like to thank all of them.

TP: We’ll conclude with a duo by Lewis and Kevin Mahogany, emulating the drums with his voice, on “Confirmation” on Double Rainbow.

[MUSIC: Lewis-Kevin Mahogany, “Confirmation”]

[END OF CONVERSATION]

An Uncut Blindfold Test With Andrew Cyrille from The End Of The ’90s

I don’t recall exactly when master drummer Andrew Cyrille joined me to do a DownBeat Blindfold Test—maybe 1998 or 1999. In any event, his responses were incisive, on-point, and thought-provoking. Here’s the uncut transcript of the proceedings.

* * *

1.  Steve Coleman & Council of Balance, “Day One,”  Genesis, RCA, 1997. “Day One” (1997), with Miguel “Anga” Diaz and George Lewis. (four stars)

The thing that struck me the most were the lush harmonies.  It sounded like some kind of electric piano using some kind of synthesized accordion-sounding timbres sometimes.  The piece reminds me in some ways of Stanley Cowell’s Piano Choir, Handscapes; I know it’s not that, but it kind of reminded me of that.  It’s hard to tell who the drummer is because he or she is playing so much within the context of the accompaniment to the arrangement, and with all those polytonalities which dominate it’s kind of hard to hear anything that would identify him distinctly.  There is good interplay with the horns; it’s really good.  I’m going to take a guess.  It sounds like it could be something that Andrew Hill has done.  I’ve never heard this piece, but it kind of sounds like him.  I was trying to figure it out.  I said, “Gee, I’ve heard that sound before,” the way the piano player is playing — and as I listen to it more, it kind of does sound like Andrew.  So I’ll take a guess.  Could it be Billy Drummond on drums. [“There’s a large percussion choir and a trapset drummer.”] That’s kind of what I thought, too.  But see, sometimes… Well, it didn’t sound like it there, but you can also do percussion nowadays with synthesizers, but perhaps not on this.  It sounds a little too organic; I agree with you.  It sounds like they’ve been playing in 6/8 for a good portion of the time.  I’d give it four stars.  I can’t tell you exactly who the drummer is. [That’s a Steve Coleman thing for a 30-piece big band with Cuban drummers; the drummer is Sean Rickman and the pianist is Andy Milne.] I thought of Steve Coleman also.

2.  Milford Graves, “Ultimate High Priest”, Real Deal, DIW, 1991. (Graves, solo percussion)

[IMMEDIATELY] That’s my man.  That’s Milford.  The recording is very good.  You can tell the sound of his various pitch…the sliding of tonality that Milford gets from the way he tunes the drums and the way he strikes them with the sticks, etc.  It’s almost like a rubber sound.  A lot of it comes out of the sound of the tabla also, which he hears a lot of what he does coming out of that.  Fantastic polyrhythms, energy, creativity, clarity.  Good chops.  Yeah, only Milford does this kind of thing like that.  I don’t think you can find an original like him.  Five stars.

3.  Billy Higgins, “Shoulders”,  Mosaic, Music Masters, 1990.
Rashied Ali. [No.] This is a person to me who if it’s not Max Roach, has been listening to Max Roach.  It sounds like some of the constructs Max would play.  He’s playing very good antiphonal phrasings, got a good control over dynamics, techniques.  Knows what he wants to play.  Strong.  Good use of space.  Could be Billy Higgins. [You got it.] Four-and-a-half stars.

4.  Tommy Flanagan Trio, “Verdandi,”  Sea Changes, Evidence, 1996. (Flanagan, piano, composer; Lewis Nash, drums; Peter Washington, bass.

I’ll take a guess on that one, and I think that might be Lewis Nash playing drums, with Tommy Flanagan, and maybe Peter Washington on bass.  Lewis is dotting all the i’s, and strong.  He’s up on the one!  He’s doing what he’s supposed to do in relationship to that music, and you know where he is all the time.  And of course, he’s coming up with some great inventions in the traditional style of jazz.  I would say all of the great brush players like Kenny Clarke and Ed Thigpen and Philly Joe would have to give kudos to that playing.  In honor and with dedication… Because I could hear it, that Lewis is working very hard on the drums to make sure that we all remember from whence we came and what’s happening on the contemporary scene, I’d have to give him five stars for that.

5. Tony Williams, “Sister Cheryl” (#1), Live In Tokyo, Blue Note, 1992. (four stars) (Williams, drums; Wallace Roney, trumpet; Bill Pierce, saxophone; Mulgrew Miller, piano; Ira Coleman, bass)

Whoever that was, it sounds like…there was something in the sound of the drums… By that I mean that he had tuned the drums a certain way, and he was playing with the tones that he tuned the drums to.  And he was playing his song from within.  It was a very spiritual-sounding solo.  Melody drums.  It was very easy listening.  It sounded very smooth.  He had very good dynamic shapes, the highs and the lows, the space.  There was not a lot of flash and technical splash.  And the playing was in 4/4, but it sounded like he was playing from a triplet matrix.  You could count something like that in a 12/8.  It was very good control. It reminded me in some ways of something Michael Carvin would do, except that Michael’s touch is a little heavier.  But it sounds like something that might come out of Michael Carvin.  Or maybe even Idris Muhammad.  It was like an Ahmad Jamal kind of piece; it reminded me of the piece “Poinciana” with Vernell Fournier playing the rhythm where he’d play on the bell of the cymbal the “and” of the count, like the one-AND-two-AND-ting-ting, and then he would play that other rhythm in the left hand off of one of the toms, like the small tom on the left side, and then of course with mallets.  It was a very good introduction to the horns.

Now, I’ll just take a guess and say it was Idris Muhammad maybe with some kind of arrangement by John Hicks on piano.  I’m not sure. [AFTER] Really.  Ooh.  I’m surprised, because Tony usually plays with a lot more rhythmical complexity.  But now that you say it, I could understand why it is Tony.  That was very good.  In this case, I think Tony wanted to reach some people in another way, not in his usual way of playing the drums.  I’d give that four stars.

6. Evan Parker-Barry Guy-Paul Lytton, “The Echoing Border Zones”, 50th Birthday Concert, Leo, 1994.

That was very interesting.  They got great phonics, and very creative saxophone playing.  It started off in such a brooding-like manner, and the players were really listening to each very closely, I can tell, coming in and out of each other in terms of who was playing what sound, and one would add or lay out… In other words, they were extrapolating very well together, editing, giving-and-taking with each other.  It reminded me of some kind of organic mass which was percolating over some kind of heat, maybe like before a volcano erupts.  It sounds like these guys have been playing with each other for a while.  I think the bass was aiming more for the kinds of harmonics that he could get out of the instrument, things that normally people wouldn’t try to get in the more traditional mainstream way, and out of his aim for harmonics that kind of projected his sense of rhythm, and consequently, melody.  In other words, it’s kind of reversed.  It would seem as though he would get the rhythm first… Well, maybe, too, that’s part of it, but then you would get your melody and then you would aim for your harmonics. But it sounded as though he was going for the harmonics out of which he got his rhythm. But one could say, too, that you can’t have any kind of motion without rhythm being first, because in a sense, that’s what rhythm is — it’s movement. 5 stars.

Now, it kind of sounds like it could be somebody like Evan Parker, and of course the bass playing could be somebody like Barry Guy, and I think the drummer’s name is Paul Lytton.  I can tell these cats have been listening to each other for a while.  It kind of comes out of that Peter Kowald direction of bass playing, but Kowald is heavier.  I was going to say, it’s that kind of European style of total improvisation.  I’d give that five stars.  Because those cats were intense, and they were dedicated, and they were thinking.  It’s very interesting, the kind of sounds that they were getting.  I liked that.

7.  Charles Moffett, w/ Kenny Garrett, Geri Allen, Charnett Moffett, “Sunbeam” , General Music Project, Evidence, 1997/1994.

That was a very interesting, like Middle-Eastern theme.  They started off with a nice three-quarter melody, and the drums came through very clear.  There’s a good strong and clear saxophone solo; the phrasing was strong.  The piano did a lot of long-metered playing against the up tempo of the drums.  Of course, you can play fast, but you can play fast in what they call long-metered or an augmented style, which means that you play it twice as slow, and in that way the sound of the drums came through.  It kind of reminded me of the drums being the clothesline on which the laundry of the other voices were being hung.

I can’t exactly tell you who the drummer was.  His solo didn’t knock me out that much.  I don’t know.  The piano playing sounded to me a little like Geri Allen.  I couldn’t tell you who the other musicians were. [Charles Moffett, Charnett and Kenny Garrett] Kenny Garrett came to mind, and I can hear the strength of the playing.  It sounds like the kind of strength that Kenny Garrett plays.  But I didn’t hear some of the familiar kind of things I’ve heard Kenny Garrett play.  Now, I haven’t listened to Kenny Garrett a great deal, but I’ve heard him some, so I have some feeling for the weight of his sound.  It came to mind, but I just didn’t say that was him.  Geri I’ve been listening to for a while, and there are some licks she plays that are identifiable — I’ve played with her on a number of occasions.  I’d give that one 3½ stars.

8.  Idris Muhammad-George Coleman, “Night and Day”, Right Now, Cannonball, 1997.

Sounds like Blackwell. [LATER] Now, whoever that drummer was with the saxophone player… Certainly most of these guys have a command of the Bebop language.  At first I said it was Blackwell because of the high tuning of the drums, and in a sense that kind of playing comes out of the Max Roach playing of songs, melody drums that remind you of what the song is, even though Max plays more patterns that he’s developed over the years and they’re weighted in certain ways.  It sounds like this guy was a little more flexible, but thinking with those kinds of constructs as far as drums playing a song.  The thing about this guy — as I listened to it more — and Blackwell, was that Blackwell’s rhythmic inflections are different.  How he assigns his rhythms, the weight… Of course, Blackwell plays a lot of different kinds of polyrhythms, especially in the solos.  This guy played polyrhythms, but they weren’t as independently coordinated or as complex as Blackwell would play the rhythms.  Of course, Blackwell invented those rhythms and he played them to a T, his way.  I mean, they were there when he wanted them, and any time he decided to issue them, they were there.  But this fellow didn’t sound like Blackwell, even though the way you think about tunes like this is more or less the same.  I mean, there’s a pattern to the tunes, so you just improvise according to what you hear and what you think on the instrument that you have.  This duet also reminded me what Philly Joe Jones and Sonny Rollins did some years ago on “Surrey With the Fringe On Top.”

I’m going to take a guess.  It could be Phil Woods and Bill Goodwin.  No?  Then I’m off on that.  But I will say that the drummer was interpreting “Night and Day with the language of the drums, and it was very clear that the tune was right on the money. [AFTER] Very good.  I’d give that four stars.  Right on.

9.  Max Roach & Anthony Braxton, “Spirit Possession” (#5), Birth & Rebirth, Black Saint, 1978.

[IMMEDIATELY] That’s Max Roach! [LATER] I think it was with Braxton.  Max’s quality has always been of the highest order.  You kind of know that it’s Max becaue of the weight of his sound and, of course, how he tunes the drums also.  Max tunes his drums high, let’s say in comparison to Art Blakey; Blackwell listened to Max a lot, and he tuned his drums high also.  Max plays a lot of stuff.  In this particular piece I heard him playing in several different meters.  The opening number, of course, sounded to me like it was in 6/4.  But the outstanding thing about it was where he was laying his bass drum and sock cymbal, where he was placing those beats, and it was almost like a 5/4 rhythm, but he just added the extra beat which made it 6.  If you listened to it again and had to take one of those beats out and have it repeated, it would be like a 5/4.  Max plays a lot of those different kinds of rhythms.  Then he went on to something that had the classic bebop drummer’s pattern of SPANGALANG, SPANGALANG; a lot of us say that is dotted 8 and 16th in the written nomenclature.  Some people would like to think of it as the quarter-note triplet with the middle triplet missing followed by the quarter note.  It’s just a matter of interpretation.  The feeling is just about the same.  I guess one could think about it in 6… Most of Max’s rhythms are very clear.  They’re distinct and they’re anchored.  How he thinks of some of those original rhythms if amazing.  There’s a definite thought process that he puts in.  I know he has to work on it.  He thinks of something, he comes up with a rhythm, and then he executes it on the drums.  And I know he has to practice that.  He has to work on it.  That’s why it comes out with such clarity and such weight.  His independent coordination has always been excellent.  He is a motif and a theme constructionist, and doing that on the drums, he usually lays down some kind of musical melodic rhythmical bed for the players — in this case Braxton, the soloist — to feed off of or play from.  Much of his thought process reminds me of traditional African drumming in terms of repetitive ostinato.  The only thing is, with him it’s that it’s being done from the African-American perspective as far as the trap set — or, as he calls it, the multi-percussion set — is concerned.  He is a consummate theme-and-variation improviser.  Braxton was playing typically Braxton, but playing off of the rhythms that Max was laying down as a foundation.  For the person that Max Roach is and my great admiration for his enduring ability and for the contribution that he has made to the jazz scene and to jazz drumming, I’d have to give him five stars plus on that one.

10.  Cecil Taylor-Tony Oxley, “Stylobate 2,” Leaf Palm Hand, FMP, 1988.

You know, I don’t even want to say the guy’s name! [LAUGHS] Because he means so much to me.  He’s part of what my life has been for many years.  Cecil Taylor, of course, on the piano.  The drummer sounded as though he was matching color textures with Cecil’s panorama of sound colors and textures and dynamics rather than playing his own contrasting rhythm as, say, a Max Roach would.  So there wasn’t very much push-and-pull there, give-and-take.  There wasn’t a lot of the polarity which sometimes causes electricity, which brings forth another kind of magic, and generates another kind of feeling also.  I think usually in improvisation a lot of the invention comes from people playing their own rhythms, motifs, themes in keeping with whatever their concept of the music is.  I can’t say there was anything wrong with the way this drummer was playing, which says that he was listening very closely to what Cecil was doing, and there was a certain kind of synthesis that was coming together, a certain kind of unison.  Sometimes unisons are good, but sometimes they don’t make for the most interesting of listening, like when you have, again, these contrasting poles.  Like, for instance, the way Coltrane and Elvin used to play with each other, which made for some fantastic magic.  Could the drummer be Tony Oxley?  For the drummer, I would say 3½-4 stars.

11.  Jeff Watts, “Wry Koln” Citizen Tain, Columbia, 1998.  W/ Branford Marsalis, Kenny Kirkland.

The way it started out was very interesting, the contrast of fast and slow themes moving to swing.  At first, because of the construct of the drummer’s rhythm, I thought maybe it could be Blackwell and Joe Lovano.  But as it moved into the piece, it’s probably somebody else.  A lot of the time it seemed the drummer was leading the rhythmical changes between the swing sections, the Latin sections and the tempo changes.  It sounded as though the drummer is a studied and educated musician in both the traditional and contemporary ways of drumming, with a good feel, and he has an excellent knowledge of how to augment the melodic sound of the instruments with the sound placement from the drums.  Because you can hit the instrument in so many different places to get various I would have to say drum melodies or drum pitches, drum variations.  Obviously, this person has been playing the instrument for a long time, because he knows where those sounds are and he knows where to go get them.  It’s almost like his thinking and technique in terms of knowhow to get those sounds are simultaneous.  So that takes some time being with the instrument to know how to do that, and to really make music and not just noise… We can talk about that, too, but I’ll just leave it right there for now.  There were elements of free playing.  It was like bebop and beyond.  And to me, in a sense, the concept, though different from the kinds of rhythms, melodies and harmonies that Evan Parker, Barry Guy and Paul Lytton played, the interplay kind of reminded me of them — though this music was not avant garde in that sense.  It sounded like these guys had been playing together for a while, too.  I don’t know if they had been playing together as long as Parker, Lytton and Guy have been together.  I say that because maybe the level of improvisatory interaction among the players could have been — I don’t know — a little more intimate.  But sometimes, when certain things are being played in a certain way, there’s not a whole lot you can do that’s outside the parameters of the given.  I’Which doesn’t take away from the excellence of what they were doing, because I think they knew what they were doing and they knew what they wanted to do, and they pulled it off.

I’ll take a guess.  It could be Jeff Watts with Branford Marsalis or maybe with Joe Lovano, or maybe it could be Billy Hart with Joe Lovano. [AFTER] For the acknowledgements of these fine gentlemen of jazz, who are carrying the information forward, I’d say four stars.

12. Kenny Barron-Roy Haynes, “Madman”, Wanton Spirit, Verve, 1994.

Here the piano was the lead voice in terms of the direction and description of the music, and the drummer was playing what he heard in relationship to that.  In this case, in some ways, the piano sounded like it had a McCoy Tyner perspective, with the left hand playing that heavy bass-like accompaniment and the right hand playing the melodic lead.  Sometimes I heard the left hand and the right hand being played in unison.  I don’t know the name of the drummer with McCoy.  I haven’t heard them for a while.  But they have quite an integration together with the sound.  I’ll take a guess.  Was that Horace Tapscott and Billy Hart? [AFTER] I was way off on that one.  I could hear that now.  I’d give that 3½ stars.

13. James Emery, Gerry Hemingway-Kevin Norton-Mark Feldman “Standing On A Whale Fishing For Minnows” (#7), Spectral Domains, Enja, 1998

That sounded as though it had an Asian flavored melodic theme.  But as the piece moved forward, it lost that flavor to some degree.  In this case, I thought the drummer played the music very intelligently.  It was an extended form, and I thnk there had to be a lot of reading done in many parts of the arrangement.  I think as the piece went from section to section, the drummer gave very good support and he played on parts of the instrument that made the sound that was on top come out very clearly.  In other words, there was no obfuscation in terms of what he was playing with his accompaniment.  I thought, too, that it was very good writing biy the composer.  It sounded like it could have been almost a through-composed piece.  But it did sound, too, like there was a lot of improvisation interspersed, so it wasn’t a through-composed piece, but there was a lot of composition that you had to have your head on and your eyes clear in order to know what was happening.  I’m sure they rehearsed this a number of times, and it came off very-very well.

The composer could be Henry Threadgill, that ensemble, with maybe Reggie Nicholson or Pheeroan akLaff or J.T. Lewis.  Or maybe, it could be somebody like Dave Holland.  No?  Well, I thought of Muhal, but it didn’t have any piano. [AFTER] Very good.  See, I’m not familiar with too much of their work.  But for the work and the effort and the music put forth, five stars.

14. Lovano-Holland-Elvin Jones, “Cymbalism” (#6), Trio Fascination, Blue Note, 1998. (3 stars)

The saxophone player sounded like somebody who came out of the Sonny Rollins tradition.  I’ll take a guess.  It was Joe Lovano.  This recording reminded me somewhat of the dates that Rollins did with Oscar Pettiford and Max Roach.  The bass player sounded like…it could have come out of the walking bass lines of somebody like Mark Dresser or Mark Helias.  I don’t think it was Mark Dresser; the way he plays his pizzicatos is a little heavier.  Helias is not as percussive-sounding, let’s say, as Dresser is, but they kind of think similarly of that approach to walking bass in free playing.  This is what I guess you’d call freebop.  It could be somebody like Dave Holland, too.  I’m not sure.  As far as the drummer is concerned, I had a feeling that it could have been Jack de Johnette, but Jack plays fuller than that, playing more around the drums and getting different kinds of rhythms and shapes out of the drum set, with the bass drum accentuating beats in different places.  As I continued to listen, I really couldn’t tell who the drummer was because he sounded rather generic.  There was no solo for me to say, “Okay, this was so-and-so who I’ve heard before.”  I can’t tell you who that was.  What I could say, though, on a positive note is that the drummer played his role well.  He didn’t take anything away from the music.  But I don’t feel he added a lot to the music either to give it, in a sense, that other polarity I was talking about, to make you want to listen how both people were dialoguing with each other or how the group was dialoguing with each other.  Three stars. [AFTER]

15. David Murray/Sunny Murray, “A Sanctuary Within, Parts 1 & 2”, A Sanctuary Within, Black Saint, 1991.

David Murray is the saxophonist, which is obvious from the characteristics.  I’ll take a guess in this case, and say who the drummer is.  In this particular piece moreso than the duet in the first part, I think I can identify the drummer because of the way he accompanies and how he places the beats, assigns his rhythms, and of course, how he plays to a large degree ametrically, even though the pulse is kind of there.  Sometimes you find the meter, and by that I mean count.  I’d like to say that was Sunny Murray. [Why was it harder on the duo?] Because it seems as though Sunny usually accompanies more space, and his sound variety is wider.  His highs and lows are more definitive.  And to me, it sounded as though playing in that context, he plays with more space, as I heard him.  What was very interesting, too, is that the way the piece started out sounded as though it came out of a rhythmical shuffle, or shuffle rhythm, out of which the drummer got his perspective to play freely.  So in that sense, one could say there was a certain kind of meter.  But more so than that, because meter to me simply infers that you have a certain number of counts per bar.  You count to 5 or you count to 3 or you count to 12 or you count to 12 or you count to 16 or you count to 2 — etcetera.  There’s always an upbeat and a downbeat, and however long the phrase is with that kind of concept of playing in terms of meter, as far as composition is concerned… But in this case I got the information of the shuffle, but it wasn’t any particular placement as far as the number of counts were concerned.  I’d have to say it was more of a rhythmical thrust, which had a beginning, it had its conclusion when Sunny decided that he wanted to stop or he wanted to start again.  Of course, there was the attack, which is like the one.  But there was also a resolution which came where he decided he was going to stop it and do something else.  Then eventually out of that I heard the feeling of the shuffle, of his free playing.  But I couldn’t really tell you that was Sunny from the duet part.  But as far as the ensemble accompaniment, it was definitely his characteristics.

[David Murray obviously is the saxophonist.  I think the drummer is Sunny Murray because how he places the beats and assigns his rhythms — and of course, how he plays to a large degree ametrically, even though the pulse is there.  I couldn’t really identify Sunny from the duet in the first part, but with the ensemble in the second half he played with more space, with a wider sound variety, more definitive highs and lows — definitely his characteristics.]

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I would have to say the music that you offered me was challenging.  It was a variety.  Most of these compositions I never heard before, but I’ve heard almost all the players… I know Formanek a little bit and I know Hemingway quite a bit.  Even though I know Gerry in another way also, as far as the kind of sounds he gets from his drums.  Because he tunes his drums a little differently also, and a lot of the music that he composes, or that I’ve heard him compose in the past comes out of the sounds that he gets on the drums and how he integrates that with the sounds he wants from the instruments.

Also, I didn’t realize that there were as many duet recordings in existence as you offered here.  Really!  Of course, a lot of them were in context of larger ensembles, but still there were a number which, if you didn’t edit, sounded as though they were just duets with a rhythmical voice, the drums, and the melodic (and perhaps harmonic, if you want to use the piano) voice of the horns.  I didnt hear was trumpet-and-drum duets or maybe even flute-and-drum duets, or a lot of string duets.  Well, there aren’t too many recordings with drummers and bass players and drummers and violins playing together… You covered the broad palette of perspective of the music, with the tradition coming out of Swing, Bop, Neo-Bop to the combination of the “Avant Garde” unto itself.

A Drummers Memorial Roundtable on Billy Higgins on WKCR, May 7, 2001

For this writer, any gig that included drum master Billy Higgins was a must-see. I can’t think of another musician who consistently embodied the principle of playing with an in-the-moment, creative attitude while always attending to the function at hand. Although Higgins joined me on several occasions at WKCR, we never did an in-depth interview, so I can’t post a face-to-face conversation, But four days after his death, I had an opportunity to host a memorial broadcast at which a cohort of his peers and acolytes — Ralph Peterson, Jeff Watts, Leroy Williams, Andrew Cyrille, Lewis Nash — came to the studio to talk about the master, their remarks juxtaposed to taped interviews with Billy Hart, Louis Hayes, and Winard Harper. I incorporated some of their remarks in an obituary that ran in DownBeat.

In recognition of Higgins’ 75th birthday, I’ve posted that obit below, followed by the uncut transcript of the conversation.

“Seeking Light Through Sound”:

Billy Higgins, whose consistent brilliance at the trapset and unfailing humanity made him one of the most beloved figures in jazz, died on May 3rd at Daniel Freeman Hospital in Inglewood, California, of complications resulting from liver and kidney failure. He was 64.

Perhaps the most recorded hardcore jazz drummer of his generation, Higgins made consequential albums with — among many others — Ornette Coleman, Don Cherry, James Clay, Paul Horn, Harold Land, Teddy Edwards, Thelonious Monk, John Coltrane, Sonny Rollins, Jackie McLean, Sonny Clark, Herbie Hancock, Donald Byrd, Cecil Taylor, Dexter Gordon, Eddie Harris, Lee Morgan, Hank Mobley, Herbie Hancock, Bobby Hutcherson, Art Farmer, Jimmy Heath, Sonny Simmons, Clifford Jordan, George Coleman, Joe Henderson, Pharaoh Sanders, Hank Jones, Pat Metheny, Joshua Redman and Charles Lloyd.  And from 1975 until not long before his death he toured and recorded extensively with the Cedar Walton Trio alongside bassists Sam Jones, Ron Carter and David Williams.

Higgins was born in the Watts section of Los Angeles in 1936. He received early master classes in rudiments and aesthetics from Johnny Kirkwood, who had played drums with Louis Jordan and Dinah Washington, and he kept those lessons in mind as he analyzed contemporary recordings of Max Roach, Kenny Clarke, Roy Haynes, Art Blakey and Philly Joe Jones. In high school in the early ’50s, he workshopped with Cherry and alto saxophonist George Newman; in 1955, they joined forces with saxophonist James Clay, a recent arrival from Texas, in a working band called the Jazz Messiahs. Clay knew Ornette Coleman from Texas, and introduced his young cohorts to him; during this time Higgins became close to Ed Blackwell, and when Blackwell returned to New Orleans in 1957, Higgins began to work with Coleman.

Higgins joined Coleman for his epochal Fall 1959 New York debut at the Five Spot, and appeared on Coleman’s seminal early recordings Something Else!, The Shape Of Jazz To Come, Change of the Century and — alongside Blackwell — Free Jazz (later he played on Science Fiction [1971] and In All Languages [1987]; he continued to perform with Coleman until the summer of 2000). He was soon one of New York’s most in-demand drummen, impressing all camps for the relentless swing, supreme taste, and creative ethos he brought to every performance. In 1960 he made the first of dozens of Blue Note sessions, stamping his distinctive feel — an organic homebrew of second-line rhythms, fly-like-the-wind swing propulsion, primal church backbeats and African talking drums — on a sampler’s feast of boogaloo classics like Hancock’s “Watermelon Man,” Morgan’s “The Sidewinder” and Harris’ “Freedom Jazz Dance.”

Andrew Cyrille described the Higgins effect during a drummer’s roundtable conducted on WKCR during a 33-hour memorial broadcast: “There was his touch, the way he tuned the drums, and his great showmanship, but what I loved most of all was Billy’s beat. It seemed able to fit any person’s style. His ride beat, regardless of the tempo, was like a clothesline, and it had all different sizes and weights. It was so elastic and relaxed from the inside, and it would give and take and expand. I can understand why so many horn players and piano players and bass players loved playing with him.

“He was a very educated drummer, who knew how to think within the contexts of the musics he would play. His polyrhythms were amazing. Higgins was a risk-taker. The element of surprise is the essence of jazz, and he was one of its great exponents.”

Higgins had cat-like reflexes, and he knew the art of dialogue. To witness him with his vonce working — smiling broadly, eyes aglimmer, dancing with the drumset, navigating the flow with perfect touch, finding the apropos tone for every beat — was a magnetic, seductive experience. As Ralph Peterson put it, “This man was in his bliss every moment that he played the drums, and that sense of enjoyment and humor came through in the way he played.”

As Lewis Nash remarked: “Often we think of greatness in music in terms of someone’s technical proficiency. But the greatness that we attribute to Billy, in addition to his mastery of the drums, comes from his warmth and enveloping spirit and spirituality.” Higgins focused incessantly on spiritual matters after 1977, when he became a Muslim; he found in Islamic tenets sufficient structure and discipline to overcome a long-standing heroin habit. He spent the remainder of his life giving back. After moving back to Los Angeles, Higgins founded the World Stage, a community center on Deegan Boulevard in Crenshaw, near Leimart Park, devoted to the study and performance of jazz. The club’s logo: “Seeking light through sound.”

–Ted Panken

Billy Higgins Memorial Broadcast (WKCR, 5-7-01) – (Ralph Peterson, Jeff Watts, Leroy Williams, Andrew Cyrille, Lewis Nash Live in the Studio; Taped interviews with Billy Hart, Lewis Hayes, and Winard Harper):

One thing we can note about Billy Higgins is the tremendous consistency of innovation and creativity and imagination and commitment with which he approached every musical situation.  I can never remember hearing him off.  Ralph Peterson, who is the first of our numerous Billy Higgins drum brethren of various generations…

PETERSON:  Disciple.  He was truly the teacher and I am still the student.  He continues to be the teacher through the legacy he’s left.  Consistency is one of the things that amazed me about him, his ability to maintain himself regardless of the musical context he was playing in.  It was just incredible.

What was your first exposure to Billy Higgins’ music and when did you first have an opportunity to see him perform?  Because seeing him was a very special thing.

PETERSON:  Well, I first discovered Billy Higgins’ music through my educational experience at Rutgers University.  I was not a jazz baby when I got there.  So I first heard Billy Higgins on a Lee Morgan record called The Procrastinator.”  The relaxed feel; it amazed me how he could generate so much energy and forward motion, but still stay relaxed.  And then when I met him, we were at the Mount Fuji Jazz Festival.  I had seen him play a couple of times in New York, and one of my favorite stories is… I enjoyed Billy most at Bradley’s, when there was no drums in the club and Billy would pull out a pair of brushes and snatch the phone book from behind the bar, and swing the duo — now a trio — under the table with just a pair of brushes and a New York telephone book.  To possess that much musicianship and invention and brush facility, to be able to play a full night of music… Because once he started playing, no one wanted him to stop.  So it was like a master class every time yu were near him.  And he was very warm, he was very friendly, he had a very loving spirit.

Then when I saw him play the set, again I was reminded of the importance of enjoying what you do.  Because his moniker, “Smiling Billy” Higgins… I mean, this man actually truly enjoyed every moment that he played the drums.  Deepak Chopra talks about finding your bliss.  He was always in his bliss when he was playing the instrument.  And that sense of enjoyment and humor came through in the way he played.   I can remember him in Sweet Basil playing a 5- or 10-minute solo with just the found of the brush waving in the air.  You could hear…

You could hear a pin drop.

PETERSON:  You could hear a pin drop.  I wanted to use the Art Blakey saying, but this is radio, so I can’t.  You could hear a pin drop on cotton!  You know what I mean?  And it was amazing, the sound, the invention that he was generating.

An interesting story… He didn’t know me very well.  I was in Japan with OTB, and my daughter was maybe 3 months old.  And she, in her inventiveness, rolled out of the loft bed one afternoon while I was away.  Being the concerned father, without giving it much thought, I’m ready to pack my bags and go back home.  And it was Billy who reminded me how soft the bones of a child are.  He said, “Don’t worry about it.  If your lady says she’s okay, she’s okay.  She probably hit the floor and bounced.  And then we laughed, and  that was okay.  Him and Lou Rawls did  a lot to settle me down.  Because it was my first trip out.  I had met so many people at that festival, and Billy was one of the most accessible of the mindboggling superstars who were at the first couple of Mount Fuji festivals.

I miss him.  We didn’t have an ongoing communication and relationship.  But whenever I saw him, he was always concerned and pleasant with me, and I always tried to hear him when I was in New York.

Could you talk a bit about what Billy Higgins contributed to the vocabulary of the drumset?  What will he be remembered for in terms of his approach to drumming and how he helped to advance the vocabulary?

PETERSON:  He advanced the vocabulary by representing the highest examples of the combination of drive, swing and relaxation and dynamics — appropriate dynamics.

It was like he was beyond style.

PETERSON:  Well, in a sense, he had become a style.  To me, he was an icon.  He was a pillar.  I was taught you can only go as far forward as you’ve been back, and you heard him talking about meeting Buhaina and Philly Joe… When I listen to Higgins and Roy Haynes, what I hear is the marriage of the drive of Buhaina with the delicate dance of Roy Haynes, and combined and synthesized through Billy Higgins’ own experiences that made it unique.  He also played with a really deep snare drum, which I love the sound of.

And also assimilating the totality of second line rhythms through associating with Edward Blackwell and blending it into the jazz mainstream in a singular way.  Maybe that’s what helped him be Billy Higgins with Ornette Coleman and Cedar Walton and any situation he came into.

PETERSON:  Well, his flexibility.  His flexibility was testament to the depth  of his musicianship.  He could play second line, he could play the boogaloo feel, because he understood that the boogaloo feel came from second line.  And with that understanding, you can do more with the rhythm than just sit there and play backbeats.  There’s a deeper understanding about what goes on.

[MUSIC: w/Lee Morgan, “Stopstart” (1967), then a taped interview with Billy Hart follows]

You’re about four years younger than Billy Higgins, and your professional career started about a year after he came to New York with Ornette Coleman, so I’m wondering when you first recall hearing him and what  impression he made on you.

HART:  The first time I heard him was on the Ornette Coleman record.  It took me a long time to hear him in person, but I was already moved by the Ornette Coleman record.  Then after that I heard a Donald Byrd record which is the first record I ever heard Herbie Hancock on, and I’m still to this moment influenced by that record.  There were certain patterns he played that were uniquely his own.  I mean, anybody could have played it, but it’s the combination of how he put it together that made me think that he had an extraordinary mind.  Well, it was genius as far as I was concerned, like Elvin or Max.  It was something that was simple, but nobody else would have thought to do it, and it worked perfectly for that kind of musical situation, which was to become more important in the years to come, with the Coltrane band and the way we play today.

What do you mean by that kind of musical situation?

HART:  I don’t want to be too academic about it.  But there are certain kinds of chord progressions, let’s call them vamps, that are used as a bridge between musical thoughts.  That’s not like the common bridge.  In other words, a lot of times you’ll have an area, a motif or a vamp, and the common thing is to play some Latin thing over it.

So he found ways of making those sorts of progressions flow and swing.

HART:  Oh yeah, but in a totally unique way that swung, that musical significance that we refer to as swinging, which has a musical significance that causes euphoria.  Depending on how you want to relate to it, you can go into  some deep meditative thought pattern or you might just jump up and start dancing.

He could make you focus on him just because what he did was so vivid.

HART:  That’s right.  He was like any other kind of prophet.  He used words that you understood, but the message was so clear and so profound that it was awe-inspiring.

When did you finally get to see him play?

HART:  I guess after I moved to New York in 1968.  That’s when he was playing a lot with Art Farmer and Jimmy Heath, not so much with Walton in those days… Well, he was beginning to play with Walton, because Walton was in those bands.  Like, Jimmy Heath and Art Farmer together had a band, then they had one separate, then… Just those kinds of things.  And Lee Morgan.  I  moved there just as he was finishing up with Morgan.  When there was a lot of things happening in Brooklyn with Freddie and Lee…

How did hearing him play in those situations correlate with what you’d heard on records?

HART:  I heard everything that I’d heard before, and I moved more to hear it in person.  But to see his body motion and actually hear it live, you could see that the textures he used, the way he actually touched the instrument was with the grace of a great dancer, like a great tap dancer like Bojangles, or a great ballet dancer like Baryshnikov.   He just had this amazing touch on the instrument.  If he hadn’t played with any of the wisdom I mentioned before, you would still be moved just by the sound he would get out of the cymbals or the snare drum or the bass drum or the tom-tom.  His knowledge was beyond his age.  It was like he had been here before or something.  It was like if somebody lived in 3000 and came back to this time and played.  He seemed to have total knowledge of what this thing is.

And having observed in the flesh and on recordings over the subsequent three decades, in what ways did his concept and playing grow and evolve?  In a palpable way, as opposed to what happens to people as they get older and wiser.

HART:  That’s an interesting thing.  There’s guys like Miles, who you didn’t realize how far ahead he was until you realized, when he was with his third rhythm section, the one with Tony and Herbie, that he was actually playing that same way when he was with Red and Philly Joe.  You just didn’t realize how advanced it was.  And the same thing with Higgins.  I’m sure Higgins progressed, but as the rest of the world began to catch up with him, you began to realize how advanced he had always been.  I was a younger guy, so I was basically ready to jump from Max to Elvin to Tony.  But now I realize that the bridge between Elvin and Tony for me is Higgins.  There’s an understanding of what the drums do and the purpose for having the drums in the first place, for what the drums do, not only for the music but for people, just for humankind, that goes back even before the invention of the drumset… Higgins seems to have been very much aware of that.  I don’t know how subconscious it was, but in his playing he seemed to be very much aware of that, and he was a very important process in the evolution of the instrument.  I’m trying to think about how I can say it in another way.  As we move more towards a world view of music and of drumming, as we are more and more interested in the South American rhythms as an evolution from Africa through South America  to here, as we get more advanced or more progressive or whatever, we realize we are really going back and studying all those musics from before.  And Higgins’ contribution seems to be some kind of innate awareness of that in advance.

To paraphrase, you’re saying that he’s  united many different strands of rhythm, or maybe he got in some sense to the primal or universal rhythm in his playing.  And his playing did seem universally applicable to any situation.

HART:  Yeah, that’s why.

From Ornette Coleman to very straight-ahead, tradition situations. Anything that involved some swing.

HART:  Well, you call it swing, but what I’m saying is it’s a rhythmic sophistication that causes a euphoric reaction, and on a folk level that reaction can go anywhere from sensual feelings, to partying, to dancing, to actual meditation… That positive feeling can actually cause healing.  I sincerely believe that’s one of the main purposes for rhythm, if not for music period, to cause that kind of healing effect.  Higgins seemed to be very much aware of it.  The thing is so profound, that a bunch of us talk about it.  It might have been something that he inherited from his parents or his grandparents.  I think he talked about his mother and his grandmother in certain messages that he got in relationship to that kind of thing.

Could you give some personal reminiscences?  You became friends.

HART:  I would like to think so.  I certainly adored him.  But if I was his friend, then there were so many other people because he was so friendly.  I would say, “Well, Higgins, can I help you, man?  What can I do?”  He’d say, “Just your friendship is sufficient.”  Basically, he just showed me things.  He talked to me about things.  He talked to me about things about the drums and about music that if you came in late in the conversation you’d think he was talking about religious and spiritual kinds of things.  He was moving.  He was like a prophet, like Coltrane.  He actually said things that will stay with me for not only how I play the drums, but how I live my life for the rest of my life.

One thing we can imply is that there’s a griotic quality in the way Billy Higgins passed on knowledge.

HART:  He seemed to know the whole history of the function and the purpose of rhythm.  He seemed to have that in his head…or in his body.  Because I never heard anything he played that didn’t mean anything.  It seemed like everything was in perfect place, like he had already pre-composed it, although we know that it was totally extemporaneous.  It was like he could quote profound historical reasons for a positive way of living with every beat.

You also mentioned his connection to second line rhythms, and of course, he learned a great deal from Ed Blackwell when he was young and later was friends with Vernell Fournier.

HART:  I didn’t know about Vernell so much.  But he seemed to have embodied the New Orleans wisdom or knowledge or legacy without having grown up there or having been born there.  It seems as much part of him as if he’d lived there.

[BY NOW, JEFF WATTS AND LEROY WILLIAMS WERE IN THE STUDIO]

Jeff Watts, you’re about 40, came up in the ’70s and ’80s, when your jazz consciousness was formed.  When did you first become aware of Billy Higgins music via record and when did you first see him play?

WATTS:  I first began to collect jazz records around 1978 and 1979, just obvious things like Art Blakey and Philly Joe Jones and Max Roach.  By a certain point I was able to identify people like that and Roy Haynes, but every once in a while I would get fooled, because I would hear a drummer who would have a certain sound in his cymbal beat that had like a street thing in it, and it was kind of reminiscent of Art Blakey but something was different about it. [END OF SIDE] I kind of became able to identify his style just through a process of elimination, just through seeing the range of things he was able to do.  I think a lot of the things that are going to be said about him are going t be a bit redundant, as far as unique touch and his spiritual quality and the way he could conjure up things that are African and play beats that… Like many of the great jazz drummers, they would tend to put a personal stamp on things from the Caribbean and Latin America, find their own ways of playing Latin music that would in turn influence the Latin drummers.  Things like that, and the boogaloo beat he played that’s unsurpassed that I think people will be sampling twenty years from now — if they’re still doing that stuff.

But I didn’t see him much until I came to New York, and seeing him is a whole nother trip, because you see how he goes about doing his thing.  The ease and the economy of motion he had… Probably the closest thing for me to seeing someone like Papa Jo Jones, someone that I  never got to see in person — that ease with the instrument.

Whenever you’re trying to learn about this music, at least the way my mind works, I’ll try to put things together and get a combination of this and that.  But after seeing the breadth of his wisdom and his career, I’ve started to recognize someone who had a very organic relationship with life and with music.  Even though he had a lot of specific information under his hands and in his mind, at the moment when he interacted with the music it was like an environmental thing.  Whatever he was in the middle of, he would just find something really special for that music, something that you couldn’t just figure out.  A lot of is experience, but a lot of it is just having a very natural relationship with life and with people.  You’d see how he interacts and talks with people that I’m sure he never met before, but he would just be like a regular brother and very-very cool.

Leroy Williams, you came to New York in the late ’60s, after coming up in Chicago, and you and Billy Higgins moved in similar circles.  What was your first exposure to his music, and what do recall about the regard in which he was held amongst New York drummers and musicians at the time you arrived?

WILLIAMS:  I heard Billy on records when I was living in Chicago.  It had to be in the ’50s.  When I came to New York, I was introduced to Billy through Wilbur Ware, who was an old friend.  Billy was living in Brooklyn at this time.  We used to go out there and play.  Chris Anderson was staying out there at the time, and Wilbur and Billy, so we used to go out there and play, and talk about music to a smaller degree.  Billy and I never did really talk about music.  Billy had a way of just saying little things, “Did you hear that?”  “Did you get that?”  “See what I mean?” But we didn’t really go into the music, about any paradiddles, any bam-bam, drum stuff.  It was just being around Billy.  We had a nice rapport.

I remember one of the first times I met Billy we were talking about Chicago, and Wilbur was telling Billy, “Now, Leroy’s a church boy, you know.”  Billy said, “I know.  I can tell by the way he plays, he is.”  Billy said, “I am, too.”  So we always got along fine.  Most of the time me and Billy talked, it was about spiritual things.  Not so much about the drums.  We knew that.  But it was another level we used to talk.  Every time we’d talk at length,, it would be in that area.

And knowing him over the years… One point Billy Hart made and what is well known about Billy Higgins is the way in which he incorporated second line rhythms.  Did he ever talk about his assimilation of Ed Blackwell or Vernell Fournier into what he did.

WILLIAMS:  Like I said, we never did talk too much drum talk.  Billy was one of those guys who absorbed things, and he’d grab stuff out of the air like most of the great people.  Some people just can do that, and he was one..  So we never really talked about comparing drummers.

From your perspective over 30 years, did you notice an evolution in his sound?  His growth as a musician.  Billy Hart’s impression is that he almost came out fully formed in a certain way, and played with such tremendous consistency over his forty years.

WILLIAMS:  I’m sure he grew.  Everyone grows. I’m sure he grew.

PETERSON:  One of the marks of a true master, like Leroy Williams, is the ability to teach without teaching and to teach by example.  Thinking back through my relationships with other master drummers, they were also master teachers, because there was never this technical drummistic discussion about how to play the instrument.  You just kind of shut your mouth and watched them, and your questions were answered before you could even form them.

The other thing is, the notion that he arrived wholly perfect in his approach:  Well, the depth of his mastery comes in the span of time and music that he covered, and the consistency, where the music around him seemed to be changing radically, but all these musicians kept coming to him for this consistency which had to be changing with the music.  But it wasn’t anything stark or radical or abrupt.  His ability to subtly adjust and conform to a change in musical direction is not something every drummer can do.  It’s not easy.  And to do it and maintain continuity of self…

WILLIAMS:  To me, Billy played the same way.  But you grow within what you play.  But the same… I don’t care who he played with, whether it ws Ornette, Monk, Dexter — he played the same way.  The beauty in that is he was so whole and strong in his thing.  It was cool.  Like Ralph said, people just came to him because he had that good beat, swing and taste.  And that can cover all of it.  Billy had that all the time.  But he grew as a musician and he grew as a person.

WATTS:  I can’t add much to that.  We’re all saying basically the same thing.  But it sounds like he had found the keys for getting inside of music.  If there was some kind of equation, he had like a universal equation for getting inside of some music — period.  Just like they’re talking about him teaching without getting into specifics, teaching by example… One example I have of that which is profound, without getting into specifics… He was working somewhere, probably Sweet Basil… I was kind of checking out his drums a little bit after he played, and I started to touch upon the tuning of his tunes.  I wasn’t really trying to get specific.  But the thing that he said was really deep.  He said, “Well, when you tune your drums, just make them sound like a family.”  How deep is that?  You can’t get no heavier than that, especially with something like the drumset, which is all these different instruments that are put together to make one sound, and then sometimes it’s like a choir, sometimes it’s like a melodic line, sometimes you’re trying to sound like a bunch of people playing.  But just to take all these different instruments and make them sound like they go together and that they belong together, without getting into specifics, “Oh, this is a minor third” and this is like that and “I loosen the bottom head.”  Just as long as they go together.

[BH, “Mirror, Mirror”, HIGGINS-CEDAR INTERVIEW, then “Alias Buster Henry”]

[ANDREW CYRILLE and WINARD HARPER ARRIVED AT THE STUDIO]

Andrew, did you go to see Ornette Coleman during his initial engagement at the Five Spot?

CYRILLE:  No.  Actually I played at the Five Spot with Walt Dickerson and Austin Crowe and I think Eustis Guillemet opposite Ornette, but the drummer was Ed Blackwell, and I think Jimmy Garrison played bass.

But it was ’61 when Jimmy Garrison was with Ornette.

CYRILLE:  That’s right, and [Charles] Moffett was playing drums.  I think I had gone down there when he first came to New York, and the place was abuzz with musicians talking about the pros and cons of what they were hearing.  That’s when Ornette had his plastic saxophone.  I didn’t speak with him then.  I just listened to the music.  I met him personally some time after that, at Cedar Walton’s house.

When did you become aware of him as a significant tonal personality in the music?

HARPER:  That happened over the years.  When you first hear somebody, you hear them for the first time, because there was a certain magic going on with that music, and he was an integral part of what was happening.  But as I heard him over the years, I understood the breadth and depth of his musicianship.  It was just fantastic.

To me, very often, drummers keep bands together.  You can tell a great band through listening its drummers.  Great drummers make a great band sound perhaps even greater.  And he was somebody who really infused what he knew about music and about drumming into the music of Ornette Coleman.  I was impressed.  I was impressed with the whole thing, and him being a part of it.  I had never heard anything quite like that.  So just observing him and listening to him, it took me someplace else.

I’d like you to describe his stature among New York drummers in the ’60s and ’70s.

CYRILLE:  Well, since I was part of that history with Cecil and Rashied Ali and Sunny Murray and Beaver Harris and cats like that… Billy was one of us as far as the avant-garde was concerned.  He could swing, too; that was the other part of it.  That piece “Buster Henry” shows how he could play freely and just follow the sound.  You heard that in the rubato passages, and then when the signal was given, when he played those four-bar introductions and went back into the metrical melody… He was gifted in that respect.  So as far as the New York drummers were concerned, he was just one of the cats who was doing what we were doing at that time.

Both schools of the New York drummers.

CYRILLE:  Both schools.  Exactly.  I’d see Billy all over the world in different places, and he was always very respectful.  He’d come and listen to me, he liked music, etc., and he’d comment on some of the things I’d do.  I remember him sitting in on stage when I was doing a duet with Louis Moholo, the South African drummer, in England one year.  I remember another time I went over with Henry Threadgill and Fred Hopkins, and he and Cedar came into the club to listen to us play.  Very respectful.

I remember him most for something that was done not too long ago for Dennis Charles, when a group of us drummers assembled to play in tribute to Dennis, and Billy was the conductor of the choir.  We drummers don’t get an opportunity to play with each other too much; I wish there could be more of that… [END OF SIDE] …Warren Smith and Jimmy Hopps came by, and I played with the group.  He conducted the band.  We decided what we were going to do before we went up to play, and he said, “Okay, we’ll do this-this-that, when one drummer stops we’ll do another thing, when another stops, we’ll do this — you go first-second-third.”  It was very organized.  And it was just beautiful to be able to play with him, not only just listen to him.  That was  a treat.

If you were to describe to somebody the dynamics of his approach to the drums, what would you emphasize?

CYRILLE:  Probably a lot of the things that were said already, because there’s probably a common denominator among us who play drums who understand some of the things that go into the science and the art of playing.  Number one, to me, that I loved about him was his beat.  He had that beat that seemed to be able to fit any person’s style, and he would listen, of course.  To me, sometimes drumming is like a person being a tailor.  You fit somebody to the max with some clothes.  You make them look better than they are… [EVERYONE LAUGHS] You just take them someplace else.  He was just one of those kind of people.  That’s the way he played.  His touch, the way he tuned the drums.  Plus he was a great showman also.  He could get up there and do some stepping.  Not only would he attract you with the music, if you closed your eyes he was still magnetic, but if you opened your eyes, that was  something else again.

As a civilian, I can attest to numerous situations where without him doing anything overt to call attention to himself, I’d find myself watching him play time.  Just isolate on that and you could be fine for an hour!

CYRILLE:  Yeah.  His time was just about impeccable.  His independent coordination.  His ride beat, regardless of the tempo, was like a clothesline that you could hang clothes up on, and it would have all different sizes and weights. It was right there.  So I can understand why so many horn players and piano players and bass players loved playing with him.  He would just give and take and expand.  It was so elastic and so relaxed from the inside.  It was like sleeping on a mattress that was heavenly!

[BH, “Hocus Pocus” & “Molly”]

[I PLAYED A TAPED INTERVIEW WITH LOUIS HAYES]

You and Billy Higgins were practically the same age, and your careers started at about the same time.  You were in New York before him.  I’m wondering when you first became aware of him as a drummer and the impression he made upon you when you did.

HAYES:  Well, we’re about a year apart.  I first became aware of Billy Higgins when he was appearing with Ornette Coleman, and they were appearing at the original Five Spot.  I went down several times.   And Billy Higgins impressed me.  The music he was playing was something I wasn’t too familiar with at the time.  Ornette is such a unique person, and Billy was swinging right through it and with that good feeling that he had when he first came to New York with the group.  I was very impressed with him.  So we became friends, and we stayed friends from that time ever since.

What would you say was distinct about his playing vis-a-vis the general vocabulary of drumming in 1959-60?

HAYES:  I would say his ability to use the facilities that he had so well.  He had a certain sound that’s so important, a distinctive sound that was his own.  He was very creative, and he really loved to play.  You could always tell that was Billy Higgins playing drums when you listened to him in person and when you heard him on recordings.

You’re talking about his touch.

HAYES:  His touch and the way he used the facilities that he had.

How would you describe the set of influences that he incorporated into his own singular sound?

HAYES:  I don’t know who influenced him exactly.  But we had opportunities to practice together several times, when we both lived in Brooklyn.  This was in ’59-’60-’61, something like that.  Billy had his way of doing things, and we enjoyed each other’s playing a lot.  A period of time went by, and then when he was appearing with Lee Morgan and I was appearing with Freddie Hubbard, we had some battles of the band in Harlem at Count Basie that were very interesting.  A lot of people came and were aware of it; that was a lot of fun.

How would you describe the evolution of his sound as he got older?   People say he always had a wise-beyond-his-years quality, extreme maturity musically even at a very young age.

HAYES:  He did.  And to me, Billy never changed that much.  The way he sounded when I first heard him with Ornette and the way he sounded with Cedar Walton… And him and Cedar played together for many years, and David  Williams on bass.  He sounded pretty much the same.  He had so much creativity that he made everyone that was in his presence hear his drum style and what he projected.  He put smiles on everyone’s face.  When Billy was smiling, he made the audience smile and naturally the guys in the group were smiling.

I would just like to say that Billy will always be here, because of that sound he left, so he always will be appearing on records, and we never will  forget Mr. Billy Higgins.  I’m glad that I had an opportunity to know him and be his friend while he was on this side.  Like Cedar Walton said to me one time, if Billy couldn’t play, he’d rather be in another place anyway.  So I’m glad that Billy was here and we all had an opportunity to experience his personal feeling that he brought to this art form.

[RESUME LIVE WITH LEWIS NASH]

Lewis, as a younger musician, when did you first hear Billy Higgins and what was your first opportunity to see him play?  What were your impressions at the time?

NASH:  I think the first time I heard Billy on a record was on the Eddie Harris recording that had “Freedom Jazz Dance.”  [The In Sound] That was the first time I heard him to my knowledge.  After that, the first time I heard him in person was when I was working with Betty Carter and was on my first tour of Europe, and we had gone to a festival in Stockholm, Sweden.  Billy was there with some type of all-star group.  That was the first time I had a chance to meet and talk to him.  The way it happened was interesting, because I didn’t know he was there, and we had gotten to the hotel and checked in.  I walked around town a little bit, then I came  back to the hotel and I was walking  back to my room, and I was passing by this other room next door to mine, and was practicing on a practice pad.  I knew chances would be that it was someone I might know or would like to know, so I got my courage up and went in and knocked on the door, and lo and behold, Billy Higgins opens the door.  He said, “Come on in!  Come on in, young brother.”  Then I went in, and he had his practice pad and everything, and I introduced myself and told him I was working with Betty Carter.  He immediately made me feel like I was in the presence of someone I had known my whole life.  I think that’s the feeling everyone has given on this broadcast, and what I heard on the radio on my way here, is how welcoming and warm Billy was.

I’d just like to say that the greatness that we attribute to him is something which comes from the feeling he gave.  Oftentimes we think of greatness in music in terms of someone’s technical proficiency or how they play n instrument or whatever.  But with Billy, in addition to his proficiency on the instrument, it’s his warmth and enveloping spirit and spirituality which makes  people call him great.  I think that is really a wonderful tribute to him.

If you were to step back and look at him analytically, as a scholar of the drums, how would assess his contribution to drum vocabulary?

NASH:  That question has so many facets to it.  He’s definitely a link to roots for me.  I guess that’s one way of looking at it.  But at the same time, very modern, very fresh and very in the present moment.  When I think about how I personally hear Billy, or how I heard him when I first started listening to him, I would hear a ride cymbal beat that I could only describe as wide.  I know the drummers know what I mean when I say that.  And although I never got a chance to meet Kenny Clarke personally, his ride cymbal beat reminded me of Klook’s ride cymbal beat, and it had that same kind of dancing and forward momentum and all that.

He had that connection to that root, and then the way that he would play the Latin-influenced things or the boogaloos was very…the only word I can think of is organic, primal… Very rooted.  And when you are rooted, you don’t have to be afraid of trying new things, because you know you’re rooted.  I think Billy probably had that feeling, and he was able to go in so many directions because of the rootedness of his playing.

WILLIAMS:  I agree totally.  Billy had that.  And that’s what all the great people have.  Once you have the foundation, then you can do anything.  You can play anything, because everything is “okay, bring it on, bring anything on.”

In the phone interview with Billy Hart, he commented that he saw Billy Higgins as a link between Elvin Jones and Tony Williams.  What’s interesting is that there are certain people who young drummers cite as the influences on whom the building blocks of vocabulary are built — Max Roach, Art Blakey, Kenny Clarke, Roy Haynes, Tony Williams.  They all love Billy Higgins, but they might not necessarily cite him as in that list of people.  Yet his influence seems to have been just as great.  Which perhaps goes back to your comment about the feeling he projected.

NASH:  It’s hard for us to find the words for us to really describe that part.  One way I could say it is, we talk about Smiling Billy, but for me, even before I met him, in listening to records, not seeing him smile, I had the same feeling.  It’s not that the smile itself is making this happen.  It’s what he’s doing, and he is infused with the spirit of joy and everything so he has to smile.  But you feel that without knowing that he’s smiling while he’s actually doing it, or you don’t have to see him smile to feel the joy that his playing gives you.

WILLIAMS:  Well, the feeling is the most important element in the music, and Billy had that.  Not everyone has it.  A lot of drummers, piano players, bass players…everyone doesn’t have feeling in the music.  That’s what made Billy Higgins great.  Aside from all the other things, he had the right feeling.  He had beat, swing, taste, all of those things.  Those are a lot of things to have in one person.  Some might have this, that or the other, but it’s rare when you can find someone who has all those components.  And he loved to play.  He loved music.  And that’s the other ingredient.  He loved to play.

CYRILLE:  I would say he was a very educated drummer also, because he knew how to think within the contexts of the musics he would play.  He knew what to play on the drum to give the music a certain kind of shape, a certain kind of feeling, a certain kind of weight, a certain kind of lightness sometimes.  I could tell, too, from listening to him that a lot of his technique and a lot of things he played came from Max and also came from Philly Joe Jones in terms of his phrasing — and then there was Billy Higgins also.  I think Ralph Peterson spoke about Art Blakey.  All of us studied all of the masters, and sometimes you can hear direct quotes.  And sometimes I would hear quotes from Philly from people like Joe and Max, but of course they would be with how he would deliver.

I like these analogies with sports, etcetera, how a cat might use a baseball bat to get a hit.  You might use somebody else’s technique in order to hit the ball to left field or do a bunt or whatever, or you might do all of that.  So that meant he had to study and he had to experiment with that kind of stuff in order to get it down so that he could do it.  It seems to me that there was hardly anything that he couldn’t do, because he was cognizant of the instrument, the science of drumming as well as the art.

Did Billy Higgins ever talk to any of you about the impact Edward Blackwell had on him in the ’50s?

NASH:  I never had a talk with him about that.  But with what Andrew just mentioned about Billy having to study and dissect what had happened before him drumistically speaking, there is a similarity.  I remember talking to Blackwell, and he did mention, along the same lines Andrew is talking about, how he loved Max Roach.  It’s obvious.  You can hear it.  But he really made it a study and a science.  Probably, since they were both playing with Ornette during a certain time and they heard each other, they might have talked, but I can’t say if there’s anything specific that Blackwell influenced Billy to do.

Jeff, you said before that your early impression of Billy Higgins was that he brought out a certain Africanness in his feeling.  Could you extrapolate more thoughts on that quality in Billy Higgins’ playing?

WATTS:  A lot of the things  that come out in drumming are byproducts of what the music requires.  So I think a lot of the way that the drumset has been changing and maturing over the years is kind of like American drummers and drummers around the world also, but just trying to get back to various aspects of West Africa and things like that.  So when you’re trying to get a comparison between his attitude about the drums and Ed Blackwell’s thing about the drums, the parallels that they may have with regard to that specific style are demands that were created by the instrumentation and the music of Ornette Coleman, just to be able to converse on another level harmoniically from the drums, implying from rhythm harmony and direction and things that are components of African music.

There’s a wide variety of things he was able to do.  I’m just going to be redundant.  A lot of it is force of will, having the strong spirit he had.  I doon’t know how to break it down…

CYRILLE:  Keeping with what Jeff said, the polyrhythms he would play were just amazing.  Blackwell played a lot of polyrhythms also.  But Higgins was a risk-taker.  He wasn’t afraid to go after something.  So you go after it, you make it; sometimes you don’t; but you keep on trying.  To me, his creativity was in the fact that he did take these risks and he would come up with these things.  I’d go watch him play, and he’d start playing something on the rim of the drum, and breathe-in, breathe-out, etc.  He’d go for it.  Just do some stuff that you wouldn’t expect.  Just the element of surprise.  That’s really what was so great about him, and all the great drummers also.  That’s in a sense what the essence of jazz is all about — the element of surprise.  What is this guy going to do next?  And he was one of the great exponents of that.

NASH:  The beauty of it is that you know you’re witnessing something happening in the moment, that he’s not preconceiving it, he hasn’t worked it out.  He sometimes wouldn’t know where it would be going, and he’d just be going.  So you’re following him as he’s finding out where it’s going to go.  That’s exactly right on the money about that.

CYRILLE:  That’s where the fun comes in.

WATTS:  The intention is… Especially when you know him a little bit and watching him play, you know that the intention of the whole thing is very-very  pure and very-very sincere for creation and for beauty and things like that.

NASH:  I thought he had great reflexes, in responding to what was going on at the moment.  He would do just the right thing to enhance or really put something over well.  He knew exactly what to do.  It might be a cymbal crash really loud at just one spot, or it may completely drop out.  He just knew what to do.  His timing was incredible..

He always seemed to read the soloist’s mind; before they got where they were going, he’s be there.

WILLIAMS:  Billy could hear, and that’s very important in music, especially drumming but in all music — to listen.  Billy had that.  You listen before you act.  All the great people are great at that.

CYRILLE:  But in addition to that, it’s what you see in your mind as you are listening and how you fill those spaces up.  A lot of times, we as drummers fill in the spaces.  Cats play a line, then they stop for a minute, and you give them something to keep moving, give them a little push.  And those little pieces of music that he would put in, moving from one phrase to another, were also very magical and wonderful.

WILLIAMS:  Like they say, it’s not how much you play; it’s what you play.

CYRILLE:  It’s what you play.  And a lot of time cats say, “Man, I’m gonna cop that, I like that…”

WILLIAMS:  But they would play it in the wrong spot!

WATTS:  And then that touch becomes important again.  So that he would be able to hear across the band and hear what’s happening.  He was one of those special people, like a lot of the great ones, capable of getting that maximum intensity, but at a low volume or at the volume he chose so that everything he was effective.

[MUSIC: E. Harris, “Love For Sale”; “Molly”]

WATTS:  I’m going to tell a very brief version of a story.  I was at a music festival in Vancouver, Canada, and he was playing with Cedar Walton and Charlie Haden in a trio in an old theater.  I think they were playing some standard at a tempo about that fast, and Charlie Haden toook a very long solo over the standard.  Billy was just playing time with the brushes very softly behind him, for a long time, with a very big smile.  This is something that from another musician would almost come across as a gimmick, but just knowing how my man was about music… He played the brushes very-very soft, then eventually the audience took their attention away from, and  he’s sitting there with this smile, and you can hear the brushes SH-SH-SH… Eventually people started to really check him out, and after a while he wasn’t even playing.  He was sitting there smiling, making that noise through his clenched teeth.  It was like theater, and it was so hip.  It was also swinging very-very hard, too.  Just that he could project that.  And I was sitting in the balcony, in the rear of at least a 900-seat hall.  It’s just something about who he is.

But I’m very honored to pay any kind of tribute I can to him.  His music will liveon.  He was a beautiful man, a beautiful person, and I’m proud to have known him, and God rest his soul.

NASH:  There’s not much I can add, except to say that I’m also very happy to have had a chance to be around him, to talk to him, to learn from him, to sit under him while he was playing at Bradley’s, the Vanguard, Sweet Basil or wherever it might be, and to be able to take whatever I got from him and continue to grow, to use that as part of my food, so to speak, and nourishment in the music.  I will continue to pray for his development.  I believe sincerely that we continue to develop as souls once we leave this plane, and I hope that he’s reaching even newer heights, wherever he is now.

WILLIAMS:  I’m glad you called me to come on.  At the benefit they had for Billy a couple of weeks ago, I bought a t-shirt with Billy’s picture on it,  and on it they had a bag with Billy’s logo for his club in California.  I’d never seen the logo and I’d never been to the club.  But on the logo it says “Seeking light through sound.”  I thought that was Billy all the way.  “Seeking light through sound.”  So I want to leave that for Billy.

CYRILLE:  I always used to see him, and I would always say “Hug the Hig.”  I’m just so happy that I had so many opportunities to meet him and to hug him.  He was a great, great drummer, and I used to call him the Swing-Master.  That’s one of the things that I’ll always remember him for, in terms of his ability to swing.  He enhanced my life just by being the person that he was and  from the music that he gave me.  I listened and I’m still learning from some f the things he’s done.  I could perhaps try to incorporate some of those things into the music that I play.  Because it’s rich.  Jewels.  So all I have to say is, “I’m glad Billy Higgins was is here among us to give us so much, and he will always be with us.  Even after we’re gone, he’ll still be here.

[TAPED INTERVIEW WITH WINARD HARPER]

You became quite close to Billy Higgins and he was somewhat of a mentor to you.  What was your first knowledge of his playing and musicianship before that time?

HARPER:  Actually, I came into contact with Billy’s playing at an early age.  Both my brothers play trumpet, and some of the first drummers I heard were Max Roach, Art Blakey and Billy Higgins —  all that work Billy did with Lee Morgan.  So his playing was already in my head early on.

What seemed to you distinctive and special about his playing?

HARPER:  The main thing that always stuck out to me about Higgins was his spirit.  As a person, you always look for things or find things that are kind of in yourself to latch onto.  His spirit was something that struck me as the something that I also saw in myself.

That feeling came through the records, through every beat he played.

HARPER:  Right.  Well, that was the biggest thing about him.  Everybody will talk about him and assess the things he’s done, what made Higgins what he was, was his spirit.

Let’s continue with the circumstances of you meeting him and becoming friends.

HARPER:  By the time I left Atlanta and came to D.C., and started playing a lot of the jam sessions and things around town… I had never really seen him play at that point (I was 18 or 19), and a lot of the people around D.C. who I had the opportunity to work with said “Your playing reminds us of Billy Higgins.”  I said, “Oh yeah?”  I knew I’d listened to him a lot from the Lee Morgan records my brothers had.  Then finally, a few months later, he came to town and played the One Step Down, and the proprietors at the club wanted me to meet him and introduce us and tell him what they thought about me.  And at the same time, Higgins needed some drums to play.  So I got the opportunity to loan him my drums, and he played the drums there at the One Step, and that’s how we met.

Talk about the evolution of your friendship.  Was he a mentor to you?  Would he give you hands-on information?  Was it more philosophical and spiritual?

HARPER:  I think our relationship was more on the spiritual side than anything.  Like I said, that’s the biggest thing about him, was his spirit.  In meeting him, i saw some things that was similar to myself.  Then by the time I got to New York and I was working with Betty Carter, sometimes we would be on the road and we’d be in the same city, he’d be working with Cedar or somebody, and Billy would come by and pick me up and take me to prayer service.  At the time I wasn’t really interested in anything.  I was studying different things.  I had also done some studying of Islam, but I didn’t know that much about it.  And Higgins was the biggest introduction for me, because I felt like he embodied everything that would be a good example for someone.  So he’d take me to prayer service and we’d talk about it.  Maybe a couple of years later I ended up taking jihad and becoming a Muslim, and that was the biggest thing.  Then we would get together and make prayer together, the prayer service.  That was a big part of his life.

Did he relate the rhythms and phrases and vocabulary he played to tangible aspects of his spirituality, within Islam?

HARPER:  Yeah, kind of a little of everything.  Because he was the kind of person who would see things within everything he did.  A lot of his spirit in his playing also came out of his family background.  From talking with him, his mother was a very spiritual and religious person.  She told me sometimes they would have gatherings at the house, and she played something as well.  So that rhythm, too, was something he grew up with and it came out in his playing.

Can you talk more about the way your relationship evolved over those years?

HARPER:  As I said, when I was on the road, he’d come get me, him, Carl Burnett, whoever else we’d be hanging out with… We’d be hanging out and we’d all end up going to prayer service.  Then I guess out of my interest in the spiritual things we just kept at it.  We got to the point  where he would come over and have dinner with my family, play with my kids, talk to my family about Islam, and we stayed close from that.  Then we’d get together sometimes and play the drums and trade ideas.  He’d show me stuff and say, “I thought about this, I’m thinking about this.”  It just evolved.  We became good friends t the point where whenever I got to L.A., as soon as I got off the plane, that was usually my first move, was to call Higgins and go over to his place that they have over in Leimart Park, World Stage.  That place over there, if nobody has ever been, that’s a nice community.  I wish we had a Leimart Park everywhere.  It’s a place that when they first took me over, when you rolled up the street,  You could hear African drums over in the park.  There would be some brothers playing the djembe drums..  There’s like a dance troupe and African drummers.  It’s like a little plaza.  And across the street from his place was a place where they have African dance and African drummers.  It’s almost like an arts community.  And when it’s not happening over there, it’s happening over at Higgins’ place, the World Stage.  He’d have everybody in there playing some sort of instrument.  Drums… I went by one night, man, and kids were in there, their parents, their grandparents, and everybody was playing something, and taking turns and just having a ball.  It was a very community kind of thing which would take you back to the African roots, and made you think about the villages and everybody participating and everybody being there dancing and singing and playing.

So he had a very functional approach to music.

HARPER:  Right.

Did he ever talk to you about his influences, the people who inspired him and whose vocabulary he built on?

HARPER:  A little bit.  Out of questions that I would ask him, I knew that he had a relationship with Ed Blackwell.  Billy was around the music very early evidently.  I remember from doing some rehearsals with Dexter Gordon — and from Billy confirming it — that Dexter dated Billy’s sister at one time.  He used to be there on the porch I guess wooing Billy’s sister, when Billy was a little kid, maybe 4 or 5 years old.

So he was born into the music.

HARPER:  He was definitely always around it, from what I understand.

I thought an account of your last conversation with him might be a good way to conclude this conversation.

HARPER:  Like I said, Higgins’ spirit was just so strong.  I think that’s what really stands out about him, is that he was full of love.  Everything he did was full of love, and he made you feel comfortable.  I remember the first time he needed a transplant, I had my band out working in L.A., and I would go by the hospital everyday.  When you went into the hospital room, he almost made you feel like you were the patient.  Because you’d come in there to see him, to cheer him up, and it ends up being the other way around.  And I remember calling him up for one of the last conversations we had..  I said, “Look, is there anything I can do for you?  You need anything?”  “Best thing you can do,” he said, “is play the drums.”

[MUSIC: Cedar Walton, “Ironclad”]

Paul Motian & Steve Nelson

Not saying I’ll make it (the best laid plans and all that), but it’s my intention to go to the Village Vanguard this evening to hear the final night of  Paul Motian’s week-long MJQ homage with Steve Nelson, Craig Taborn and Thomas Morgan. I’m very curious about this gig. This collection of personalities can play it straight or deconstruct – what will they do? With no disrespect to any other vibraphonist on the scene, Steve Nelson is my favorite on the instrument amongst a cohort of equals — everything is taste, after all. Comparing him to Joe Locke or Bobby Hutcherson or Gary Burton, or Stefon Harris (wunderkind Warren Wolf is getting there, and Tyler Blanton…and let’s not get into an hierarchical name game anyway, or I might get a mallet upside my head) is an endeavor about as useful it was for Robert Friedlander and I when, during games of baseball card war in the mid ’60s, we’d fight over whether Willie Mays trumped Hank Aaron or Roberto Clemente or Frank Robinson. Steve plays with such freshness in so many contexts, and his snaky rhythmic feel  is singular. So for my first post, I’ll  paste below a piece I wrote about Steve for DownBeat in 2007 that never made it into print. Now, this is a penultimate final draft, not the FINAL-final draft, and I would have worked more on the ending. But anyway, here it is.

* * * *

“The next young cat is going to play inside, outside, jazz, classical, play the blues, be a good reader, play with everybody—a total command,” said vibraphonist Steve Nelson last October, reflecting on the future of his instrument. “It might be a she, I don’t know. But somebody is going to take the vibraphone to a different level.”

More than a few distinguished members of Nelson’s peer group opine that although Nelson, 53, is neither a serial poll-winner nor a frequent leader of sessions, he himself is the most completely realized and original performer on the vibraphone and marimba to emerge in the wake of ’50s and ’60s pioneers like Milt Jackson, Cal Tjader, Bobby Hutcherson, Gary Burton, Walt Dickerson, and Cal Tjader. One such is Dave Holland, Nelson’s employer since 1996, with whom Nelson was preparing to embark to Asia and Australia for two weeks of gigs.

“I’ve always looked for players who are very deeply rooted in the tradition, who can move the tradition into new, contemporary areas, and Steve is one of those people,” Holland said. “The reason I use a vibraphone in my quintet and big band is because he exists. He’s an original thinker who comes to conclusions one wouldn’t expect, and he’s used our compositions as a vehicle to break new ground for the instrument.”

Upon his return, Nelson would enter Dizzy’s Club Coca-Cola for a week with Wingspan, pianist Mulgrew Miller’s sextet, adding another chapter to a two-decade tenure with the band. Asked to describe Nelson’s qualities, Miller was effusive. “Steve has no limitations,” he remarked. “I can write just about anything, and he’ll make it sound beautiful. He’s definitely a swinger, but even more important is his creative fire. Like Kenny Garrett, he was already an individualist early on; they played like they were old souls already.”

Joining A-team bass-drum tandem Peter Washington and Lewis Nash, Miller plays piano on Sound-Effects [High Note], an inexorably propulsive, blues-tinged eight-tune recital that is Nelson’s first leader date since 1999. The repertoire, recorded over the course of an evening and realized mostly as first takes, includes three Nelson originals and five jazz standards, including “Night Mist Blues,” by Ahmad Jamal,” “Up Jumped Spring,” by Freddie Hubbard, and “Arioso” by the late James Williams, another frequent Nelson partner and employer throughout the ’80s and ’90s. Others who recruited Nelson for record dates or retained him for consequential tours of duty during those years include Kirk Lightsey, George Shearing, Kenny Barron, Donald Brown, Geoff Keezer, David “Fathead” Newman, and Nash.

“It was happening from the first beat,” Nash recalled of the session, which could stand as a contemporary paradigm of 21st century hardcore jazz aesthetics. “It expresses how Steve felt right then. He could easily make a record of very adventurous, modern things which are pushing the envelope in various ways, but a musician like him doesn’t feel he HAS to do that. He can go into the studio and play how he wants to play.”

“It’s a matter of the highest difficulty to play those tempos and get that kind of flow and phrasing and interplay and sound, to make the vibraphone breathe and sustain that good, swinging groove,” Nelson said in response to a comment that perhaps, given the opportunity to conduct a few pre-studio rehearsals, he might have recorded the “adventurous, modern things” to which Nash referred. “It’s not as basic as some might think. Milt Jackson did it very well, but very few people have done it, including myself. I’m trying to get to it.”|

Nelson’s protests to the contrary, his colleagues are emphatic that the 53-year-old vibraphonist-marimbist has “it” in abundance. “Steve is one of the great improvisers I’ve played with in the sense of taking chances and breaking new ground,” Holland stated over the phone from Japan. “I’ve played with him night after night, year after year, and he never fails to surprise me. Last night, for example, he did something I’ve never heard him do before, which was to use a very fast tremolo and play the voicings percussively around the rhythms that [drummer] Nate Smith was playing, which created an amazing effect. He finds so many different ways to create tonal textures with mallet combinations—we all turn our heads sideways to see the voicings he’s playing, because we can feel them. He has roots in the blues which always seem to come through somewhere, no matter what we’re playing, and he grasps all the great traditions of accompaniment through having played with so many of the great piano players.”

“I almost put him in another category than other musicians I play with,” said Chris Potter, Nelson’s bandmate with Dave Holland since 1997. “I don’t know where he channels from, or how he conceptualizes all this stuff, but I’ve played countless gigs with Steve, and I never know what he’s going to play. He’ll go along normally, then turn completely left. Or not. You just don’t know. It’s true improvisation, reacting to some inner dictates that he has access to.”

“He’s a wonderfully economical player who can say a lot with very little,” said Smith. “He’s a very abstract thinker in his comping, his rhythmic responses to odd meters, but it all makes sense, and he paints beautiful pictures with the soft and beautiful tunes he brings to the band. They say still waters run deep, and he’s the perfect example of that saying.”

The still waters metaphor also applies to Nelson’s gestural vocabulary—he coils over the keyboard, jabbing and weaving with an economy of moves to create asynchronous punctuations that bring to mind Thelonious Monk’s pouncing comp, or Muhammad’s Ali’s motto, “float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.” “The only thing that touches the vibraphone when you’re playing is one little piece of your foot, so you use all the wide space around you,” Nelson explained.

Nelson brings to bear a full complement of rhythmic acumen on Stompin’ at the Savoy and It Don’t Mean A Thing [M&I], both inventive Nash-led trio dates for the Japanese market on which Peter Washington plays bass. “Steve understands that the vibes are melodic as well as percussive,” Nash remarks. “He builds ideas not only harmonically or linearly, but through dynamics—he knows when to strike the bar to make it speak in a certain way. He double-times and plays across the barline; the shapes of his lines give the illusion that you’re hearing polyrhythms, because his rhythm fits on top of the primary pulse, which creates a tension. He’s extremely knowledgeable about chord structure and harmonic theory, which allows him to be free even on the most basic harmonic structures. He makes even the most tried-and-true songs sound fresh. But when he plays in situations with different meters and uncharacteristic harmonies, or vamps and ostinatos over one harmonic framework, he makes that work, too.”

The sum result, stated Keezer, who deployed Nelson on four of his ‘90s dates, is “a completely original voice—home-made might be the word. I don’t hear him coming heavily out of Milt Jackson or Bobby Hutcherson, or any other vibraphonist, but more taking that postmodern language that Woody Shaw, Mulgrew, and Kenny Garrett use, and translating it onto the vibes. His free time sense is the quality I hear now in Herbie Hancock or Wayne Shorter, which suggests that they could play anything at any time and it would sound right. It’s hard to quantify, but it’s a mark of mastery in playing.”

[BREAK]

There are reasons why Nelson, a virtuoso musician who has made consequential contributions both to the development of speculative improvising and the tradition, is less visible to the broader jazz audience than his talent warrants. For one thing, as Nash comments, “People see with their eyes, but they don’t hear with them, and you don’t necessarily match Steve’s reticence and understated personality with this kind of musicianship. He’s not jumping up and turning somersaults and flips.”

Another reason is timing. Like Bobby Watson, Brian Lynch, Fred Hersch, Steve Coleman, Joe Locke, and David Hazeltine, all tradition-to-the-future virtuosos born in the middle to late ‘50s, Nelson cut his hardcore jazz teeth with local mentors on his home-town’s indigenous jazz scene. For Nelson, out of Pittsburgh, this occurred at the cusp of the plugged-in ‘70s, with such local heros as drummers Roger Humphries, Joe Harris, and J.C. Moses, trumpeter Tommy Turrentine, saxophonists Eric Kloss, Nathan Davis, and Kenny Fisher, guitarist Jerry Byrd, and Nelson’s direct influence, a steelworker named George A. Monroe who played vibraphone in the Milt Jackson style.

“The guys in Pittsburgh were great musicians, and I could use everything they taught me when I went to college,” Nelson recalled. “Mr. Monroe was the father of my high school buddy. I heard him play one day, and I fell in love with the sound of the vibes. He started teaching me, and thought I had some talent, so he kept on teaching me. Taught me things on piano that I could copy directly—lines and so on—and a lot of tunes. Coming up in Pittsburgh, you learned your standards, and I still enjoy playing them.”

“Steve was an amazing younger player, perhaps the brightest student I ever had,” recalled Kenny Barron, who taught Nelson at Rutgers, where he earned the nickname “absent-minded professor,” during the ‘70s. “He came to Rutgers being able to play—he knew all my tunes, and I started using him in my group.”

“We were trying to be dedicated, but it was a difficult time to maintain your focus,” Nelson recalled. “But as we moved along, we got caught in the whole Young Lions thing of the early ‘80s—we weren’t older, established guys either at the time, and we never really got a chance to expand as leaders and get our names pushed out there.”

In a certain sense, Nelson’s versatility and open attitude, his dedication to serving the dictates of the moment without concern for their “progressive” or “conservative” implication, may also work against his recognition quotient in a climate when complexity and genre coalescence are in high regard.

“It wouldn’t be that different,” Nelson said in response to an observation that, given several preparatory gigs and rehearsals, Sound-Effects might have explored some different areas. “I might write a 12-bar blues with different harmonies and extensions, but it would still be a nice, medium tempo blues. I think the most important thing you can do is to play what you love. If that happens to be ultra-modern or ragtime, or something in between, that’s great. But if it’s from your heart and it’s honest, then you’re contributing to the music. Herbie Hancock was always one of my favorite musicians, because if you put him in a blues band, or a funk band, or a straight-ahead band, he’ll play the heck out of all of them. A really good musician can contribute, no matter where they go.

“When I joined Dave, I was starting to think about the unique qualities of the vibraphone. Rather than transfer piano chords or guitar chords to the vibes, what intervals can I create? How can I space things to exploit the vibraphone as a percussive instrument? On piano, you have all 10 fingers. The shape of the vibraphone keyboard gives you different intervallic ideas; with the four mallets, you can get different ways to voice chords—I guess you could call them dissonant—that you might not otherwise think of. Those intervals allow you to use space more effectively than with other instruments. I can hit a chord, and let it ring out over the band, which leaves a lot of air for the drums, with their advanced rhythmic concept, to respond to, then the soloist puts something on top.”

Nelson added: “Although we’ve had a lot of impact on other bands playing in odd meters, to me, the real important aspect of Dave’s thing is the interplay and free flowing of ideas that his structures encourage.”

He recalled an early 2007 engagement with Kirk Lightsey at Manhattan’s Jazz Standard that provided an opportunities for conversation in notes and tones. “We played ‘Temptation,’ which contained wide-open areas between the melody for segues, and we had to listen hard,” he said. “Now, Kirk has a different tone and touch on the piano than Mulgrew Miller does, but I don’t make conscious adjustments for either of them. Now, with George Shearing, the concept was the sound of the band, rather than interplay. You’re playing at a such a soft dynamic level with the guitar and piano, that you’re inside each other’s sound—it’s like a spiritual happening. Truth is, I loved it. With any musician, if you play what you hear, it magically works. If you have the basic building blocks of musicianship together, you’ll be able to play with anybody.”

Which provoked a final question on this ideal sideman’s future plans.

“It’s becoming more important to me to be a leader, because you develop your own ideas, and want to put them out there,” he responded. “But the truth is that learning how to play that instrument is my central focus. Not many of us play vibraphone. There aren’t a lot of method books to go through. You wind up trying to play like saxophone or trumpet, or do other things that people ask, but I don’t know that we always think so much about how to create a language and a sound for the vibraphone itself. If I ever figure it out, I’ll write a book!”