With hard, soulful melodies driven by mighty gusts of sound, Clemons’ sax has become one of the most recognizable instruments in all of pop music. “That’s what I’m working for, to be a recognizable person,” he smiles as we sit down to talk between a photo session and final mixdowns of his new album, Hero. “Identity, my own signature — that’s where it’s happening.”

Thirteen years with Bruce Springsteen haven’t hurt The Big Man’s profile, a profile that may be evolving some with the release of his second 5010 record. Clemons says Hero, the majority of which was produced by Narada Michael Walden, is definitely different. “It’s more modern, a little more rock and roll, and I’m basically doing all the vocals,” he says. No doubt, Walden’s affinity for synthesizers, jangly rhythm guitars and popping bass give Clemons’ gravel voice a solid foundation and a funky lift.

On his first album, Rescue, the saxman left lead vocal chores to John Bowen, a friend from a pre-Boss band, The Vibratones. But here he’s up front all the way, with assistance from the likes of Jackson Browne (dueting on the album’s first single, the rousing “Friend Of Mine”), Darlene Love and Greg Thomas. “The world’s been waiting, The Big Man’s stepping out,” Clemons says, showing no outward signs of terror about the task. His natural voice is actually a lot like the one that comes through his horn, with the same sort of biting attack, distortion and distinction. “The more you do it the more comfortable you are with it, and I’m pretty comfortable with it now,” he says. Clemons has had vocal coaching with respected teachers in New York and Los Angeles, and he makes the most of his chance on Hero, belting out the title track and “Temptation” and emerging absolutely impressive on the ballad “Christina.”

“I enjoy my voice,” he says. “I’m not going to stop playing saxophone, but it’s a new facet opening up for me. I kind of look at the saxophone as an extension of myself. When I first started on sax l was a very aggressive kind of guy. A big guy — I played football and was very aggressive.”

Clemons played at Maryland East Shore University with running back Emerson Boozer, with the Newark Bears, and had tryouts with the Dallas Cowboys and Cleveland Browns before injuring a knee in a car accident and having to retire from the game. “I diverted all the energy into my music and my saxophone.”

The 6-foot-4—inch Clemons was living in Asbury Park, New Jersey, playing in an R&B group called Seldon’s Joyful Noise when he met Springsteen at a jam session. “I was looking for something, he was looking for something, and we were what each other was looking for,” the saxman says with a soft-but—sure voice. “And we saw this thing happening from the first night we met. We knew this would be it for us, and it has been.”

They didn’t start off with “Dancing ‘In The Dark,” though. That was a long time coming — nights driving until dawn to the next gig in an old Chevrolet -— you know the story. Clemons has had many years to add fuel to the fires of Springsteen’s “Blinded By The Light,” “Born To Run,” “Jungleland,” “Rosalita,” “New York City Serenade,” “Night,” “Tenth Avenue Freeze Out” and others. The E Street Band has long been one of the hardest working in show business, and there doesn’t seem to be a bit of spark missing from that today. To Clemons it’s a matter of pride.

“It’s true sincerity,” he says. “You give 100 percent of what you’ve got to give, and that’s what makes things work. I wish that more people would think the same way about their jobs. The world would be a much better place if everybody would take as much pride in their jobs as this band. That’s what it is, pride in what you’re doing.”

The Springsteen Born In The USA tour has been spread out over a couple years —— this one’s a marathon to say the least, but the saxman is still having a good time. “As long as it’s still fun you can do it.” Before he had a wife Christina and son Christopher, word was his hotel room partied loudest and longest. Hero’s “Temptation” is a poke at such carnality as might have befallen Clemons in earlier times. “We all go through those days,” he says.

Clemons says he is now a vegetarian, and works out with other E Street Band members and the Boss in order to‘stay in shape for the rigorous Springsteen shows. Large callouses on his hands from belting a tamborine attest to the intensity with which Clemons approaches the gig. “If this band partied like some bands do, it would be impossible to be on the road so long and do the shows we do. It’s really wonderful to be on the road with a bunch of guys who are straight and who work hard at their craft. And it pays off in the long run.”

Clemons released Rescue in 1983, featuring the Red Bank Rockers, the band he formed in 1981 when opening a nightclub in Red Bank, New Jersey. The record’s high points included “Jump Start My Heart,” “A Woman’s Got The Power,” and tunes the saxman had a hand in composing, “Money To The Rescue,” “A Man In Love” and “Heartache #99.” Despite the talents of the Red Bank Rockers and, guest appearances by The Boss, guitarist Sid McGinnis, Desmond Child and Ellen Shipley, the record slipped by without great public response. Clemons still holds fond thoughts for it, and for good reason. “When you’re doing a solo effort you start with what you know best. So I went back to my roots, the things that really turned me on,” he says. “Then I started pulling into my own music, you know. From the known into the unknown.”

Doing the Hero album meant a lot of hours working on his composing, according to Clemons. It would seem that just being around a celebrated songwriter like Springsteen might be an inspiration for a composer. “Only thing is, he writes such great songs and when you sit down and try to write a song like he does it’s disheartening sometimes — it’s kind of a bummer,” the saxophonist confides. “He’s great as a friend to tell you what you’re doing wrong and what you’re doing right,” he says of his boss. “I remember the first time I wrote songs and played them for him. He said, ’These songs are terrible.’ I was crushed, but it made me a better writer. I came back, wrote some sections, and hey, ok, now this is happening. Writing is something that, if you’re not born with it you’ve got to work at it. You’ve just got to keep  writing and writing. And Bruce is such a natural, but he’s such a critical person, which is great. He might write six songs to get one song.”

As for his sax playing, the Big Man considers his sound to be a cross between King Curtis, Boots Randolph and Junior Walker. “If you put all three together you might come up with something that sounds like me,” he says. “One of my biggest thrills is to have someone come up to me and say, ’Man, I heard a saxophone on the radio today. I didn’t know the song, I didn’t know who it was by, but I knew it was you.’ That’s a great compliment.”

Clemons’ sax can be heard on albums by Joan Armatrading; Ian Hunter and Janis Ian, but Aretha’s “Freeway Of Love,” produced like Hero by Narada Michael Walden, gave Clemons his widest exposure yet outside the Springsteen band. The tune warmed the hearts of the public, and there’s no mistaking the gutty sound of that tenor. “To play on Aretha’s song is just like the ultimate,” the sax-man says. “You’re in the presence of royalty when you’re around her. Man, she is definitely the Queen. I liked the song so much, and enjoyed working with Narada so much.

“He’s a pure soul,” Clemons says of producer Walden, who has also worked in the studio lately with Whitney Houston, Phylis Hyman and Angela Bofill. “And that’s rare to find these days, somebody as pure as he is and as intelligent in his field. He’s a fantastic producer.”

Walden’s own formidable drum talents are in force on Hero, along with organist Booker T. Jones, ex-E Streeter David Sancious and Walter Afanasieff on keyboards, bassist Randy Jackson and guitarist Corrado Rustici. They discussed doing a tour once. “That would be some band, huh? I would love to go outwith this band,” Clemons smiles. “I think the world is ready for something like that. I mean, what else could I do as a follow-up for the E Street Band? I couldn’t give them any less than that, of course.”

Besides plotting his own musical course, Clemons says he plans to buy a house in northern California and raise a herd of buffaloes. No bull — buffalo. “Narada thinks I was a buffalo in my first incarnation,” Clemons laughs. “It’s strange I have such an affinity for buffaloes, but it’s such a majestic animal, stately and calm. Not to be messed with, you know what I mean? You look at him and leave him alone. It’s an animal who looks like he’s moving at 100 miles per hour and he’s standing still. You can see the destruction he could do if he was angered or crossed.

“They were the first thing ripped off in this country, the first animals exploited,” the Big Man says softly, now the enforcer, now the Hero. “I just want to help them. Pay them back. Let them hang out, let them walk around somewhere and do what they want to do.”

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In his most recent ECM release, bassist Steve Swallow walks a somewhat perilous artistic tightrope. Home is Swallow’s music, wrapped loosely around the sparse and image-filled poems of Robert Creeley, and played by musicians well suited to the undertaking.

On the opening “Some Echoes,” saxman David Liebman lyrically floats above the methodical piano of Steve Kuhn and the equally spacious and undistinguishable synthesizer of Lyle Mays — with a resulting Eno-ish ambiance. A restrained Kuhn never quite catches up to the heat while soloing on “She was Young,” a section trom Creeley’s “The Finger.” Swallow is also heard from at the beginning of the tune. His melodic and mobile bass line on “Colors” lays a soft cushion for more of Liebman’s fine sax playing. After a brief vocal refrain from Sheila Jordan, Kuhn launches into a jovial piano solo, and drummer Rob Moses goes into orbit. Moses jabs between cymbals and snare, darts among tom-toms, and kicks the bass drum sparingly but effectively. Moses follows few rules at times like these. His soloing over the Tyner-esque chords of “In The Fall” is a rhythmic dance with a theme all its own.

Subliminal synthesist Lyle Mays fades in again at “Ice Cream,” as Swallow bounces all over his fretless bass. Jordan enters with one of her better moments on the record, singing strong and sure. “Sure, Herbert — Take a bite — The crowd milling on the bridge, the night forms in the air. So much has gone away.” At times on Home, Jordan seems unsure just how much seriousness to give the poems, understandable given the rather vague wistfullness of Creeley. His poems certainly leave the musicians a lot of room for interpretation, as each one is no longer than two or three sentences.

Swallow has assembled an exceptional band, especially for a project like this one. Kuhn, Liebman, and Moses provide fine moments, and Jordan is just “outside” enough anyway to pull off her end. The band dances through a lot of this record, and they’re never all doing quite the same step, proviing to be nearly as oblique as Creeley. Much of Home works, musically and artistically, and one doesn’t have to be an English major to enjoy it.

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Cobham staked new trails for drummers while with the Mahavishnu Orchestra in the early ’70s, leading the post-Elvin Jones/Tony Williams charges. He’s worked with a Who’s Who of jazz stars and recently guested with bassist Jack Bruce and Grateful Dead rhythm guitarist Bob Weir (Bobby and the Midnites). Cobham’s first solo record, Spectrum, was one of 1973’s best—his solo career lost focus in the late ’70s, but he’s done a couple of promising records with his Glass Menagerie band in recent years. The drummer’s Warning band includes Dean Brown (from the Menagerie) on guitar synthesizer, Sa Davis on percussion, Gerry Etkins at keyboard synthesizers, and bassist Baron Browne. “The more we play, the better it gets,” says the leader.

“The reason we call the album Warning is because it‘s so clear. The drums sound so good. They’re not up front as much as they’re present. You can decipher each drum, each sound,” he says. “It’s going along with the trend towards better-sounding records by way of compact disc digital audio.” Cobham is excited about the sound of the record as well as the music on it, all of which is penned,  incidentally, by the drummer. “The material I‘ve written has got me more imbedded in it, ‘cause I’ve had time to put things together the way id like to.” The new Cobham is melodic, high-energy, bluesy, with touches of metal, reggae, and feathery-lightness. Cobham may not be blazing any new trails on Warning, but it’s an important step for him nonetheless.

Last year‘s big disappointment for Cobham came on the Mahavishnu project with John McLaughlin, where infighting among the original members dashed any hopes of a real  Orchestra “reunion.” Nonetheless, the drummer’s playing is nothing short of spectacular on Mahavishnu. “I learned that at 41 years old I really have to start going out there and supporting myself—doing my own projects,” he says. “I have something valid to say as an artist, and I think I should take that step forward.”

– Robin Tolleson

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Acousticity is the first Grisman album to feature a full-time percussionist, and also sports a horn section on a couple of numbers. “I’ve tried to use the mandolin as a voice for playing lots of different things that I like. And I think if you do something well, people will like it,” he says, not fearing change in his music as much as inviting it.

A high school devotee to bluegrass legends like Bill Monroe, Frank Wakefield, Bob Osborne, and Jethro Burns, Grisman not only loves the instrument and the music but is an authority on the history of mandolin in classical music and folk cultures around the world. Grisman was publisher of the Mandolin World News for several years and currently contributes to Frets.

After attending New York University in the early 1960s, and shuffling around with bands like the Even Dozen Jug Band and Earth Opera, Grisman settled in San Francisco. Seeds of the Grisman Quintet were sown at a jam session at SF’s Great American Music Hall in 1974. Violinist Richard Greene, bassist Joe Carroll, mandolinist Todd Phillips, fiddle player Darol Anger, and guitarist Tony Rice joined Grisman, and were enthusiastic about theis acoustic chamber music. The progressive bluegrass that became known (from a nickname of Grisman’s) as “dawg music” seemed simple, melody-wise, but kept people cued in with unusual twists and flashy turns. “You couldn’t just walk out and start playing the material I had,” says Grisman, “like you could bluegrass music if you know that form. So it took awhile to put it together. Everybody kind of volunteered, so it was from that interest that I formed a band.”

The jazz world took notice when Stephane Grappelli and Eddie Gomez joined on for Hot Dawg in 1979, and Grappelli joined the quintet again for a live LP in 1981. “There are thousands of violinists all over the world, but I could hear one bar of Stephane Grappelli and know it’s Stephane. The guy can play such technically amazing things and still have so much heart and feeling,” Grisman says, almost reverentially.

Purists should definitely check out Grisman’s 1983 release, Mandolin Abstractions, recorded with his former mandolin student Andy Statman. The eight “spontaneous compositions” are among the most adventurous Grisman has yet recorded. “The first notes we played in the studio were caught on tape. That’s the kind of music we had played together for 10 years. We’d just sit down and start playing anything, and it always blew our minds, so we decided to try and do that in a studio.” Statman? Grisman only referes to him as “probably the most progressive mandolin player in the world.”

Grisman recently completed work on a Twilight Zone episode called “Welcome To Winfield,” putting four instruments down on the soundtrack, and is readying The New David Grisman Quintet. “I like the bluegrass element, but I like to have the jazz element,” he says of his band, which features guitarist Dimitri Vandellos, bassist Kerwin Jones, the jazz world’s George Marsh on drums, and fiddler Jim Buchanon.

RT: You’ve obviously been influenced by a lot more than just bluegrass music.

DG: Oh yeah. I used to listen to Buddy Holly and Elvis Presley and the Platters and the Five Satins when I was in high school. I like all kinds of music–rock & roll, classical, ethnic music. I used to listen to a lot of Indian music. In the 1960s I got interested in jazz, and now it’s a big influence. My son is the expert on contemporary rock. He’s in a power trio and he really likes Rush. I can kind of appreciate the rock & roll that’s gone into jazz, but the rest of it hasn’t gotten beyond Chuck Berry or the Beatles or the Rolling Stones, as far as I’m concerned. They’ve taken it as far as it can go. It’s sort of like bluegrass. There’s nothing else you can do with it, so people that are just doing the same old thing don’t impress me. In fact they depress me. I don’t think there’s any point in doing something not as well as it was done 20 years ago. I guess I’m old-fashioned but I’d rather listen to rock & roll from 20 years ago. It was more creative. It’s gotten too formula-ized.

RT: How did you first get interested in playing the mandolin?

DG: I met Ralph Rinzler, a real knowledgeable folk musician, folklorist, and mandolin player, in the early ’60s. He actually came to my high school English class to give us a demonstration of folk music, and I heard him play mandolin. Some little screw got turned[laughs], and it’s been like this ever since. He was playing in a group called the Greenbriar Boys, and he actually discovered and was the first guy to record Doc Watson. He was involved with the Friends Of Old-Time Music in New York City, and they’d put on concerts of traditional, white folk music–bluegrass. And so I met all of these people traipsing through his house in Passaic, New Jersey–the Stanley Brothers or Bill Monroe. Three of us who went to the same high school formed a group, and we used to go over and help Ralph work in his backyard, and he’d have tapes playing–like Bill Monroe shows from 1956. One day he drove me down to an outdoor country music park in Rising Sun, maryland, and that’s where I first heard Bill Monroe.

RT: Were your other friends listening to bluegrass too?

DG: These two other friends were, but … we were the odd men out. I mean, we started out with the Kingston Trio, but we quickly graduated to more traditional–the real thing, you know.

RT: The Kingstron Trio being…

DG: Well, just being more commercial. We got into real folk singers who were sitting on their back porch in Kentucky for 50 years playing the banjo. You know, the sources. People like Clarence “Tom” Ashley, Dock Boggs, and Roscoe Holcomb. I was a purist then. Ralph showed me where a lot of the stuff came from, and I found that more interesting. The real Tom Dooley is vastly different from what the Kingston Trio recorded, you know. It’s more primitive but it’s more real. I’ve got a good appreciation for roots. And then the instrumental flash of bluegrass sort of drove me crazy. I remember very clearly the first time I heard a bluegrass record. It had immediate impact–the banjo largely. It was a cut on a record called Mountain Music Bluegrass Style. It was Earl Taylor and the Stoney Mountain Boys doing Whitehouse Blues, which is real fast. It’s a folk song about the assassination of McKinley.

RT: Is it the same kind of instrumental flash you hear in jazz?

DG: Yeah, although harmonically it’s not similar. Vicious tempos, though. In bluegrass you don’t improvise as much. Most of the guys usually write a solo–compose it and play it pretty much the same every time. I guess Charlie Parker pretty much played them the same every time too, if you analyze it. You can tell it’s Charlie Parker. I don’t think there’s anything that’s really, totally improvised. You can’t be in a vacuum. You’ve played something all your life, and at this moment you’re going to impprovisee; well, it’s still going to sound like whomever it is. That means that it’s not total spontaneous creativity. It’s just the amount of freedom. But you can look at it like one man’s improvisation is another man’s composition. In other words, it’s how dramatic you want to make the differences. I think it just doesn’t matter if what you hear is good.

RT: Your new record, Acousticity, is the first to feature a drummer/percussionist throughout. How did you decide on session ace Hal Blaine?

DG: I always loved Hal Blained’s work He doesn’t play stock things. He invents things that become stock. But the way he plays them it’s on another level, because he is the creator. He made up things that people play every day. I worked on a session with him years ago, and I just thought he would be real good for it.

RT: He did some nice things with percussion when he wasn’t on drums.

DG: Yeah, he did overdub a lot with that–congas. Actually on the tune Acousticity that middle section, which is a mandolin solo with conga drums, was an afterthought. The tune was cut without that, and then we went to Europe for five weeks. During that European tour I had the idea of making a section in the middle where I would play and the audience would clap. When we got back from the tour I said, “Gee, this thing is working out so good it’s too bad we couldn’t put it on the record.” Then I saw a way of doing it, where I opened up the tape and just measured off 33 bars of a click track and inserted that, and then overdubbed over that. I was going to have handclaps, but Hal suggested the congas in there. I’ve always liked cutting tape. I do my own editing. I like to manipulate music that way rather than overdubbing a lot of times, unless it’s planned. On a lot of my albums I’ve played the rhythm mandolin and then overdubbed the solos. I like the rhythm mandolin. When I’ve had second mandolin players I’ve always wanted them to play rhythm, but I always get these hot mandolin players–all they want to do is solo and blow the boss off the stage [laughs].

RT: Rule Number One: Don’t blow the boss off the stage.

DG: I don’t mind. I worked with a second mandolin player for the first four years of my band, up until 1980 or early ’81. Mark O’Connor, the guitar player, broke his arm. Mike Marshall was the second mandolin player, so Mike just picked up the guitar and it’s been a quartet ever since. I’m planning to take a quintet out this year, but instead of a second mandolin it’ll have what I really needed all the time–a good drummer who can play quiet enough for a mandolin to be heard. I don’t need a drummer, but it’s really having a liberating effect on me.

RT: Solidifying the rhythms?

DG: Yeah. You know, George marsh and Hal Blaine are both very melodic drummers, very colorful drummers, but they don’t have to really deal with tonality. In the format that I’ve developed without drums, all the string instruments have to function as rhythm instruments at the same time they’re playing chords and notes. With a drummer it’s a rhythmic thing. It frees me up and I imagine everybody else. But I think I’ve develped an acute rhythmic proclivity from not having a drummer, so that a bad drummer would drive me nuts. And there are very few good ones, because rhythm is hard.

RT: George Marsh is something of a surprising choice on drums, because a lot of his playing in the past has been along freer lines.

DG: Right. Well, he’s developing a new style–Dawg Drums. He and Hal Blaine. My music is essentially a group music. It has a lot of soloing in it, but it’s a group sound. So it requires members to be supporting. There’s basically only one thing that’s going on that people are supposed to be listening to, whether it’s the melody or the guitar solo, whatever. In many forms of jazz it’s sort of like everybody is soloing, but I arrange my music just to bring out simple songs and melodies, rather than musical anarchy or freedom, whichever you want to call it.

RT: Listening to some of your earlier material that doesn’t have drums, sometimes I think I hear drums in there anyway.

DG: I’ve gotten a lot of rhythmic patterns from drummers, and the kinds of tunes that I’ve been writing in recent years people are used to hearing with drums. Eddie Shaughnessy played drums on one track on al album called Dawg jazz. And he told me that he tells his drum students to listen to my records to hear thythm without drums–that you don’t need drums to have that rhythm. Drummers aren’t the only musicians in the world that are supposed to have good time. It’s everybody’s responsibility, but I think a lot of groups tend to rely on the drummer. In my group they haven’t been ble to do that. I’ve had to get on peoples’ cases at time, and it’s tough. It is tough without drums.

Yeah, I give everybody a hard time, but George seems to dig it. It’s a change. He says those jazz guys just go to the fif and play and nobody ever tells anybody what to do. I don’t really give guys a hard time. If they’re prone to not wanting to hear things like that then ti might be a hard time, but actually ti’s helping them get into the music. I just have a understanding of it. If it’s something I’m learning from George, he can give me the hard time. I just know where all the accents are, and I think nort of arranging-wise. I can hear what things need and what they don’t need.

RT: You’ve got a horn section on a few tunes on Awousticity. They mix well with the mandolin on Nu Monia.

DG: Those horns were an afterthought. I’d cut it with strings, and thought I should balance that with some punchy horns. Pee Wee Ellis didn’t have all the arrangements together when we went into the studio, and one of his regular guys wos sick, so we were punching in these parts and I never heard it as a whole. I just had to get the parts on tape in the allotted time. I lostened to it bawk and thought there were some gapo in the parts on Nu Monia and Acousticity. So I lifted off some of the horn licks, sunk them back onto the multi-track in other places. You can always use an extra “deeeaaa daaa.”

RT: I was surprised to hear you doing a funky thing like Acousticity, but then remembered a song of yours from a few years back, Dawg Funk.

DG: I could have arranged that the same way. It other words. this album isn’t a new concept for me. I sort of had it in the back of my mind that I would always do something like this. I like all styles, and I think they all benefit from learning. There’s a kind of music from Brazil called choro– it’s sort of Brazilian Dawg music–that I’ve been listening to a lot. One of its chief protagonists is a mandolin player named Jaco do Bandolin. It’s great music with all these wonderful rhythms and syncopations, but on mandolins and guitars and percussion.

A lot of jazz musicians look at bluegrass and say that’s just “boom-chick boom-chick._ It’s really not just that. There are people that have elevated all that to an art form. And there are bluegrass purists that say jazz in just a bunch of random notes. They’re both basically narrow-minded viewpoints. Somebody should be able to play like Wes Montgomery and Lester Flatt and Freddie Green and Laurindo Almeida and Andre Segovia and Jimi Hendrix. I’m naturally attracted to people that are interested in all those things.

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The Rhythm Devils first performed on the soundtrack to the movie Apocalypse Now. These two nights in San Rafael are the first public performances for the group, which features Grateful Dead drummers Mickey Hart and Billy Kreutzman, Dead bassist Phil Lesh, Dr. Michael Hinton, Airto Moreira and Flora Purim. The music of the Rhythm Devils is largely unstructured, spontaneous, and often quite delicate. When I walked into the rehearsal, Airto was crumbling music paper into a microphone and Flora was shaking a pine branch.

Flora and Airto have been known for creating unusual sounds ever since arriving in this country in 1968. Prior to that, they were both known performers in Brazil. Airto (who explains the pronunciation of his name as “Eye-Ear-Toe”), grew up in a small village in southern Brazil, where he had his own radio show as a child. A self-taught singer and percussionist, Airto moved to Sao Paulo at the age of 16. He played nightclubs and cabarets all over Brazil for several years, then joined a band called Quarteto Novo. It was in Sao Paulo that he met his future wife and colleague, Flora Purim.

Flora began studying music when she was 8. living in Rio de Janeiro. Her parents were classical musicians, who also kept a collection of jazz records around the house. After studying piano and guitar, Flora began singing at the age of 17. She worked with several bands in Brazil, including occasional appearances with Quarteto Novo, who were known for rearranging Brazilian “standards” for electric guitar, bass, piano, and drums. According to Airto, the band was doing so well that he didn’t want to leave Brazil, but he was convinced by Flora.

“It seems incredible,” Flora recalls, “but I didn‘t want to sing Brazilian music. I wanted to sing jazz. And in Brazil jazz was not popular. So I came here. I ended up playing with the best guys, and became accepted as a jazz singer. When I was here, that‘s when they started to tell me that I missed a lot by not looking at Brazilian music as a source. So I started to borrow more from my roots and background, and I created a new style.”

That “new style” was first heard by many on Airto’s 1969 album, Seeds On The Ground. Hermeto Pascoal, a colleague of Airto in Quarteto Novo, aided on the album, and Flora credits him with opening up her vocal style: “He told me to use my voice to make sounds, and also think of nature sounds to inspire me if I was inhibited, which I was.

“But now it’s been ten years and I’m freer,” she continues. “Basically, instead of becoming a pop singer I became a more unique kind of singer because of him. He told me not to sing lyrics. because everybody could do it—just attempt to use my voice for different purposes.”

Airto arrived in the US. a month after Flora in 1968, and the two began studying music in Los Angeles with Brazilian composer/saxman/teacher Moacir Santos. Flora continued her music studies at Cal State Long Beach, and studied Stanislavski acting method, as well. The stage experience helped Flora feel secure singing.

“Jazz music is very inhibiting. it‘s introverted,” she says. “And I wanted to break those barriers, and still be as free. People get more turned on when they have motion. Music is motion, even when it’s free.”

After studying with Santos for a short time, Airto moved to New York, and soon was playing with established jazz players like Cedar Walton, Lee Morgan. Cannonball Adderly (where he met George Duke), and J.J. Johnson. After a tour with the Paul Winter Consort, and recording dates with Paul Desmond and Hubert Laws, Airto was picked to join Miles Davis’ band. The band at that time was Wayne Shorter, David Holland. JackDeJohnette, Chick Corea, and Miles. “Actually it was a very important thing in my life, not just in my career,” Airto says. He speaks of Miles as a master, who taught him good things and bad things.

From that band, Airto and Flora became part of a group Chick Corea was forming called Return To Forever. This was the first band that the couple had officially been in together, and it saw Airto back behind the drum set and Flora singing and playing percussion. The response to Flora’s adventurous vocals, augmented by electronic echo and harmonizing effects, and to Airto’s percussion barrage, was mixed.

“People used to be skeptical about what we were doing,” Flora says. “They didn’t know whether we were kidding or we were serious, and why we were doing all these noises. We did it for so long, and with so much attention, that they realized that we were trying to communicate something that’s beyond words and lyrics.”

Airto signed with Buddha Records in 1969, and also has recorded albums for Arista, Warner Bros. and CTI Records. His Fingers album on CTI sold nearly 100,000 copies, but other releases averaged around 60,000 copies sold each. Those figured are termed “pretty good for jazz,” but not good enough by present corporate standards. From Airto’s point of view, he always had a relatively free artistic reign over his solo albums.

“You have to make sure that you have at least some kind of freedom, the things that you need most in order to be inspired,” he says. “You have feelings, and feelings are what counts, not words, or plans, or anything. You can make plans and they change tomorrow. So at least you play some nice music, and you put them down, and then you’re happy at least.”

After releasing Touching You, Touching Me, a viable and seemingly sellable album in 1979, Airto was dropped from the Warner Bros. stable. Airto’s studio career over the years has included sessions with the likes of George Benson, John McLaughlin, Weather Report, Santana, Wayne Shorter, and Paul Simon.

Flora’s solo recording career bagan with her signing to Fantasy’s Milestone label in the early ’70s, but it was interrupted when she was arrested in 1971 on a charge of possessing cocaine. She appealed the charge until August of 1974, then served 18 months of a three-year sentence at Terminal Island in Los Angeles. Flora may have been momentarily discouraged, but her career has kept moving. Between Milestone and later Warner Bros. Records, she has released ten solo albums, and has also appeared on records by George Duke, Santana, Duke Pearson, and Crusader pianist Joe Sample. Flora appears on all of Airto’s solo albums, and vice versa. And like Airto, Flora’s record contract with Warner Bros. was not renewed last year.

In the face of the record industry slump, Flora and Airto decided to put a band together, continue touring, and produce their own album. Their group has been together for over a year now, and includes bassist Keith Jones, guitarist Larry Nass, Kei Akagi on keyboards, Jeff Elliot on flugelhorn, trumpet, and synthesizer, and Tony Moreno on drums and percussions. Airto is very happy about their half-finished album, and points out that he has distributors in Europe and Japan anxious for its completion.

Flora explains that the new band represents a radical change for her and Airto. “We’re searching for new sounds,” she comments. “We’re writing simple songs but with new instrumentation. We’re attempting more flights into the freer space, yet trying to keep a pulsation that will help other people to be there, no matter how free you go.” I asked Flora if their aim was to be commercial, but remain free. She replied, “No, we’re trying to make ‘free’ more commercial.”

The music on stage at Marin Veterans’ Auditorium was far from “commercial,” as the Rhythm Devils ran through a dress rehearsal. Mickey Hart was perched on a gombe, Billy Kreutzman squeezed a talking drum. Michael Hinton scratched and rattled sounds out of a tambourine, Flora sang high arching notes multiplied by an Echoplex, and Airto tapped the string of his birembau, trance-like. Airto has done much to elevate the status of percussion in this country, to where it is now an accepted category all its own. And Flora has helped open the door for vocalists who want to do more with their instrument than fashion lyrics. The uninhibited styles of Flora and Airto continue to win them fans. The uncompromising and exciting music they offer continues to make listeners a little more “free.”

The post Flora & Airto: The Free Flights of Two Rhythm Devils appeared first on Spinterview.

Alex Ligertwood grew up in Glasgow. Scotland, in a musical family. Though he didn’t have any formal training in music, he soon found himself caught up in the music scene, and in a band with the late Robbie McIntosh (drummer and founder of the Average White Band).

“Robbie and I went to Italy with an all-Scottish band,” Alex explains. “We had a soul band in the early ’60s The city I came from was a big R&B city. It was pretty violent, and it spawned the blues. A lot of musicians got very involved in the blues and R&B, and it just seemed to fit the lifestyle that they had.”

The names of Alex’s earliest bands may not ring many bells on this side of the Atlantic, but groups like Piranhas and Ceccarelli were among the finest progressive European bands of the day. Alex also spent some time with Jeff Beck.

“When I left Piranhas, I heard that Jeff Beck was looking for a bass player,” he recalls. “I play bass as well, so I went down to audition. When I got there, someone had already gotten the job, so they asked me if I could sing. That was more in my line, so I got the gig as a singer.”

Alex stayed with Beck for only five months before Robbie McIntosh helped him land a job with Brian Auger & the Oblivion Express in 1971. Playing with Auger held an extra incentive for Alex. As he explains, “Brian was coming to the States, and that had always been an ambition of mine. Especially for a musician, if you really want to do anything and progress, this is really the only country where you can do it. It’s very difficult in Europe.”

The Oblvion Express toured all over the U.S., traveling to every state except Maine and Alaska. Alex recorded four albums with Auger, including Second Wind, Live At The Whisky, Reinforcements, and Happiness Heartaches. During the band’s touring, they opened shows for Return to Forever and the Mahavishnu Orchestra, among others. Alex met Mahavishnu drummer Narada Michael Walden during this time, and later, when Walden was forming his own touring band and learned the Oblivion Express was dissolving, he immediately called Alex to join him.

Alex spent much of 1977 touring with Narada’s band, opening shows for the CBS All-Stars. Then. in 1978, Alex got a call from composer-instrumentalist David Sancious, former keyboardist for the E Street Band. Sancious had been unable to find a vocalist capable of handling the range of melody and tone needed for his album, True Stories. Alex was up to the challenge, and completed the vocal tracks in one week.

“To be able to do something for a musician of this calibre is so rewarding,” he says. “That music was intense. It was a new thing for me, a beginning. It bordered on everything I had touched on before in my career—a little touch of jazz. rock and roll, Al Green. And it was as if he’d written all of the songs exactly for me. They were all in my register, all within my range. It was amazing.” Alex worked with Sancious for just over a year, touring the East Coast and playing a two-week tour of England. The day after he got back from England. he got a call to come to San Francisco and try out for Santana.

“That was Narada’s doing, I’m sure,” Alex says with a smile. “Narada and Sainbliaya [Walden’s manager] recommended me to Devadip, which was real nice. It made me feel real good that my friends would think of me like that.”

Alex joined Santana in time for last year’s Marathon album, contributing lyrics to four times as well as becoming the band’s new voice. He also made a vocal appearance on Devadip’s Swing Of Delight album. Santana has continued to tour extensively, and with the departure of Chris Solberg from the band, Alex has become the second guitarist onstage.

On the new Santana album, Zebop, Alex plays guitar on two songs in addition to his vocal chores. Bill Graham produced the just-released LP, and as Alex explains, “He really made it his baby. It was like he joined the band. He gave us a lot of input about the marketing side of it. We gave him our best. and he gave us the best of his mind. It was a good experience for us, and I think a good experience for him.

“We’re trying to appeal to the young market. you know. keeping up with the times,” he continues, “and not trying to be too aesthetic. There’s a lot of music on Zebop everything from J.J. Cale, to blues, to African music.”

With a vocal range covering nearly four octaves, Alex is able to use his voice in many different ways. And he feels that a vocalist should not limit his range or his use of tones. “I‘m still young, still developing.” he says. “My idea of a vocalist is that he’s a musician; his voice is his instrument. And every song should have its own thing. Just like you can change the tones on a guitar, I can change the tone on my voice, and sing the song the way it should be. I’m really into that, and using my voice as much as possible.”

This is the dimension that Alex Ligertwood adds to Santana. He does not feel separated from the musicians, but rather like one of them. And he hopes he can inspire people, just as he sees Devadip Carlos Santana inspiring.

“I don‘t like to put myself in a position of being a frontman in a band like Santana.” he says. “I’m very capable of doing it. I‘ve been doing it for years, but I’m really a band guy. I’ve always had a guitar around my neck. because I‘ve always been not just a singer. but a musician in the band.”

The post Santana’s “Voice”: Alex Ligertwood appeared first on Spinterview.

Nodding his head in approval is Carlos Santana, whose neck suddenly arches as he rips the feedback from his guitar and then points heavenward. Feeling the syncopated beat offered up by the new drummer, percussionist Raul Rekow smiles broadly as he pounds his massive hands on the congas. The band is reaching a new level of rhythmic intensity, thanks to “El Negro”.

Hernandez is in California rehearsing with Santana, having arrived from New York City . . . by way of Rome . . . by way of Havana. Horacio’s globe-trotting recent past is certainly fitting, his worldly beats signify an important fusion of the Afro-Cuban drumset/percussion tradition that was begun half a century ago in Havana by Candido and Walfredo Reyes, Sr. with the steamy brew of jazz, funk, rock and fusion that was sent into Cuba via Miami radio stations.

“In Santana you do not have to play.” smiles Hernandez, whose newly died bright-red hair is a symbol of the freedom he feels with the band. Actually, El Negro is doing a lot of playing in the group, alongside veteran percussionists Raul Rekow and Karl Perazzo.

“Raul has a power that I’ve never heard anybody play with. And he a Karl have it down as to how to integrate Afro-Cuban music with rock. I’m in heaven listening to all these sounds. And nobody has to say anything to me about what to play. It’s in the air, obviuos. What is great is that everybody is into it. Everything is growing at the same time. It’s like a rocket: All of a sudden —bang!–it goes straight to the moon.”

Carlos Santana’s attraction to Horacio’s playing was just as immediate. In 1995 the drummer performed a concert with the band Irakere West at San Francisco’s Great American Music Hall, and Carlos was the guest star. The guitarist was so impressed with Horacio that when the time came to form a band for his 1997 world tour, Santana knew who he wanted. Besides doing an extensive tour with Santana and recording a new album (due to come out soon), Horacio hopes to complete a method book for drummers on independence. He also has an educational video in the works with bassist John Patitucci that will be released by DCI.

It’s hard to many of us to imagine being detained for two weeks by the authorities at the age of thirteen for playing “the music of the enemy”. or attending a school where congas and timbales are banned for political reasons. Nor is it likely many of us have been refused food for being of the wrong political party, followed by a government agent whenever we stepped over the border, or denied entrance to the country we wanted to visit. But these situations were all part of the musical journey of Horacio “El Negro” Hernandez. His name may be new to many, but that says more about the sorry nature of international politics than it does about the music track record of this thirty-three-year-old marvel of independence. “Set-drum playing in Cuba, with the marriage of jazz and Cuban music, began in the pre-Castro days, and one of the guys who really knows about that is Horacio,” says Walfredo Reyes Sr., the “left foot clave” pioneer who was mixing drumkit and percussion in Havana in the early 1950s. “I saw Horacio play with Gonzalo Rubalcaba’s first group, and I was amazed. The evolution of music in Cuba has really picked up. I think Horacio is one of the finest young drummers in the business right now.”

Three of the recordings that clearly showcase Horacio’s growing talent and versatility are with Cuban pianist Rubalcaba and his group Proyecto (Previously available only as imports, are all now distributed in the US by Rounder Records.) Live In Havana (1986) began to establish Ribalcaba’s group internationally as a Cuban version of Weather Report. Mi Gran Pasion (1987) is an inventive session imbued with the Cuban musical traditions. And Giraldilla (1989) is full of remarkable world-fusion tracks, recorded in Germany one year before Hernandez defected to Italy.

Hernandez had hoped to move to New York quickly, but legal hassles persisted for three years. The US embassy told him there were enough musicians in the United States already, and that he was free enough in Italy. The drummer found plenty of work in Rome, though, with the likes of Pino Danielle, Gary Bartz, and Steve Turre, and he formed his own band, Tercer Mundo. He also taught at the Universita della Musica and chaired the Latin drums department of the Centro di Percussion Timba.

After seizing an opportunity to move to the US in early 1993, Hernandez was offered jobs by Paquito D’Rivera, Dave Valentin, and Michael Camilo, but he didn’t have papers to travel and had to turn the gigs down. He became a club musician in New York and found world album projects with Ed Simon, Victor Mendoza, and David Sanchez. He played on Paquito D’Rivera Presents 40 Years Of Cuban Jam Sessions for TropiJazz, and became a favorite drummer for that label. He jams with some of the giants on TropiJazz All Stars, swings gracefully with Tito Puente’s Latin Jazz Ensemble and vocalist India on Jazzin’, and displays his astounding percussion/kit ideas — with his amazing left-foot clave technique–on pianist Michael Camilo’s new Through My Eyes. “Important” is the word that comes to mind when hearing “El Negro.”

RT: I understand you flew to Miami to record Paquito D’Rivera Presents 40 Years Of Cuban Jam Sessions the day after arriving in the US in 1993.

HH: That was just what I was looking for. There was no rehearsal, it was right into the studio. It was a jam with a lot of great musicians involved. And besides being a great musician, as a conductor Paquito has the grace to get the best out of people.

RT: That CD starts out like a concert band, then goes into the groove, and then comes back. Is that like a Cuban jam session?

HH: It’s exactly like that. Somebody brings a theme, a blues form or something, and then “Let’s go!”

One of the most important things you can learn from jamming is listening. Everything is improvised–it’s made up right there– but you can feel the connection. You don’t feel that it’s ten people playing by themselves in their own ways, you feel one band going at the same time. What the other people are playing becomes more important to you–to inspire you– than what you play yourself. You’re going to have a point in your solo where you can play all you want, but mainly the rest is listening.

RT: Tell me a little about your musical background.

HH: My house was very musical. My grandfather was listening to traditional Cuban music all day. My father was the biggest jazz freak in Cuba. He knew everybody. And my brother was listening to the Beatles. We had a bunch of instruments at the house, but I was always crazy with the drums. I remember teachers throwing me out of school because I was playing with pencils. I played at home for four or five years, and then when I was fourteen I went to a music school. We had the formal education at this school—literature and math—but I spent the whole day in drum classes. So at the end of the year I was gone. But this teacher, Santiago Reiter, was the best thing that could have happened to me. He was very creative. He had only one book, the Jim Chapin book, and at that time he already thought of how to apply that book in many ways to many different styles. He had me practice it with the left hand on the cymbal instead of the right. He was the person who gave me the desire to do something different with the drums.

RT: When you started learning, were you a right-hand-lead- player?

HH: Yeah, I am right-hand-lead, but this teacher was into total freedom on the drumset. So there was a point where I did everything left-handed. I used to ride symbol on my left at the beginning with Gonzalo, and I was playing a lot of stuff left-handed. I don’t know if that’s the right way to call it–you know, people just call it left-handed because the left hand is playing the ride cymbal instead of the right. So that concept of left-or right-handed, I don’t know if it’s really a lead role of any hand.

RT: You’re trying to blur that idea.

HH: Right. Anything can be the lead part. It can be the bass drum or the left foot or your left hand or your right hand. A lot of people just look at the hand that is playing the cymbal, but the main role may be in what they are playing in the other hand. It’s more about thinking of sounds. I have certain sounds that I can reach with my left foot and certain sounds that I can reach with my right hand. So I see it more as which sounds can lead a particular rhythm.

RT: How do you build a pattern? Do you think of a sound or a certain instrument first?

HH: To me a pattern is a melodic cycle rather than a rhythmic pattern. The rhythm is important, and you can probably play the same thing on only one sound source, but I take that rhythm and try to find a melody that makes it more than a pattern. I’ll take it and create a melody that will end up being the foundation for somebody else who will be creating a melody on top of that.

RT: You spread it out over the kit to make the melody?

HH: Yes, and you get a lot of help from what the other musicians are playing, like the bass line. You’ve got to play the tune first to hear what the others are playing, and then you can create a pattern or a rhythmic foundation to work with all of that. That applies to every kind of music. On a rock tune we have the snare on 2 and 4, but the bass drum is going to work only after you hear the bass line.

RT: How does that concept work now with Santana, where you’re working on popular older material?

HH: I have a great opportunity now to go to my roots. I’m playing some tunes the way they were played before, others a new way. We’re playing a lot of new material, creating drum parts for that. I’m not a rock drummer, I’m not a jazz drummer, I’m not an Afro-Cuban drummer–but I play rock, jazz and Afro-Cuban rhythm. I think if I had to classify myself, I would that that I am more like a “world beat” drummer.

RT: Did you start putting those different styles together in your mind from an early age?

HH: Early on I thought that my grandfather’s music was old and that my father’s music was crazy. My brother was into the Beatles and Led Zeppelin, which every thirteen—year—old was into. There was no way to get records in Cuba, but fortunately we were only ninety miles from Florida, so we had the radio on every day. I didn’t understand a word of what anybody was saying on the radio because I didn’t speak English at the time, so it was pure music that I was listening to.

From the radio I tried to imitate Ringo Starr, John Bonham, and Bill Bruford. Later on it was Emerson, Lake & Palmer, Mahavishnu Orchestra, and Chick Corea’s Return To Forever, and at that point I was getting closer to my father’s music, jazz. I listened to everybody, every drummer: Tony Williams, Jack DeJohnette, Billy Cobham, Lenny White, Narada Michael Walden. Eventually I heard Steve Gadd, and Dave Weckl, Vinnie Colaiuta, Dennis Chambers, Marvin “Smitty” Smith, and Robbie Ameen. It’s an endless list. I also listened to all of the drummers that were with Santana, like Michael Shrieve, Graham Lear, and Walfredo Reyes Jr. And through jazz, with artists like Dizzy Gillespie, I discovered Afro—Cuban music, which is kind of funny because I had traditional Afro—Cuban music right there.

RT: How did your playing career get started?

HH: I started playing with a saxophone player, Nicolas Reynoso, who Gonzalo Rubalcaba was playing piano for, and that’s how Gonzalo and I met. Then I started working in the studios. I did over three hundred records for Cuban artists. There were two studios, one on top of the other, and I used to have a mattress there. I would go to one session, sleep for two hours, and then go to another session. I didn’t have time to go home, and that happened for a week sometimes. Just recording and recording. I loved that job. My idol at that time was Steve Gadd, so I’d look at myself in the mirror and think I was the Cuban Steve Gadd!

All of that studio experience gave me a chance to listen to myself, to hear what I was doing. I never recorded myself when I practiced, so I never had the chance to listen and say “Okay, this worked and this didn’t work.”

RT: You must have been exposed to all kinds of music, too.

HH: There was all kinds of music—Cuban, ballads, rock—which in Cuba was called “nueva trova”—and a new folk movement. I loved to play every kind of music. I believe that there are two kinds of music, good and bad. The style doesn’t matter. So working in the studio with Nicolas was a great chance to learn.

Then one day Gonzalo Rubalcaba asked me if I wnated to join a band he was putting together. It was a great band, and it offered a lot of freedom musically. We didn’t’ play anything that was played before, so I didn’t have to play like anybody else. It was, “Let’s sit and play,” and everybody was playing something different and happy to be listening to something new.

RT: How many players were in that group?

HH: Seven, with a guy name Roberto Vizcaino playing a percussion set with congas, timbales, bongos, and everything at the same time. Roberto is a multi-instrumentalist. He’s a great conga player and a great timbale player. And he graduated from classical percussion school, so he can play vibes, marimba, and timpani. He has stupid coordination: He can play the congas with one hand and solo with the other hand on timbales. It’s unbelievable. It was a joy to work with him and we locked in on the first day.

Sometimes Gonzalo would come in and say, “Okay, I have this tune that is a 6/8 thing, and the bass line is like this. . . .” Roberto would start playing a pattern on top of that, and I would start doing a pattern that complimented his part and at the same time got the bass line’s spirit in there too. Or I would be playing a pattern and he would come in on top of that. We found a way to create patterns that worked together. People used to call us “the industry.” They said it was the sound of an industry going.

The pure drumset was becoming limited for me, limiting me to sounding one way. I already had five cowbells in my drumset, and that wasn’t enough. Roberto was responsible for making me look at traditional percussion instruments in a different way and seeing the big picture in that field. I thank God because I had the chance to play with the best percussionists in the world. It led me to a more massive concept of drumming.

RT: And working with percussionists involves listening.

HH: In the old school the drummer was the guy who carried the time. But everybody has to carry the time. If there’s not a drummer there, the band still has to sound in time. Music requires the drummer for colors and to make music, not just to keep the time. Percussion players have freedom that we drumset players don’t have sometimes, because we are supposed to keep the time. They have a more open rhythmic spectrum, but they’re keeping time all the same, even if they are doing colors and effects, or soloing. They know where 1 is. The drums gave me the chance to have these people around me and to work with them. I studied percussion and rhythms, I don’t consider myself a percussion player, a conga player, a bongo player, or a timbale player. I respect the people who do that the way it should be done—the way Giovanni Hidalgo does it, the way Changuito does it, the way Orestes Vilato and Tito Puente do it. They have dedicated their lives to it. You cannot be a boxer and a volleyball player at the same time.

RT: Did you get into your left-foot clave independence when you were with Gonzalo?

HH: The first person that I heard play something like that was Candido, the legendary percussionist with Dizzy and Chico O’Farrill in the ’50s. At one point he was playing a conga and a hi—hat, and a cowbell with his foot. And then Walfredo Reyes, Sr. got into that after Candido. In my case, that comes straight from this teacher, Santiago Reiter. He was very upset, because many drummers at that time didn’t even play the hi—hat. They were playing only with their hands. Reiter, from the very first day I studied with him, was, “You havee to move the left foot. So let’s play it in quarter notes, then let’s play it in half notes, now let’s play it on the  offbeats, now on the downbeats.” He taught me that there were other things you could do with the left food.

I started playing the clave thing when I was with Gonzalo, about twelve or thirteen years ago. At that time it was more like creating a pattern on the drums and incorporating the clave. Eventually I started thinking that I had the chance to become free with my other three limbs while I was keeping the clave. The Afro-Cuban language is so rich rhythmically, because it’s like three and four rhythms going at the same time. You can play triplet feels and 16th feels, and the clave fits with both cases.

I started playing with the clave and trying to solo on top of it, and then I created my own exercises to develop independence. All the Afro-Cuban books out there have patterns. So people learn a pattern, but they don’t know what to do with that pattern because they don’t have the coordination to feel free inside a pattern to move away and come back.

I remember when I was trying to learn how to play jazz; the first thing I got was a coordination book, the Jim Chapin book. If you have the coordination, you can play any pattern right away. You don’t have to sit there with a book and say, Well, this hand goes like this, now this one.

RT: How can somebody begin to learn left-foot clave?

HH: People are looking at this only in a rhythmic way, but you’re talking about music, not only drumming. The clave is a pattern, but besides a pattern it’s the main melody in Afro-Cuban music. Miles Davis said there’s always a melody inside the melody, and that’s what clave is. Clave is the main melody from where you go with all the melodies. I think that learning to play left-foot clave within the rhythm is more of a melodic than a rhythmic process. You’re creating another melody with your foot and trying to connect all the melodies to it. I don’t think of it as a separate thing.

RT: On Michael Camilo’s “Mambo Inn” [from Through My Eyes] you play a pattern on cowbell with your hands and then answer it on cowbell with your feet.

HH: Yeah, it’s another sound possibility. I like the cowbell. Actually, the original clave is a wood sound. Personally I prefer the cowbell sound, because I play other sounds too.

RT: Do you use a hard or soft beater on the cowbell?

HH: A soft beater. It’s a little bit of a sweeter sound. The hard beater is too metallic. I play it on different places, not just for clave, like for quarter notes, and the wood sound on something like that sounds too much like a click track or some pre-recorded thing. A cowbell sounds more natural and more earthy.

I remember learning to play 8th notes on the hi-hat by listening to Tony Williams. So now I have my cowbell there and my hi-hat. I got back and forth between the cowbell and the hi-hat in a pattern. I’m using different sound sources but using the same technique that I learned from Tony.

RT: Did you continue to hone these concepts after you left Cuba and Gonzalo’s band and were living in Italy?

HH: I learned a lot in Rome, because that was the first time in my life that I taught drums. I had to find an explanation for everything. Stuff that I just did I now had to think about. I did that for two years, six times a day. I really had the perfect conditions for practicing, and I was totally into drumming. I rented an apartment two blocks from the school, so I was sleeping till 12:00, teaching from 2:00 till 8:00, practicing or playing somewhere until 1:00 in the morning, and then going out to dinner.

When I did get to New York, in order to survive I played for $50 a night. I was playing every night until I got my papers, about a year and a half ago. I had the chance to do some good records, like with Ed Simon and Anthony Jackson, but not too much because I was not able to travel. As soon as I got my papers I started working with Michel Camilo.

RT: You seem real comfortable in that trio setting, both with Ed Simon and Michel Camilo.

HH: I think I like my work with Michel more than with Ed. I’m sorry that I didn’t play more mature with him. I don’t know if “mature” is the word. I mean, in Cuba we try to play like Americans. And the Americans try to play like Cubans. So in Cuba there are a lot of people that know Steve Gadd better than people here do. And there are people here who know Changuito better than the Cubans.

RT: You think that affected how you played with Ed Simon?

HH: Yeah. It was a part of finding myself. With Michel I was trying to find a more particular sound. Sound—wise, when I got Michel’s gig, I didn’t want to play drumset. With him I was using the bass drum, bongos, timbales, two floor toms, snare, cowbells, and cymbals. It was like drums, but instead of the rack toms I had bongos and timbales. And that was mainly just to get away from the style of drumming that he was used to.

Michel likes a certain kind of playing, like the way Dave Weckl plays. At that time in my life I was not interested in doing that. So I told him that I really appreciated the gig, but that I wanted to do it my way. We got together and played, and we were totally in love with it. I feel more confident that I can find a way to be myself. I listen to everybody every day, but I’m gonna do it my way. Young jazz drummers are influenced by Dave Weckl, but we have to prove ourselves in the music that we’re making. We cannot try to play like somebody played fifty years ago or try to sound like him. Some people think that there’s nothing else to say, but to me there’s a lot to say. Just live your time. Listen to everybody and put all of that into where you are today.

RT: Those are some great arrangements on Michel’s record. How much rehearsing did you guys do?

HH: Two rehearsals, three hours each day. The musicians that you have around you are so important. The people you work with are a big part of your playing. It’s like, with Michel and John Patitucci or Anthony Jackson, you don’t have to play. What they play is going to tell you what you have to do. You don’t even have to think about it, you just have to hear what those people are playing, and that’s all. It was the first time that I was with John, and it was a blessing. He’s a great musician and a great guy, We’re going to do a video with bass and drums. I’m thrilled.

RT: “Night In Tunisia” [also from Camilo’s Through My Eyes] is a wide—open track, and you can tell a lot of listening is going on when you and Michel spar at the end.

HH: We did that one in one take, but it was so funny. Michel said, “Okay, let’s rehearse this ‘Night In Tunisia,’ and the engineer recorded it. Then the engineer said, “Yo, that was killing.” It’s beautiful because it was fresh, like, “Who knows what’s going to happen? Let’s just go.”

RT: Do you have a regular practice routine?

HH: “Practice” is the wrong word. I love to improvise, so I sit at my drums, start playing, and then I realize that it is six hours later. That’s the way ideas come for me. I don’t record my practice and listen to it. I remember probably two percent of all that I play in one day, but those things become tools, and then you give them some kind of order.

RT: If you find something that you like, you’ll work on it for a while and then move on.

HH: Yeah. It happens a lot that when you move on and play something else for half an hour, you don’t remember the original idea anymore. But then a day later, the thing comes back to you. That’s mainly the way I work. It’s like giving the brain a chance to think of the random takes, things that I definitely played before but that I don’t have numbered or classified. They are in some way in my brain.

RT: Do you have a set thing you play at clinics?

HH: At clinics you have to give an explanation of what you’re playing, and for me the teaching experience was very important. In a clinic you have no time to find an explanation for it; you have to have that explanation ready.

At clinics I work more with Afro—Cuban music and the relationships of the binary and trinary subdivisions found in the music. Afro-Cuban music has both of these subdivisions in a bar at the same time—triplet and 8th-note subdivisions. In rock or other kinds of music with more steady rhythmic patterns, you are either in two or three. It’s more important to make people
first understand that than to try and teach them patterns, because that’s the foundation of the whole style—that you are in both times at the same time. Nobody can play that style well until they feel that inside. So I’ll play a solo in 4/4, and then in 6/8, and then I play a solo where it’s 4/4 and 6/8, to try to make people understand.

RT: Kind of like Elvin Jones’ triplet feel in jazz?

HH: Right. I think that comes totally in African drumming. The bata rhythms have a lot of those concepts. So it’s a very good point of reference to listen to bata and Afro—Cuban folkloric music. The bata that I am influenced by was created in Cuba by the Africans who were brought to Cuba as slaves. And they play some incredible rhythms with that, intricate rhythms that are based on two and three at the same time.

RT: You have a great feeling for odd time playing, like on that early Gonzalo
Rubalcaba stuff, and the Ed Simon release.

HH: Yeah, Gonzalo used to play them every night, and Ed is a great composer. A lot of his music that is in odd times feels like it’s in four. Music is not about people playing odd times just for the fact of playing an odd time thing. Music is about making it flow, like Vinnie Colaiuta does with Sting when they play in five and seven.

RT: The TropiJazz All Stars is quite a line- up.

HH: Talk about a percussion section! That band was a blessing. We had Tito Puente, Giovanni Hidalgo, Richie Flores, Johnny Almendra, and me. And again, when you’re playing drums and it’s this Latin— jazz or Afro—Cuban thing, you have to know how to be the drum/percussion player with percussion players. In this case, I was not able to play any percussion parts. They were
all covered. That is when you have to create another melody that is going to work with the melodies that are already there.

Working with Giovanni Hidalgo has been a big experience for me. There are times when you are into drums and times when you’re not into drums. And it just so happened that one of the first times that I worked with Giovanni I was in one of those periods when I wasn’t into the drums. Giovanni has incredible talent and incredible hands. Nobody can play that way. And I asked him, “How can you do those things?” And he told me, “Negro, don’t bullshit me. You know that the only way you can do these things is if you sit here from 8:00 in the morning till 8:00 at night.” I will always thank him for that, because he put back in me the spirit of practicing, and always playing. Don’t stop playing, ever. I consider him my supreme teacher.

RT: There’s a track on Paquito’s 40 Years Of Cuban Jam Sessions called “Despojo” where you’re playing a half—time funk beat under all this percussion.

HH: Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. You’re playing with a bunch of percussion players, so you have to go somewhere else to find a melody that is going to work with their melody. You cannot play their parts, they are already playing them.

I remember Gonzalo’s band was not [just] an Afro—Cuban band, or an Afro-Cuban jazz band, or an Afro—Cuban jazz—rock band. It’s like you can keep adding words, and it’s going to go and go and go. Before we were used to only Afro—Cuban or jazz—rock. Now it’s Afro—Cuban—jazz—
rock—polka—funk—that is what it is, and more.

As I said before, I consider what I play “world music.” Of course we’re going to have influences, but I’m sure that in fifty years it’s not going to be important if you were born in Havana or Moscow or wherever. It’s going to be one world—no countries. Music is a leading force in the process of bringing human beings together. That’s what we’re doing.

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The 43-year-old seems to spread his entire upper body over the vibes in fashioning his full-flavored sound. The momentum of his solo grows as he rumbles some quick, octave rolls. At times, it seems as if he ’s going to fall over the front of his instrument as his arms come sweeping across his body in a broad follow-through and he appears to leave the ground completely. Sometimes he’ll have his mallets in the air, poised to play, but will then decide
against it.

Hutcherson ’s eyes are soft and gentle, but they focus in sharply on everything going on around him on stage. He accepts applause from the crowd with a sheepish nod, like, “Yeah, I know, but
don ’t cheer too much or you’II miss part of the next solo. ” He steps back from the vibes as he finishes his choruses, yet keeps his eyes on the bars, seeming to savor the musical terrain he’s just traveled.

Bobby Hutcherson refers to himself as a “street musician, ” although it’s obviously been years since he’s had to pull his vibes out on the sidewalk. He was walking down a Southern California
sidewalk at the age of 13 when he heard some hip jazz coming out of a record store, and fell in love with the sound of Milt Jackson’s vibes. Any hope of getting Bobby to be a doctor, lawyer, or
preacher vanished as he heard the beautiful, wavering vibrato of Jackson’s Deagans. The fact that Hutcherson has been one of the most innovative and elegant vibists in the business since the early ’60s sort ofmakes you believe that fate had something to do with him hearing that record.

Hutcherson recorded his first Blue Note album as a leader in 1965, titled Dialogue. That was also the year he took to doubling on marimba, an instrument that hadn’t been brought out in jazz, previously, but that Bobby made fit so well. He recorded 15 albums as leader with Blue Note over a 12-year span. His two-year partnership with tenor saxman Harold Land resulted in the albums San Francisco and Total Eclipse (with Chick Corea). He contributed to McCoy Tyner’s Time for Tyncr and Sama Layuca, Dexter Gordon ’s The Sophisticated Giant, and Eric Dolphy’s Out To Lunch and Iron Man. He was signed to CBS records and continued putting out albums showing off his masterful rhythmic and melodic improvisation skills, including Highway One, Conception: The Gift Of Love, and Un Poco Loco.

The first album Bobby released after sustaining a serious injury to his right index finger in 1981 was one of his most adventurous, Solo/Quartet. Side One features only Hutcherson,  accompanying himself with vibraphone, marimba, bass mariinba, chimes, xylophone, bells, and boobam. Side Two features McCoy Tyner Billy Higgins, and Bobby ’s friend since junior high school on bass, Herbie Lewis. Hutcherson can also be heard performing with longtime associate Herbie Hancock on the I983 release Jazz At The Opera House, and is featured on the Timeless Allstars release of the same year with Harold Land, Curtis Fuller, Cedar Walton, Buster Williams and Billy Higgins.

When we met, Hutcherson had just finished assembling some of the world ’s finest jazz musicians in the San Francisco area to do the premiere release on a new jazz label. Having recorded some 20 albums as leader over a 20- year period, Hutcherson remains one of
the freshest and mosl contemporary players on the scene—one who truly is timeless.

RT: Tell me about the recording you’re doing with your new band.

BH: Orrin Keepnews and l have been working on an album for about a year, talking about it and slowly working up to it. We finished it last week. We had Philly Joe Jones come out, who at his
age… No, I’m not even going to say at his age, man. He’s the greatest drummer. You know, I’ve worked with a lot of drummers, and l have to say right now that Philly Joe is the baddest drummer on the scene today. He’s unbelievable. He coils like a snake, and all of a sudden, he’ll strike and do some of the most unbelievable things. He can play real soft, and he can play loud when he wants to. People think he plays loud, but it‘s not the loudness; it’s the dynamics that he moves from. Ray Drummond was on bass, George Cables was on piano, and Branford Marsalis also played. I wasn’t aware that Branford was into playing as much tenor as he is. I thought he was always playing alto. But he sounds pretty good on tenor saxophone and soprano. So we did some Monk things, a tune that I wrote, and some standards. Musically, it was a well-rounded situation. We recorded for two days at Fantasy, and it’s going to come out on a new label that Orrin is about to start called Landmark Records. He plans on putting out about seven albums this year. It’s going to be good.

At the same time that I was doing my album, John Hicks was in town. John is signed with Theresa Records, which is run by Allan Pittman over in the Oakland hills. John came out with ldris Muhammad on drums, Walter Booker on bass, and Elise Wood. who manages him and also plays flute. I went down and worked with them at Hop Sing‘s in Venice [California], then we went to Las Vegas and played, and then we came back here. While I was recording my album at Fantasy, they were working here in San Francisco at Kimballs. Then I joined them, and we recorded here in town at Bear West Studios. So we did that album. and now I‘ve got a day off. [laughs] Actually, John Hicks and I went up to Sacramento on Saturday and performed at Sacramento University. That was recorded, and then on Sunday we recorded at Bach Dynamite
And Dancing Society, so part of John‘s album may be live from some of those things. I haven‘t heard the tapes but I know some of them turned out pretty well. Who knows? So things have been very, very busy for me, which is good. Jazz musicians aren‘t usually busy.

RT: Speaking of Philly Joe again fora minute, I had never seen him play live before, He doesn’t play like anyone else.

BH: No, no, no. He’s gorgeous. He‘s as relaxed as anyone I‘ve ever seen behind the drums, and anything comes out of him at any time. The hippest thing is his groove on that cymbal. The cymbal is just going “sssss shlihhhhlihhhhh.” And within that. you hear the stick contact the cymbal. That’s slick.

RT: He mixes up so many rhythms inside of one phrase, but it still flows.

BH: lf you don‘t count while he’s playing, you’ll be in such a hole. A lot of times, when a drummer plays a solo, the construction of the tune is dropped. The drummer just plays a solo and then does something to bring you back into the tune. You don‘t do that with Philly Joe. He‘ll turn to you and say, “I’ll take two choruses.” or “I‘ll take three choruses.“ And whatever you do. you better count, because when he comes out of it, there’s the tune. And that’s what makes it sound so good, because he’s ended his phrase and the band all comes in and hits it together. Very few drummers play like that,

RT: You’re exciting in a similar way to Joe, because you take chances. Do you ever get nervous before you play?

BH: Sure. That’s part of the excitement of playing–gets that adrenaline flowing, you know. And you never know what you might do; you might mess up or something. It’s always exciting, so you always get nervous about that.

RT: People don’t really care if you always play the “right notes.” They like the adventure of hearing somebody go out on a limb.

BH: And that’s the scary thing–going out there and then getting back in. Yeah, I really enjoy it. Every time I play, I get nervous, because I want it to go well. I think I you don‘t get nervous, then
it’s no fun anymore.

RT: I really like those last two albums I u did with Woody Shaw on Elektra/Musician.

BH: A lot of that happened at a time when we were real tired. We were getting ready to go to Japan. We recorded live at this really nice club, that has since closed down. The club had a nice brick wall. That‘s really important. As soon as I walk into a club, I always look to see how it‘s built, so I can figure out what‘s going to happen with the sound, because my sound is so light. I don’t have much volume; I‘m not a loud player.

RT: Are you electronically hooked up?

BH: No. I know a lot of vibists are doing that, butt l have a hard time really doing that. Even though I don‘t have much volume, you always hear me hitting the note, before you hear the note. I hold the mallet on the end, so it builds up velocity as it‘s going to hit. You hear the “thump,” and then you hear the note. So because of that, the pickups always catch the contact of the mallet.

RT: You hold the mallets further down than most vibists.

BH: Yeah, and I use long mallets. They‘re 13 or 14 inches from the end of the ball.

RT: Are those made specially for you?

BH: Well, the Musser company puts out a mallet that‘s endorsed by me—the Bobby Hutcherson mallet. But the guy who originally started the Good Vibes company, Bill Marimba, sold his company to Musser and Ludwig. I think he‘s living in India. He’s one of those cats who will go up on the mountain and pray for a while. So when the Musser company took it over, they made the heads of the mallets too hard, I still use a lot of their stuff, but I‘ll switch the balls over to make sure they‘re irom the old Bill Marimba days. I just started a new endorsement with a company, and they‘re going to give me a new Vibraphone and a new marimba. I‘ll get the mallets corrected the way they’re supposed to be.

RT: You like the mallets with some flexability in them.

BH: Yeah, they have to bend.

RT: I saw one of the heads break off, and it flew out into the crowd.

BH: [laughs] “Wow. look at that guy! He‘s really playing hard.“ That happened twice that night. That‘ the danger of putting another head on the mallet. I didn‘t glue it with really good glue. You could really hurt somebody. Those balls could kill you. There‘s a round piece of hard rubber under there. and it‘ it gets to be a really fast-moving projectile, you‘re in trouble.

RT: Maybe you should warn people when you play. [laughs]

BH: Back! Everybody a hundred yards back!

RT: Are you at liberty to say what kind of vibes you’re going to be playing:

BH: Yeah, I‘m going to be playing Musser, if they‘ll hurry up and send them. It seems like it‘s taken a year to work out the paperwork on the endorsement.

RT: Are you switching from Deagan?

BH: Well, for now. I really like the Deagan people. They‘re the ones who’ve given me the instruments. The only thing is, it usually takes me about six months to start to get the sound out of a new instrument. It‘s like taking a girl out. You might not even kiss on the first date. You have to get to know her lirst. And this is how the vibes are.

RT: But the Mussers are a little better?

BH: You’ll get more sound at first, butt you still won‘t get exactly what you want. You‘ll get a little more volume. The notes of each one are made differently. The Deagans are thick and long, and the Mussers are wider and thinner. I think that has something to do with it. Mr. Musser used to work for Mr. Deagan. He saved a few bucks and started his own company. Then he sold it to Mr.
Ludwig. William Ludwig Ill is now running Ludwig, and he‘s trying some new ideas.

RT: Leonard Feather once described your playing as “Freedom judiciously aligned with discipline.”

BH: I think that‘s good, because I do try a lot of different things. but within a structure. I‘m trying to keep my mind constantly on the song. My first responsibility is to the song—to the tune we‘re
playing. Whatever I play must have something to do with the melody of the tune. I think it’s good for people who play mus to have several ideas going in their mind at the same time. A lot of people will say, “Hey, that sounds hard.” But actually they‘re usually doing several things at one time: They‘re listening to me. they’re moving their legs, they‘re eating some food, they’re breathing. . . you know what I‘m saying? They‘re natural doing several things. So the thing is to put these things into one category: music. Get up on the bandstand and concentrate on all the musical things at one time. It’s really not that hard. We‘ve got to learn to use our minds more, and be tuned in to all the things going on that the mind is picking up. So when you‘re playing, you want to think about disciplining yourself to a phrase; you want to think about a harmonic structure; you want to think about an idea that you‘re going to explore; you want to think about keeping the time together; you want to think about your dynamics; you want to think about tension and release. All these thoughts should be coming through you. Also, if you noticed, Philly Joe was talking to me a lot on the bandstand. That means that all those thoughts have to
be going through you, and at the same time you have to be able to help somebody else if that person asks you a question.

Always keep your eyes open I hate to see musicians play looking down at the floor, especially it they’re in the rhythm section. I‘ve had so many musicians come tip to me and say, “Hey so-and-so was rushing. It wasn‘t my fault; it was is fault.“ Well, first of all, I don‘t think tempo should be counted off. Symphony conductors do not say “One two three four.” They just bring up their hands and the orchestra starts. When they bring up their hands, that gives you the tempo. If they raise them slower, it’s a slower tempo, you know. I think it’s very childish for a band to say, “One, two, one two three four.” When I have to, I have to. But I’ll just start playing, and expect the band to come in. I’d love for them to come in on the second beat, but if not, then they should come in by the end of the bar because they should definitely hear where the tempo is by that point.

If you remember Miles’ later bands, Miles never counted the tempos off. He’d just play, and the tempo would vary from night to night. It’s the immediate thrust out of the gate that shows where the tempo should be sitting. But if the band is so locked into playing this one tune at the same tempo, that stops a whole lot of freedom. They lock themselves into this thing: “Okay, here’s this tune. We play it at this tempo and that’s how it’s going to be.” No. What decides the tempo is the tune that happened before, because everything is tension and release. To release the thing that happened from the last tune, you have to either take a deep breath in, or let a deep breath out. If the last tempo was tension, then this next empo is going to be release. You’ve got to understand that everything is tension and release. A tune goes faster and slower. It’s like a race. A horse starts a race, and at the start he’s going fast. As he hits the backstretch of the track, he settles into a groove; the tempo has changed. And as he’s coming down the homestretch, he’s giving it all he’s got. That’s just how a song should be, man. And people don’t understnad that, as you’re coming into the last eight bars of the tune, you’re kicking down the track with all you’re worth. So the tempo does not stay steady. Musicians who sit down and look at the floor and play “one, two theree, four” –they blow it.

RT: They’re not allowing the human thing to happen.

BH: Right. They’re not allowing the humaness to play a apart in the music. Everything that grooves does that. I mean, look at the way the earth revolves around the sun: One part of the day is long and one part of the day is short. If we’re in tune with our universe, then music is certainly in tune with that. So we should be checking that out, in order to be able to understand how to play tempos.

RT: What was Philly Joe saying to you up on the bandstand?

BH: Several things. We had made a program of what we were going to play, but he said, “Bobby, you’re going to have to change it right now, because I’m going to have to work on my hi-hat cymbals; I messed them up. I was to fix my cymbals so we’ll be ready for this song after that.” Also he was remarking about one time when I was getting ready to hit a lick on the vibes and I telegraphed it with my foot. I played the lick with my foot, so he played the same lick with me after he saw it. Then he noticed one place where the tempo had accelerated. it had sped up too much on one song, and it didn’t settle back down to the other tempo. At that point, he was telling me the reason why it happened, and how he was going to fix it. “On the recording date, to stop that from happening, I’ll do this and I’ll do this.” He said that if the tempo just kept getting faster, he would have to play with heavy accents on the bass drum. Then everything would get together.

He said. “Now watch, on the next tune I‘ll play a little louder on my bass drum, and the tempos the rest of the night won‘t go faster.” I said, “Okay Joe, let me see.” So I could hear his bass drum a little bit louder. After the tempos settled back down again he said, “Now I don‘t have to play my bass drum the rest of the night.” He‘s like a doctor. He knows what to do in that sort of situation.

RT: I‘ve heard the story about you walking by a music store, hearing a Milt Jackson record, and falling in love With the Vibes.

BH: That‘s true. That’s how I started.

RT: What was it about Milt Jackson‘s playing that inspired you so much?

BH: I never heard anyone so flawless, who grooved so heavy. I mean, he could get such a heavy groove out of one note that it was unbelievable. His sound was unbelievable He wouldn t even be playing any really hard stuff. It would just be so logical and beautiful, you know. Plus, he made me feel like I had money in my pocket. I felt rich when I heard him. I said, “Hey, that’s cool. I told my friend Herbie Lewis that I was going to get some vibes, and he said, “Well, if you get some vibes, you can be in our group. So I worked with my father, who was a brick mason, every summer and bought a set of vibes. Then I started playing in their group. We started playing school assemblies and talent things. Next, we started playing dances. Then we met this kid from Glendale named Terry Trotter, and he told us, “You guys have got to start learning
your chords.” We were only playing from remembering what note was next—this note, then this note. We would play, really, by ear. So he started teaching us our chords and stufl‘, and we started practicing real hard in the garage. The next thing we knew, Charles Lloyd was playing with us in the band. We played at a little coffee house called Pandora’s Box. This was back in the ’50s, during the beatnik era. Then we would leave there after the club closed and go out to a jam session that would start at 2:00 AM. After that jam session, we‘d go to one that would start at six o‘clock. In order to get up on the bandstand and play, you had to know a whole lot of tunes. You had to have at least 100 tunes that you could play, because anybody might call any tune. My sister had a boyfriend named Billy Mitchell, who used to play with Count Basie‘s band.
Billy and Al Grey had just left Count. They came out to Los Angeles and were looking for a piano player to play with their group, but they couldn‘t find one, so Billy asked me ifl could comp on the vibes. I said yeah. So we played at the Workshop in San Francisco. Then I went back to Los Angeles and he went to New York. He called me about a week later and said, “Listen, we‘re
going to open at Birdland opposite Art Blakey & The Jazz Messengers. Do you want to come to New York?” And that was it. Then it started sailing.

RT: I recently saw Terry Trotter playing with Larry Carlton.

BH: Terry Trotter sure did teach me a lot. I love that guy. I used to get together with Herbie Lewis in my garage to play. Also, Spencer Dryden from the Jefferson Airplane, a guy named Terry Jennings, and Charles Lloyd all used to come over to my garage. Terry Trotter taught me all my chords and scales. We used to go over to his house and listen to records. He taught me how to sit down quietly, put the music on, and listen to a musician‘s personality.

RT: How old were you then?

BH: That started when I was 15, and went on until I was about 18. Terry Trotter had a lot to do with my studies. He really gave me a good approach: Think music all the time, and live it. Go to as many places and buy as many records as you can. That is very important. I really feel weird that Terry didn’t go out into jazz like he could have, because he was remarkable. I haven’t seen him in years. Herbie Lewis and l were always trying to help him not feel intimidated. He was always trying to be serious, but he was silly. You know the type of cat; he was trying to be serious, but underneath it all, he was laughing at the whole scene. But he did have a lot to do with my career, and Herbie Lewis’. He really taught me how to enjoy practicing. You know, sometimes practicing fora few hours can really be boring, but he showed me how to enjoy it. He talked to us like he was our father: “You‘ve got to do this and this.“

RT: Do you consider yourself a good reader?

BH: Horrible reader. I learned how to read from doing it. If I read all the time, my reading would be great. But in my musical situations l don‘t come across reading that much. If I was back in New York, I would have to read more. Just the other day, John Hicks handed me a tune he had written. I mean, every chord had a thousand notes in it. He handed it to me and said, “Well. Bobby, you‘ll get right through this.” I said, “Looking at all these lines and dots, the music‘s just going to come out in spots.“ But I read it. Vibes is a difficult instrument to read on too, so you have to recognize phrases and rhythms right away.

RT: l read that you had studied vibes “informally” with Dave Pike. What does that mean?

BH: That‘s what I want to know. What does that mean? [laughs] Well. when Herbie Lewis and I first went out and started listening to music, we saw Dave Pike at the V.F.W. hall in Pasadena. In
fact. that was the first time I ever heard Billy Higgins. Billy was just a teenager. Paul Bley was in the band, and Charlie Haden was too. Dave became my hero because he had all the hip guys in the band, he wrapped his own mallets, he could play on the chord changes, and he had a nice set of vibes. I thought that was hip. Then I went over to his club in LA. called the Hillcrest, and Dave would be over there playing with Billy and Charlie Haden. Ornette Coleman would come in, and Don Cherry would play—all the cats. So finally walked up to Dave and said, “Hey Dave, I play vibes too.“ He said, “Well.” After that warm reception, we really became friends. [laughs] So I started hanging out with him, and I went over to his house. He started showing me some things. I started driving him to gigs and stuff.

RT: It was probably worth it, wasn’t it?

BH: [laughs] Well, Dave said it was.

RT: I‘ve heard people say that you play less like Milt Jackson than any other contemporary vibist. Do you agree with that?

BH: Sometimes I do and sometimes I don‘t. I did an album with John Lewis that came out about a year and a half ago. That was when everybody had broken away from the Modern Jazz  Quartet. So the band was called the New Jazz Quartet. Milt and Percy Heath had left, but John Lewis was still getting these offers for these $20,000, $40,000, and $80,000 concerts. He called me up and said they needed someone who could do things like Milt, and that they would pay me $20,000 per concert. I said, “I’m your man. Don‘t worry, I’ll be there. Say no more. I’m practicing his licks right now.”

RT: So you can sound like Milt.

BH: Oh yeah. If you hear this record you won‘t believe it. Every now and then I break away, because I can‘t control that train of thought the way he can. I mean, what he does is amazing. He has a thing where he’ll play a line that goes up this far, then he‘ll answer the line and play exactly what he just played backwards. It’s not until you dissect it that you can really check it out. “Wow, that’s what he did.“ He‘s got perfect pitch and a remarkable memory. He answers his lines, and that‘s why he sounds so lyrical. So lots of times I can get into it, but you really have to be him to do that completely. Everybody’s an individual, but I can, at times, do something close to what he does. So we did the album, and after that, John Lewis‘ wife said, “Hey John, Bobby can make these concerts, and we don’t have to turn this money down.“ So he said, “Yeah, hey.“ A year and a half ago when the MJQ played at Davies Hall here, I was supposed to make that. But Milt got word of this and decided to cancel a few of his other gigs so he could make that $20,000. And I don’t blame him. That’s big bread. man.

RT: You studied piano when you were very young, but that didn‘t last too long, did it?

BH: My aunt was a Baptist preacher/mystic/piano teacher. Now her son plays organ and does a lot of singles things in hotels. So I used to study with her. I went to Sunday school after a couple of lessons, and my mother told the people at Sunday school that I could play. They made me get up on the piano, but I couldn‘t play. That really stopped me from wanting to learn to play. I was all embarrassed. [laughs] But we always had a piatio in the house. My sister was a singer, and she used to date Eric Dolphy. She also went out with Gerald Wilson.

RT: You played on Eric Dolphy‘s Out To Lunch album.

BH: I had known Erie for a long time. I had an older brother who went to school with Dexter Gordon. Dexter used to babysit me, and he was playing then. So I had music all around me. When my sister started singing. Sonny Clarke was in town playing piano. My father rented an auditorium in Pasadena and she gave a concert. Oscar Pettiford was on bass, Sonny Clarke on piano, and Bill Douglass played drums. There was music around us all the time. I just didn‘t take to the piano because it was forced on me. but the piano was there. After my big traumatic experience at church playing piano, I started just sitting down and playing a little, listening
to all the things that were going on. And that really got me into it.

Then I heard the record “Bemsha Swing.” with Monk, Percy Heath, Kenny Clarke, Milt Jackson, and Miles Dayis. l was walking down the street, heard that, and that did it. I said, “That‘s what I want to do.“ It was weird for a kid of 13 to buy a record like that. It was dtiring the summertime, and I just sat in my room playing the record all day for days and days. I just couldn‘t believe that somebody could make me feel like I was walking down the street. l could just sit there and trip. They released that song again on the album called The Giants Of Jazz. That’s what started me getting into it—really catapulted me.

When I started playing with Eric, that‘s when the music started getting free. At that point Andrew Hill was recording ti lot for Blue Note, and Andrew wanted me to start doing some stuff with him. I was doing some different things with Jackie McLean, and with Eric. So I had become the new avant-garde vibist in town. Still my roots were in bebop. but I was enjoying playing this freer music. So l met Archie Shepp and started working with him. That‘s when we went to Newport and did The New Thing there with Archie Shepp and ‘Trane. Everything just started blossoming and falling into place. I started recording my own albums on Blue Note. I met Herbie Hancock in New York. Herbie played a few gigs with Al Grey and Billy Mitchell’s band. Donald Byrd was in the band a few times. Once you got back there and started working, you could meet everybody. So it was the perfect situation for me.

RT: When did you sign with CBS Records?

BH: In 1977. I was there for four years. I was released right when everybody got released. They only kept a few people. Freddie Hubbard, Stan Getz and Tony Williams were released. So many people were released, and it happened at the same time as the crunch in this country. Money became so tight that they couldn’t hold everything together.

RT: I think the last album you did for CBS, Un Poco Loco, was one of your best albums.

BH: Yeah, I thought it was a great album, but that doesn’t mean anything. The president of Columbia might have that album on a tape in his car and he might listen to it in his bathtub. But unless that album sold 100,000 copies . . . Those stockholders want to see some bucks, and 35,000 albums sold don’t mean a thing compared to how much those rock albums sell. So goodbye Bobby Hutcherson. And it’s a great album. There are all kinds of different music on that album–old bebop, new bebop, all kinds of different time signatures, different combinations. That doesn’t mean anything. I like going with smaller record companies. Those are the people who really do it because they love the music, not because they’re looking to make a million dollars.

RT: This may not be a good memory for you, but I know a couple of years ago you had an accident.

BH: When I cut my finger off? Yeah. It was during the weekend I was working at the Keystone. I got up that morning to cut the grass. Freddie Waits, the drummer, was over at the house. I was out there cutting the lawn and some grass got on the side of the lawn mower. I stuck my hand down there and saw the tip of my finger fly through the air. I took it in the house, washed it off, jumped in the car and went to the hospital. They sewed it back on, man! The guy in microsurgery sewed it back on. And that’s when I did this album here [Solo/Quartet], because the cat said I’d be lucky if I ever played again. he said that I wouldn’t be able to feel where I hold the mallet. So I wanted to do something that would be really hard just to show my appreciation for my finger being back on. So I tried something all by myself on side one. I want to do something like that side again. That album was one of the crossroads in my life.

RT: Do you work with four mallets much?

BH: I used to play with four mallets when I first went back to New York with Al Brey and Billy Mitchell. They asked me to take the place of the piano. That’s how I was going to get the job. So at 19 I went back to playing four mallets. I played four mallets with Jackie McLean and with Eric. Then I became involved again in just playing two mallets, because of the swinging part of it. I enjoyed that. I still play four mallets every now and then.

RT: Is it easier to swing just playing two mallets?

BH: Yeah. Swinging is a swing. Swinging is a pendulum, and a pendulum is a pendulum in each hand–one pendulum.

RT: Does playing with four mallets make you think more technically?

BH: Sure, because you’ve got to think about the other mallet that’s going to come down.

RT: How do you decide whether you’re going to play vibes or marimba on a certain song or with a certain artist?

BH: The tune; the situation.

RT: Your marimba playing on Larry Vuckovich’s stuff sounds great.

BH: Yeah, that worked out real well. You’ve got to be aggressive on that instrument or else it sounds really corny. You’ve got to think of your attitude–of what you’re doing. It just happened that my type of playing on the marimba fit in with what he was doing. I didn’t have to think about it; I just heard the music and it went right in. I’m lucky like that. I think a lot of time I can adapt myself to different situations, maybe because of the way I was brought up–listening a lot. It’s very important to listen when you’re coming up. You have to learn how to listen, to understand the different nuances that are contained within a certain thing that creates that feeling. You have to understand how to create an attitude. That’s why you hear a lot of people play music, but even though you hear them play a certain style, it still doesn’t sound right. They might play all the notes, but for some reason that attitude isn’t there. You’ve got to learn how to listen, and then you have to live that style. Say you hear some people who have an urgency in their playing. They’re not just playing fast; playing fast isn’t urgency. It has to come from inside. And the person who masters all those things is really a great musician. Thew people who master how to e subtle, the people who master how to be ferocious, the people who master how to have that humility–those are the great players because they understand those different emotions within themselves. It’s not just the note; it'[s the way that note comes about, because each note becomes a concert itself. Then it’s the space between the notes.

RT: I enjoy listening to players who know how to use space when they play.

BH: yeah. Space gives you , as a listener, a chance to imaging. You say, “Hey, there are a lot of possibilities in that.” When you’re listening to somebody, you’ll find yourself almost playing the solo in your mind. You’re playing the different possibilities of what might happen. So the space gives you a chance to breathe, relax, and think about what might happen. You know, it’s a little guessing game there.

RT: Do you have certain ideas about working with pianists–of staying out of each others way?

BH: Well, if you’re going to stay out of the way, you shouldn’t be up on the bandstand. The thing is to get together. If you have to stay out of the way, then there’s something wrong. Staying out of the way means that there’s something there that you don’t want  to bet into, or you have no thought about that, or you don’t enjoy that thought. It should be where everything you hear makes you feel, “Ooohh, I’ve just got to get some of that,” you know. It’s all about relating, communication, desire, respect, honesty, and being willing to change–being willing to say to yourself, “Maybe I’m not right about everything. Let me see if I can do something else.” Give a little bit; don’t take so much. Being able to say, “Well what do you think I should do?” Being able to say something like that helps in playing with somebody.

RT: Is the vibes a very physical instrument?

BH: Oh yeah. It’s nice that it’s physical. We’re making love up there and everybody gets to look.

RT: It’s that personal a thing?

BH: Oh yeah.

RT: Rosemary helped set up the interview today. Is she helping you with your business affairs?

BH: She’s my friend, my wife, my lover, the person I talk to, the person I laugh with, and the person I get mad at. This whole thing is shared. She’s my manager; she takes care of the family; she helps me get ready; she makes me feel good when I’m down. We share this whole experience together, and that’s nice, because a lot of musicians don’t get a chance to share the whole thing with their spouses. She can tell me what’s going wrong, and she can speak honestly with me. If I don’t like it I get mad, but we share everything. I don’t say, “Okay, I’m going to party now. I’ll see you later.” We go together. She can tell you what I’m going to be doing every day for the next two months. She’s a real good friend, and that’s the most important jthing. That makes the love really great. We have so many things in common to talk about, and it has to do with pushing ahead and going forward with what we’re dealing with. And we have great kids.

RT: To me, you’re one of these players who always sounds so current–so contemporary.

BH: It’s important to keep things fresh. You can’t live on looking back, that’s for sure. See the thing is, it’s got to do with my surroundings. You play your environment, so it’s got to be contemporary. You are what you are, so it’s got to be that way.

RT: Are there any young players who really excite you with their playing?

BH: I’m going to be honest. Not yet, no. There’s something that they must go through that I will have to hear before I can get excited. I enjoy hearing players who have their own signature on it. I like that. That’s very important. It’s very important to have your own sound. That way, you have your own product for sale that nobody else can duplicate.

The post Bobby Hutcherson – Street Vibes appeared first on Spinterview.

It was the sound of Milt Jackson‘s vibes that first enticed the 15-year—old Hutcherson. After a few years of gigging around Los Angeles with the likes of Curtis Amy, Charles Lloyd, and the Al Grey/Billy Mitchell Combo, Hutcherson moved to New York in 1961. He was soon in demand, performing with such cutting-edge stylists as Jackie McLean, Archie Shepp, Andrew Hill, and going Out To Lunch with Eric Dolphy. He signed as a solo artist with Blue Note in 1965, recording with the label until a late ’70s move to CBS.

The vibist was forced out of action in 1981 after a nearly tragic lawn mower accident. Reaching down to clean some grass off the side of his mower, he saw the tip of his right index finger whiz through the air. “I took it in the house, washed it off, jumped in the car and went to the hospital,” the cool—headed one says, “and they sewed it back on with micro—surgery.” A year later he released one of his most ambitious albums, Solo/Quartet. “I wanted to do something really hard to show my appreciation for being able to play again,” he says.

The 44—year-old began working on Good Bait over a year ago, talking to producer Keepnews about concept, personnel, and material. They chose Philly Joe Jones (“The baddest drummer on the scene today,” according to Hutcherson), the ever-underrated George Cables on piano, Ray Drummond to anchor bass, and Branford Marsalis on saxes. “I wasn’t aware that Branford was into playing as much tenor as he is,” says the leader. “He sounds good on tenor and soprano on the record.”

Keepnews, who had worked with Hutcherson on several McCoy Tyner records in the ’60s, was pleased to feature the vibist on his label’s debut. “I feel that Bobby’s growing stature as a jazz musician is expressed in this way—that the more you are aware of someone as a musician expressing himself, even if his choice of instrument is terribly meaningful and turns out to be the ideal way for him to express himself, he’s still much more an extension of himself than of the specific instrument.”

While starting to formulate thoughts for a follow-up on Landmark, Hutcherson has been performing in San Francisco with an acoustic band led by drummer Tony Williams, and with longtime musical partner, tenor saxist Harold Land. As for his own musical quest, the elusive Hutcherson puts it like this: “The person who masters how to be subtle, how to be ferocious, how to have humility, those are the great players. They understand those different emotions within themselves. It’s not just the note, it‘s the way that note comes about.”

— Robin Tolleson

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McFerrin has been living in San Francisco for about a year and a half. He was born in New York City, the son of two opera singers (He has claimed that he got his singing ability through osmosis). His family moved to southern California when he was eight, and Bobby went on to become a pianist. After high school. Bobby spent time in several bands and several schools, and traveled to exotic spots like Springfield, lllinois and Naples, Florida. Bobby sang in some of his top-40 bands, but it was never more than background parts, adding a third part where it was needed. He played organ in an ice follies show before taking a solo piano bar gig in Salt Lake City in 1977. Bobby was 27, and it was then that he began his scat singing career. “People complimented me on it. and they thought I could scat very well. I guess that kept me going. I had images of being a great balladeer perhaps at one point, but now I hardly sing any ballads. In the course of an evening I may sing three or four, and I’ll do some sambas and straight ahead things. And a cappella things, which I enjoy most of all. That’s my forte, for sure.”

From Salt Lake City, McFerrin moved to New Orleans where he joined another band. This time McFerrin’s role wasn‘t that of pianist, but of singer, and he gained much from the experience. “All these cats had equally as good an ear as I had, and certainly more musical knowledge than I had. Playing with them I had to really lift
myself up, and it was a great education for me. And I always feel the need for that, you know, playing with people I can look up to, people who can pull me up, people who can draw things out of me.

After moving to San Francisco in 1979, McFerrin met jazz singer Jon Hendricks, and was soon invited to tour with him. Through Hendricks’ gigs in New York, Bobby’s name spread through the city’s jazz community, and he has performed there with the likes of Cedar Walton, Idris Muhammad, and Warren Bernhardt. He is scheduled to sing with Count Basie’s band, and is on the roster for this year’s Newport Jazz Festival. On the west coast, McFerrin has worked with pianists Mark Little, Smith Dobson, and Ed Kelly, and he appears on Pharoah Sanders’ Journey To The One album. McFerrin is a frequent attraction in Bay Area jazz clubs, and there is talk of an appearance at this year’s Berkeley jazz Festival. Such an appearance would mean deserved recognition for the vocalist. and a treat for the audience, too.

McFerrin’s instrument is a voice that styles songs with a warm, well-tuned, and spontaneous touch, and yet what people remember most about him is his scat singing and sound effects. Listening to McFerrin you i hear a complete band coming out of the man’s mouth, from drums to acoustic bass to trumpet. The singer explains, “I don’t even think about that when I’m doing sound effects. It’s not that I’m thinking, ‘0kay, now is a good time to do a trumpet sound.’ I just do a sound and then people come to me and say. I like the trombone sound that you get. How do you do it?’ And that’s not usually the way I think about it at all.”

Comparisons with Al Jarreau have been inescapable. But although McFerrin admires Jarreau and has even performed on the same stage with him, he claims not to own a ingle Jarreau album. Bobby says he has been influenced more so by instrumentalists and by “everyday natural kinds of sounds” than by vocalists. He also rejects being categorized as solely a bebop singer. “I guess I’m more into fusion, meaning fusing all different kinds of music. I’m just part of this fusion era, and I guess that describes the kind of things I want to do, because it combines so many different elements. Bebop, rock funk, soul, and folk — I love all those kinds of music. And I love avant garde things.

“I want to be an instrument for improvising. you know spontaneous music,” he continues. “I’ve got all kinds of projects. I’d like to work with a band without a piano player, just bass and drums. I like duo things. I’d like to do things with another vocalist, or just a horn player — do counterpoint. It’s more challenging, because there aren’t so many elements that you can rely on. You have to really rely on yourself as much as you can. That’s what I like. I like challenging myself, not only in music, but in other areas. I’d like to be as strong as I possibly can in all areas of just living.”

The post Bobby McFerrin sings for the Challenge appeared first on Spinterview.