JG & KG

Within a four-hour span yesterday, I picked up two seemingly unrelated pieces of information about a couple of saxophone players. First, I learned that the great tenor-man Johnny Griffin passed away yesterday at his home in France. He was 80 years old. Mr. Griffin was born and raised right here in Chicago, but left the United States for Europe in the early 1960s, finding it easier to make a living as a jazz musician over there.

Second, while having a friendly chat with a seven year-old neighbor -- one of my daughter's playmates -- I learned that he listens to the soulless soprano sax stylings of Kenny G when he has a hard time falling asleep at night.

The strange confluence of my learning, within that four-hour window, about both JG's death and KG's role in my neighbor's life got me thinking. I'd wager that everyone in my office has heard of Kenny G and that most of my co-workers are generally familiar with his music. I'd also wager that no more than two of the roughly twenty people in that same office could tell you a single thing about Johnny Griffin. Sad but true.

If you never had the pleasure of seeing him play at the Jazz Showcase during his annual April visits to Chicago, you missed out. The little man had big chops. Check out this clip from a date at The Village Vanguard.



I don't know whether my little neighbor will ever learn about Griff (or Lockjaw, or Jug, or Long Tall Dexter, etc.), but his night-time reliance on the soporific sounds of Kenny G brought to mind Pat Metheny's screed -- from eight or nine years ago -- about the G-Man's decision to dub his own playing over a Louis Armstrong recording ("What A Wonderful World") and release the CD to his adoring public. (If you're a jazz fan who somehow missed this cyber-squabble years ago, click the link above.) Here's a taste of Mr. Metheny's invective:

Kenny G is not a musician I really had much of an opinion about at all until recently. There was not much about the way he played that interested me one way or the other either live or on records.

* * * *

But he did show a knack for connecting to the basest impulses of the large crowd by deploying his two or three most effective licks (holding long notes and playing fast runs - never mind that there were lots of harmonic clams in them) at the key moments to elicit a powerful crowd reaction (over and over again). The other main thing I noticed was that he also, as he does to this day, played horribly out of tune - consistently sharp.

* * * *

Of course, I am aware of what he has played since, the success it has had, and the controversy that has surrounded him among musicians and serious listeners. This controversy seems to be largely fueled by the fact that he sells an enormous amount of records while not being anywhere near a really great player in relation to the standards that have been set on his instrument over the past sixty or seventy years. And honestly, there is no small amount of envy involved from musicians who see one of their fellow players doing so well financially, especially when so many of them who are far superior as improvisors and musicians in general have trouble just making a living. There must be hundreds, if not thousands of sax players around the world who are simply better improvising musicians than Kenny G on his chosen instruments. It would really surprise me if even he disagreed with that statement.

* * * *

But, like I said at the top, this relatively benign view was all "until recently".

Not long ago, Kenny G put out a recording where he overdubbed himself on top of a 30+ year old Louis Armstrong record, the track "What a Wonderful World". With this single move, Kenny G became one of the few people on earth I can say that I really can't use at all - as a man, for his incredible arrogance to even consider such a thing, and as a musician, for presuming to share the stage with the single most important figure in our music.

This type of musical necrophilia - the technique of overdubbing on the preexisting tracks of already dead performers - was weird when Natalie Cole did it with her dad on "Unforgettable" a few years ago, but it was her dad. When Tony Bennett did it with Billie Holiday it was bizarre, but we are talking about two of the greatest singers of the 20th century who were on roughly the same level of artistic accomplishment. When Larry Coryell presumed to overdub himself on top of a Wes Montgomery track, I lost a lot of the respect that I ever had for him - and I have to seriously question the fact that I did have respect for someone who could turn out to have such unbelievably bad taste and be that disrespectful to one of my personal heroes.

But when Kenny G decided that it was appropriate for him to defile the music of the man who is probably the greatest jazz musician that has ever lived by spewing his lame-ass, jive, pseudo bluesy, out-of-tune, noodling, wimped out, fucked up playing all over one of the great Louis's tracks (even one of his lesser ones), he did something that I would not have imagined possible. He, in one move, through his unbelievably pretentious and calloused musical decision to embark on this most cynical of musical paths, shit all over the graves of all the musicians past and present who have risked their lives by going out there on the road for years and years developing their own music inspired by the standards of grace that Louis Armstrong brought to every single note he played over an amazing lifetime as a musician. By disrespecting Louis, his legacy and by default, everyone who has ever tried to do something positive with improvised music and what it can be, Kenny G has created a new low point in modern culture - something that we all should be totally embarrassed about - and afraid of. We ignore this, "let it slide", at our own peril.

* * * *

There ARE some things that are sacred - and amongst any musician that has ever attempted to address jazz at even the most basic of levels, Louis Armstrong and his music is hallowed ground. To ignore this trespass is to agree that NOTHING any musician has attempted to do with their life in music has any intrinsic value - and I refuse to do that. (I am also amazed that there HASN'T already been an outcry against this among music critics - where ARE they on this?????!?!?!?!, magazines, etc.). Everything I said here is exactly the same as what I would say to Gorelick if I ever saw him in person. and if I ever DO see him anywhere, at any function - he WILL get a piece of my mind and (maybe a guitar wrapped around his head.)

Maybe my little buddy is making the best possible use of Kenny G's music by using it to put himself to sleep.

Rest in peace, Johnny Griffin.

Papa's Got A Brand New . . . Set Of Hair Rollers?

As if the news of the day -- mortgage meltdowns, bank runs, endless war, and yesterday's big-screen release of "Mamma Mia!" -- wasn't depressing enough, it pained me to read Guy Trebay's piece in today's New York Times about Christie's recent auction of 328 items that once belonged to the Godfather of Soul.

Christie's held the July 17 auction in an effort to raise money to pay down the outstanding bills and taxes owed by James Brown's estate -- an estate over which many heirs and would-be heirs are now battling.

Mr. Trebay's account hammered home the weirdness of the event:

"The most curious lot of the day was not the bracelet, however, or the singer’s platform shoe collection ($15,000) or the paranoid note he once scrawled on loose leaf paper alleging that his record label was out to kill him ($7,000.) It was not the suite of red leather furniture that conjured up images of the recreation room on a mother ship ($40,000.)

It was the single-lot offering of 80 hair rollers, accompanied by spray styling products like Smooth Sheen, Finisheen and Volumax, a Polaroid of Brown with his hair up in curlers, and a variety of picks and combs.

* * * *

After spirited bidding, Lot 242, simply labeled “Hair Supplies,” was hammered down to a private collector for $4,800, plus the auction house’s 25 percent buyer’s premium."

Couldn't the Godfather's estate have figured out a more tasteful way to raise some cash? For example, there has got to be a wealth of old James Brown performance videos out there. I've been trying for years to track down a decent copy of James on the T.A.M.I. Show, but I've had no luck. I realize the JB estate may not own any rights to that particular video, but surely it owns rights to a lot of other great footage. James was too shrewd a businessman to have given all that away.

Until some of those wonderful old JB concerts are released on video, we fans will have to content ourselves with clips like this one:

The Man and his band were just too cool . . . .

The Secret Life of Collier, Mitty

It's telling that I have to rely upon folks from outside the country -- in this case, the good people at Kent Records in the UK -- to fill me in on a lot of great music that came out of Chicago back in the 1960s.

A couple of days ago, Kent released "Shades of Mitty Collier: The Chess Singles, 1961-1968," which compiles all fifteen of Mitty's Chess 45s, plus several of her B-sides. I took a shot on this disc even though I was familiar with only a couple of Mitty's records. I'm delighted I did because this one's a keeper. Why she wasn't a major star, I'll never know.

If you're not familiar with Mitty, check out this clip from Hoss Allen's mid-1960s TV show, "The Beat," which was filmed in Nashville -- and is now available on DVD courtesy of, go figure, Germany's Bear Family label. Here, Mitty is lip-synching her biggest hit, "I Had A Talk With My Man," while Clarence "Gatemouth" Brown is pretending to lead the band.



(Although "The Beat" did feature some lip-synching, the six DVDs, which feature twenty-six episodes, showcase a lot of blistering live performances.)

Mitty turned 67 a few days ago and, rumor has it, still runs a church here in Chicago. I should probably make a pilgrimage soon.

Father's Day

The folks at Hallmark tell me this is my big day. But it's not. I love being a father 365 days a year, and I'm grateful for each day I have with my kids -- even the days when they do or say things that make me want to bang my head against the wall.

My dad dropped dead at age 39, when I was just 14 years old, so I value greatly each moment I have with my kids.

One of the many things my dad sparked in me was a love of music. He didn't play an instrument, and he certainly never had money to take me to concerts, but through the magic of long-playing records and AM radio, he introduced me to much of the music I still listen to today. I've tried to spark that same love of music in my kids, and I have tried -- probably as a tribute to my dad -- to pass along to them a lot of the same songs, stories, and musical insights he shared with me.

So thanks, Dad, for turning me on to Little Richard, Johnny Cash, Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, Charlie Rich, Bo Diddley, Ike & Tina, CCR, Johnny Horton, Arthur Prysock, Wilson Pickett, Roger Miller, Ray Price, Ray Charles, Willie Nelson, Jim Croce, and Fats Domino.

Thanks for introducing me to "Black Slacks" (Joe Bennett & The Sparkletones), "Chantilly Lace" (J.P. Richardson a/k/a The Big Bopper), "The Johnny Cash Show," "Jubilee Showcase," and "Hee-Haw."

And thanks for sitting me down, way back in 1971, with the lyrics (printed on the Monument record sleeve) to Kris Kristofferson's "The Silver Tongued Devil And I" album. That little exercise taught a curious seven year-old that poetry and popular music weren't mutually exclusive.

Kindergarten Meets the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame

My youngest child finished a wonderful year of kindergarten today. A couple of days ago, the kindergarten class, along with many parents, grandparents, and teachers, filled the school gym for the annual Kindergarten Talent Show.

When the show was announced, my daughter had to decide which of her "talents" she wanted to display. In an effort to keep things simple (and keep her stress level low), I suggested to her that she memorize and recite a couple of poems by Shel Silverstein or Ogden Nash. She politely rebuffed my suggestion, telling me she wanted to play the piano and sing. The catch, of course, is that my kid doesn't play the piano.

Having hung around enough of my band rehearsals, however, she knew that plenty of folks had made hay (and even gold records) out of some basic chord progressions. She favored the I-vi-IV-V progression in the key of C, and ended up parlaying that bit of knowledge into a heart-felt talent-show performance of Dion's "Teenager in Love" that made my wife and me smile.

On June 2, while my daughter was honing her performance of a classic by one member of The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, another member -- the sorely under-appreciated Bo Diddley -- passed away.

Bo's passing reminded me of another special moment I shared with my youngest daughter at the start of her kindergarten year. Last September, during a break in one of my Sunday morning basketball games at the local YMCA, she brought her little basketball onto the floor and began to dribble it for me. She told me to listen to her dribbling pattern -- Boom, Boom, Boom . . . . BOOM, BOOM. I laughed because I knew what we she was thinking. She said, "Daddy, I'm dribbling with a Bo Diddley beat."

It was a priceless moment I will never forget. God bless Bo Diddley.

St. Louis Sit-In

I had to travel to St. Louis on business a few days ago, but during my free time I was able to catch up with my bandmates -- and good buddies -- Rob Endicott and Neal Connors (a/k/a The St. Louis Horns). In fact, I even had a chance to sit in with Rob and the rest of the guys in the Voodoo Blues Band during their weekly jam at Hammerstone's in Soulard. Thanks again to singer/guitarist/bandleader Raul Consuegra for allowing me take part in the fun.

As enjoyable as it was to jump on stage with a fine band in St. Louis, I got an even bigger kick out of something I saw at the bar later that evening. After the Voodoo Blues Band finished its show, a two-piece act -- at least, I thought it was a two-piece act -- took the stage to play until closing time.

The front-man played a beautiful Gretsch electric guitar and sang a lot of old country songs. He appeared to know hundreds of tunes, and he did a nice job of keeping the crowd engaged. His companion onstage was a guy with an upright bass.

He was the guy who really held my attention.

For starters, no one in the bar could hear a note this "bassist" played, so I'm not sure why he was even on the stage. I only stuck around for five or six songs, but it was obvious to me that this low-rent Mingus was playing some variation of "air bass." The catch was that this guy played "air bass" on an actual instrument, and he did it during an actual show.

In any event, my man worked the neck of that bass with fingerings and facial expressions worthy of Ray Brown or Ron Carter. As for his right-hand technique, this guy switched from pizzicato to bow no less than two or three times during each two- or three-minute song. There was no musical reason for these random switches, but since he wasn't really playing music, it didn't matter.

He definitely looked the part with his tousled hair and his old suede jacket. He even occupied prime on-stage real estate just a few feet to the right of the singer, yet somehow the singer managed to ignore him completely.

Of course, I didn't have the singer's discipline -- so I was riveted.

I asked around, but none of the regulars at the bar could explain the man's musical role to me. They told me only that he lived in the neighborhood and "sat in" with the singer nearly every week.

But since that guitar-pickin' front-man didn't seem to mind, who was I to complain?

How Did I Miss This One?

Time keeps ticking, and the number of great books I've yet to read keeps growing. So, too, does the number of wonderful movies I've yet to watch. (And, as Kris Kristofferson noted forty years back, "There's still a lot of drinks that I ain't drunk, and lots of pretty thoughts that I ain't thunk.")

But I finally set aside two and one-half hours for a film that I'd been meaning to watch for years, and I'm glad I made the time for it. It's one that I'd wanted to check out as much for its score as for its acting, its script, and its direction.

Talk about a movie-making Dream Team: Jimmy Stewart, Otto Preminger, and Duke Ellington . . .

Not only was watching "Anatomy of a Murder" (1959) a great way to spend an evening, it reminded me again just how worthless most of today's movie "soundtracks" are. I'm also fairly sure that scores like Duke's help keep my West Coast compadre Alan Elliott inspired to continue writing music for movies and TV shows.

Scoring films has become a wholly under-valued art form in our throw-away, least common denominator society. But that's a topic for another day.

Duke set the bar high with just about everything he did; the music he wrote for "Anatomy of a Murder" is no exception.

Thank You (Falettinme Be Home With My Family Tomorrow Night)

If you're one who likes to fly frequently, you know it's always a fair bet that your airline will cancel your flight due to "weather" -- even if it's seventy degrees and sunny in both the city from which you're leaving and the city to which you're traveling.

If you're one who likes to Sly frequently -- Sly Stone, that is -- you know it was always a fair bet that Sly, back in his touring days, would cancel a show in your city (for just about any reason) rather than perform.

Nevertheless, when tickets went on sale a few weeks ago for Sly & The Family Stone's May 3 concert at Chicago's Vic Theatre, I thought long and hard about lining up on a Saturday morning to buy some. After all, it's Sly Stone. On top of that, Sly hasn't been to our fair city -- at least, as far as we know -- in many years. (Chicago photographer Jim Newberry, whose fine camera work graces this post, shot a Sly show in suburban Chicago back in 1982. Be sure to check out Mr. Newberry's impressive photo-blog.)

My friends and I joked about whether Sly would even show up for the May date at the Vic. In the end, I decided not to buy tickets in advance, figuring I could always get some on the night of the show.

Turns out, my instincts were right. Sly bailed out a few days ago, and no makeup date has been announced. Looks like I'll be hanging out at home tomorrow night. It's a family affair.

Country Music Treasure Trove

A few weeks ago, Time-Life released an amazing set called "Opry Video Classics." This eight-DVD package contains more than one hundred live (no lip-synching in this set) performances from country superstars like Webb Pierce, Patsy Cline, The Louvin Brothers, and Ray Price. Many of these clips were filmed at the Ryman Auditorium between the 1950s and 1970s.

There's no fluff or filler in this compilation. It's just wall-to-wall great music. I'm talking about duets by Conway and Loretta, George and Melba, George and Tammy, Porter and Dolly, and John and June. Where else are you going to find live performances by Jean Shepard, Del Reeves, Dave Dudley, and Don Gibson?

Check out this clip from Connie Smith (featuring steel great Weldon Myrick), which was shot back in October 1966, when Connie's now-husband Marty Stuart was just eight years old:












If, like me, you're a fan of hardcore country music, you'll want to grab this set while it's still on the market.

A Most Productive Week For Shotgun Willie

Willie Nelson turns 75 today, and he shows few signs of slowing down. Willie's been an American institution for several decades, but had he retired from music back in 1963, when he was a clean-shaven songwriter, he'd still merit his own flavor of Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream.

Why? Well, during one seven-day stretch in Houston -- probably in 1959 or 1960 -- he wrote "Crazy," "Funny How Time Slips Away," and "Night Life." By 1963, each of those tunes had become big hits (for other singers).

Forty-five years later, we now know just how big those songs have become. Simply put, during that one week in Houston, Willie penned three standards. Quite a feat.

I'm not sure what Willie's doing for his 75th birthday, but when he turned 70, he celebrated with an all-star concert that featured a lot of his friends and admirers. There's one clip from that concert that always brings tears to my eyes.

Maybe you can make it through this rendition of Leon Russell's "A Song For You" with dry eyes, but I can't and neither could Willie. About a month after this performance, Willie's good buddy Ray Charles was diagnosed with liver cancer. Ray died about a year later. Watch the video. These guys loved each other.



Happy Birthday, Willie.