Oscar and Me

In 1962, other than a few albums, Down Beat magazine was my sole connection with the world of jazz. I purchased a subscription for an inside view of the musicians and the music they were creating. In fact, the following year a free Pacific Jazz recording of the Gil Evans Orchestra came with renewal. Those faces -- Miles, Monk, Sonny, Dizzy, Bill Evans, and my hero Oscar Peterson -- were permanent fixtures in a genre deep in superior craftsmen and staggering artistry.

While savoring an issue of Down Beat I came across an advertisement: "Win A Scholarship To Study With Oscar Peterson. “Blood soared through my arteries sending a chill the length of my body. Oscar Peterson? The fastest hands east of El Paso? The heir apparent to Art Tatum? I thought just maybe I'd be able to watch my hero play then coax him to reveal a few secrets, those which made him such a formidable pianist. There must be a jazz God! The mind began to tease. All I could imagine was my thin frame looming above Oscar's imposing presence and what seemed a 40-foot ebony grand piano with Mr. Peterson's oversized fingers striking those chords I could never stay with long enough to grasp the interior voices. I imagined saying on command,  “Freeze!” and Oscar would pause, sustain one fat 10-finger chord of sweet resonance, a sound I heard my hero play so many times before on record. He'd hesitate, then invite me to slip my fingers under his hands, time enough to commit the mysterious harmonies to manuscript.

I enlisted brother Wayne on bass and good buddy Charlie Craig on drums, recorded a demo tape then mailed it to The Advanced School of Contemporary Music, 21 Park Road, Toronto, ON Canada. Now, I wasn't ignorant of Canada like most Americans. I didn't envision a large sheet of ice transporting starving moose, forsaken trappers and disheveled penguins. In fact, quite the contrary.

When I was 12, I'd begun collecting travel brochures from around the world with just one lick of a three cent stamp, an envelope and superb coaching from National Geographic. Within months I had a box of glossy brochures from places as distant as India and New Brunswick. Canada's landscape seemed far more manicured than America's, like a place where Arnold Palmer could drive a golf ball along 3000 miles of exquisite greens, from Nova Scotia to British Columbia.

A few weeks passed before I received a Western Union Telegram announcing I'd won a partial scholarship, half tuition paid. I was gone after that. I envisioned shaking Mr. Peterson's hand and some magic current passing between us that would transform my fists into flaming fireballs.

My parents agreed to let me go, allowing me a month-long reprieve as long as I could find lodging with other Christian-minded individuals in Toronto. An elderly couple living at 11 Curie Avenue off Coxwell Avenue offered to house me for a fee. Over two years I had saved nearly $700 dollars playing the music of two Glens, Grey and Miller, with a 16-piece dance band, mostly at Catholic dances and functions. One hundred-twenty five went to the school, $120 for lodgings and $20 for my wallet. The rest remained securely in my bank account for school.

When we crossed into Canada, my father acted as if we'd entered the Twilight Zone. Cars passing at a swift tempo, and right on red totally screwed up his sense of law. Downtown Toronto, bustling with trolleys confused him so much, he vowed returning only long enough to retrieve his son. My surrogate guardians resembled an English version of Andy of Mayberry. I had my own Aunt Bea to upset. In fact, breakfast compared to something starving crows would plug their nostrils at before downing. Orange marmalade on toast and what looked like the half-baked yoke of alien fowl.

I was totally nervous the moment I entered the brick house which was school, across from where the Hudson Bay Store now resides. To me it was an address of mythic invention. This was the house where Oscar hung -- Ray Brown, Ed Thigpen and Dizzy would drop by, a place where the elite jazz community held the secret jazz codes to fluid articulate improvisation. Day one, we were separated into groups, A, B, C, and D and given a decisive ear training test. I swear, the changes went by so fast I thought I was listening to a Shostakovich symphony. It was only when a medium tempo blues rolled by that I began to identify the form. Oscar confessed the opening salvo was no more than rhythm changes. Anyway, I was only 16, the next-to-youngest body on the premises. A thorough grounding in theory earned me placement in C group.

The next few days were given to lessons in ear training and theory. Ray Brown and Ed Thigpen were constant company. I became so immersed in music I'd practice eight hour days, then drag my tired legs across town to Aunt Bea, who by now was less than enamored with my erratic schedule. I didn't see Oscar again until the second week when this navy blue Mercedes convertible pulls up. The only other juvenile on the premises (a terrific drummer from Minneapolis) and I slipped out back and examined the master's ride. We were awestruck. I'd never had seen such luxurious creamy brown leather in an automobile before, especially in southern Indiana where everyone drove Chevys and Fords. The interior looked to me like an expensive item of European furniture.

When Oscar finally arrived, a lump lodged in the pipe of my throat. I thought of all the things I wanted to say to my hero, but stood there like petrified lumber. I thought about the hours I spent locked to the charming harmonics he'd scripted for the West Side Story album. Those arrangements! I wanted to see the manuscripts. More than anything, I just wanted to see where Peterson's fingers lay when they made such glorious tones.

It wasn't long before I learned Peterson didn't teach as much as inspire. He'd play a few passages, then speak about the process. It did nothing to alleviate the frustration building in me. I had in mind a visual statement, something I could see and apply. It didn't happen. His hands were faster live than on record. What I did witness was positions. Places where thick chords began and ended.

Classes passed much the same until I trapped my hero in his ground floor office. I spoke earnestly of my admiration for him and asked for other music to enlighten the heart. Oscar graciously pulled a recording of Claire Fischer called Surging Ahead and Junior Mance's Live at The Village Gate for me to delve into. He said Mance played the blues like no other and Fischer was on to something he found riveting. That was all I needed to hear. Those few words were enough to throw me full tilt into jazz.

As the month passed I quickly ran out of my small savings and began walking the distance to and from school. Although trolley fare was no more than 14 cents, I spent my savings on restaurants, something I had little experience with in my home town. I walked the barren streets of Toronto through the folk-crazed haunts in Yorkville sipping the occasional lemonade. A vacant parking lot across the road entertained a barn-like structure I would soon learn was a popular jazz haunt called the First Floor Club. Due to strict liquor laws, the fire escape of the First Floor Club was the only vantage point I was allowed a view of the world inside a Canadian jazz club. One glorious evening I peered through an open window for hours watching pianist Lennie Tristano serve up what seemed to me Bach playing jazz, on the metal staircase. Another Sunday afternoon I slipped in for a jam session with Archie Alleyne and Kenny Baldwin only to be tossed half-way through the opening strains of some unidentified song.

I lived and loved jazz. I also relished my third floor private study where Ray Brown would unexpectedly invade with his bass and try his best to confine my hands to the middle section of the keyboard, in an effort to correct my scattershot tendencies. Brown knew I was searching for the mysterious sounds the great one kept inside and it was only a matter of time before I cracked the code. Brown's patience and advice paid off. By the time I left there I was hearing intervals and harmonies I'd never understood before.

It's been 37 years since I lived such a carefree summer but the memories remain as vivid as daily life. I've mentioned it to Oscar on a couple occasions and to Ray Brown, who first mumbled and then sipped from a drink. Before I walked away he said "What did they call you back then?" I said, "Louisville." Brown paused then said, "I remember you, you don't look the same." I hope not. Back then I was a borderline nerdball like most other teenage musicians, living and breathing music and just finding my way in the big city, one that now seems more like a village. All the same, it was a childhood dream, one fully realized. A real hero, and a real believer.

 

 

Reggie Bovaird – From Elmo to Elfish

The passing of big Reg came as both a surprise and the feeling some things are inevitable.

Reg and I were long time friends dating back to the Nickelodeon days when I was nearly tossed for wearing a tank top and jeans. Reg interceded and told everyone lay-off – this is Bill King ‘Superdad’ – borrowed from my 1972 Capital Records session, ‘ Goodbye Superdad’ – a fairly simplistic take on the antics of G. Gordon Liddy of Watergate fame. From that encounter our lives were entwined the next few decades.

Reg pulled me in for Frank Zappa hang at Nickelodeon – George Duke on hand – the Dylan drop by. He’d payphone call and say, “ Get your ass down here, it’s big.”

When Reg jumped to the Elmo the next three years were a blur of music, pot and hilarity.

Reg would come down to the band's dressing room before performance and remind us it was stage time, pull out a joint and prep the band. There were a couple posts bound by dry wall with holes in them where we’d deposit the roaches. Every band did this. A decade later while playing with my reggae band we ripped apart in a moment of desperation and a pile coming flowing out like a river of shit. We rolled and smoked and nothing happen only lung burn.

I got into to hanging at Reg’s hippie pad directly across from the Elmo. Reg had original San Francisco posters of the Airplane, Janis Joplin, Quicksilver Messenger Service – the history of a generation reviving Haight Asbury. He was a collector and custodian of the times.

Reg survived selling pot. He was the music man’s broker. We all dropped by get high and listened to great sides – talked shit and slithered along Spadina sucking up Vietnamese cuisine. Reg was my listening post. Anytime I recorded a side or two, I’d head over to Reg's, inhale and we’d review listen. He’d state his mind. All good.

By 1976, I was on my way to California missing the insanity around the Rolling Stones. I knew this must have been the big pay day for the club. I had no idea how this event would radically change the club.

One of my last gigs in 70’s was playing downstairs below Buddy Guy. Reg dropped by the keyboards and told me Buddy  wanted to meet the bass player. I had no idea who he was talking about. A set passes and Reg is back – Buddy wants to meet the bass player. I tell Reg – do you see one on stage. This was when I was rigged up with a small Korg two octave syth on top of my clavinet C. Eventually, Guy and band come down with Reg and walk over, ‘Who’s the motherfucker on bass?” I raise my hand – “Are you shitting me – that’s your bass?” I explained to him about the syth and he says – ‘that shit come up through the floor and up through my feet – you one bad dude.” Reg looked at me and said – I told you.

Those encounters weren’t uncommon around Reg. He made everyone a member of the team beloved and comfortable. I never saw him fight only resolve a crisis.

Eventually, we lost track of each other when he hibernated somewhere in the jungles of Costa Rica. I had no idea at the time he was fucking himself up.

One day he returns and calls. He temporarily moved in with his brother then on to a small room in an old nun’s quarters in High Park.

I visit and cop some weed and listen to more music. Reg was set up like he liked it – a bed, a couple young girls, bag of weed and whatever and now Elfish.

Where the hell did that come from?

This was one of those fabricated long convoluted stories about Elvis being on a boat and falling in the ocean and returns as Reg the Elfish. Reg even had a papier-mâché headdress made for the show with bat cape.

By now folks are starting to question my man’s sanity. The telephone conversations got longer and more bizarre, coming at all hours.

Reg had three large garbage bags nearby busting at the seams. I asked – 'why don’t you throw your trash out' of which he responded, 'those are my losing lotto slips. I keep them to remind me how much coin I’ve dropped down the drain.'

Not long after, Reg showed me his poetry which was shaping up nicely, in fact, he'd call most nights and update. He wanted me to record background music. That I did and he eventually got his recording out and began performing. Yet, through all the positives the late night calls were becoming more incoherent and intolerable at times. We were now getting into the, ‘I need help zone. ‘

Friends and acquaintances offered help and advice but without solid intervention and willingness, the train wouldn't stop until derailed. That happened with his first bout of cancer.

When Reg’s death was announced the other day it came as an awakening too all – the good times as we knew then were gone. The sound of the Elmo pinball machine, Reg’s long curly ponytail, the oversized man with a big heart and laugh was silenced.

When you look back on people’s lives even the most troubled it truly is the times they were the big spirit in the room and covered the surface with love and kindness we always remember. I don’t count that Elfish nonsense as part of the real story. It’s what happened between sets at the Elmo – it’s Mingus, Ramsey Lewis, Sonny Rollins, Grover Washington Jr.,U2, The Police, Elvis Costello, The Ramones, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Jimi Hendrix, Downchild Blues Band, Roomful of Blues – need I say even Peter Allen. How about National Lampoon with Gilda Radner, Bill Murray, John Belushi. Everyone one of the folks was graced with Reg’s attention, kindness and goodness. So be it!

New France Festival 2013 (A Camera's View)

Travel photography is all about finding unique situations – the view from above, the close-up in a crowd – an unexpected portrait – movement, light, detail. All came in play at the 2013 edition of the popular New France Festival in old Quebec City.

The city was momentarily costumed in its 17^th and 18^th century roots with concerts, parades, dress, food and beverage. The streets overflowed in historic merriment all in centuries old tradition.

It began at the Port of Quebec with the off landing of the L’Aigle d’Or which carried with it 36 women known as the ‘King’s Daughter’s’ sponsored by Louis XIV. In fact, this year's theme was built around the impactful event (1663-73). In total 800 women made the voyage.

These were pioneering young maidens sent from France some 350 years ago to populate New France. They were drawn from overflowing Catholic orphanages; women as young as thirteen years of age. All were rewarded with a dowry and potential spouses. There was a brief  time allotted to either accept or seek another male partner. If a mate was not found acceptable life was served in a convent.

To Our Heroines was a fitting tribute to the women who made the near impossible journey, survived the harsh winter climate and with great strength and resilience are the foundation and legacy which nurtures contemporary Quebec.

No province stands as dissimilar to the rest of Canada as Quebec. The province addresses  heritage and culture with great compassion and commitment without being the unwanted quest in the room. It’s been a long battle to preserve language, culture and identity; all worth the struggle.

During the week we dressed as noblemen and dames - walked the streets as though locked in a time machine. Weaved in and out of crowds of visitors all with cameras and camcorders and smart phones lifted to document the moment - then a brief reflection into a past forever enshrined at the Museum of Civilization, Naval Museum, The Ursuline Garden; a moment in the monastery’s courtyard.

Quebec City is a sumptuous treat for anyone with a camera. Built on the slopes and sides of the Laurentian Mountains and fitted with cobblestone streets, narrow alcoves and long pathways – the eye needs to pause and examine the possibilities. Restaurants facing the main streets are fitted with decorative hanging pots colored with seasonal flowers which become more visual against the light shaded Trenton limestone building carved from rock formed during the Ordovician Period, some 427 million years back.

One exhibit that keeps reappearing in memory – Paris on Stage (1889-1914) at Musse de la Civilization.

The Belle E’Poque Paris comes to life the moment you place the earpiece from autoguide firmly in head with cafes, orchestras, bustling street life, circus costumes, sculptures, photographs, automobiles, velocipedes, cinemagraphs reverberating in a carnival like atmosphere.

The exhibit runs until February 23, 2014.

 Fall is near and the camera begs another journey. Keep in mind the leaves of summer paint the region in rainbow schemes as winter's chill descends. No better time to capture Quebec City. The palate is in your hands.

New France Festival Parade
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6DjuajjL7qc&feature=share&list=UUcQ7bDBeAcHzY-8ooA55oPg

Forge/Blacksmithing
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e_3zrjT2JMc&feature=share&list=UUcQ7bDBeAcHzY-8ooA55oPg

Short Tour of Quebec City
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bTgGL7Ok2NM&feature=share&list=UUcQ7bDBeAcHzY-8ooA55oPg

Cirque du Soleil
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bTgGL7Ok2NM&feature=share&list=UUcQ7bDBeAcHzY-8ooA55oPg

If it’s Good – It’s Always Good!

I was thinking about how much nothing is played on radio. Mr. Fix-it is upstairs painting our bedroom and Kris adjusted radio to country for him and the house is sweltering in cowboy whines and cringe worthy lyrics.

We have all worked on projects we believe deserved more than a passing hearing that come with exceptional performances. But like so much in life – fair is elusive and reserved for those who can afford paying for it.

I was reading a post about Linda Ronstadt earlier and the fact she’s battling Parkinson and barely staying afloat. The royalty checks for singers who never wrote their own hits are a far cry from the preserved income of composers and writers.

My road conversations with Martha Reeves constantly returned to the ten number one hits and the $250 pay day. She didn’t write either. Martha is in fine health and can tour – sign autographs, photos whatever and fill her purse with decent returns.

Those far from the bump and grind shows that now masquerade as rock and pop have a difficult time battling for attention or point of entry.

I must admit – living on the fringe of the music business has its advantages. Humility is not something you come by late in life – it’s an overcoat you wear every day and all winter.

We have been thrown unmercifully into the unknown and left with a host of new tools - I for one embrace.

There are projects I’ve produced that stick to the ribs and cause me considerable angst. One such – Kinga - It’s Magic.

You’re in the studio and the atmosphere is just right – the player’s top notch and the artist – super. The tracks come out far better than anticipated. You finish, master and drop in mail and nothing.

You play for friends and they respond as friends then project evaporates into the distant realms.

So, I thought deeply about this and my pal Kinga – who I thought was as good as anything coming along the jazz highway and decided to take another route and post on YouTube. Bingo – Kinga has found an audience and those tracks that sat cramped on a CD have life for the first time - which brings me to this observation. The biggies may have had their moment in the sun but as time passes we all play on the same ground. Music is made these days to be disposable and refilled the next day. If the music is good on the downbeat it will always be good and someone will eventually discover.

Congrats Kinga… the fun is in the doing!

http://youtu.be/2DZv_MfcJ2Y

We Own A Blender!

There are things you buy in a lifetime that serve purpose or disappear from sight. There are a few that observe you in plain view you rarely see – thus me and the discovery of our gorgeous Braun blender.

I can’t say how many years the Braun has hibernated in the corner of the kitchen counter without recognition from me until two days ago.

 My early twenties I became a blender addict. There wasn’t a thing I wouldn’t stuff down it’s throat then marvel at the churn and grind and final soup.

I was way ahead of the smoothie curve. If it was fruit, I filled the jar - churn and consume. I then moved on to vegetables. I stopped after a while when I couldn’t get the reds stand out over the greens - and that taste. The fridge was packed with my concoctions.

The best was the papaya vomit. I had a few other health freak pals who would  sample whatever was in our fridge. Living on organic Gothic Avenue, brown rice saluting wheat fields was on our community flag. So, a few potential victims would drop in here and there and I’d pull something exotic from fridge and we’d bust open.

I had a few pals who looked curiously at the papaya lava and asked to try. Honestly, I couldn’t lift my snozz above; it was totally repugnant. It was also unanimous – necks would spin, that gagging serenades and then the up chuck. For me – just another moment of BK comedy.

Come along son Jesse.

Kris and I wanted our baby eat the best - most healthy food possible – thus home doctor blended action. I made up these health stews with all good earth products. The carrots, peas, corn, … all melted down to gravy for the bottle.

Jesse downed the orange and strawberry stuff but had no means of defending against the carrots and squash smoothies.

A few weeks go by and Kris says; “Doesn’t Jesse look a bit orange.” I take a closer look and realize it’s not Man Tan. So we run him to the family doctor who then tells us Jesse has had a dozen or so to many carrots and may one day morph into a stalking vegetable. We stopped.

From my early days in Hollywood – the blender and smoothy were my tool and fuel to play seven days a week basketball and piano.

During my latter years it was raw fruits until the past year when Starbucks moved into the neighborhood. Now, it’s hot chocolate and muffin. So wrong!

Three days back I had an epiphany – bring back the smoothy. I ask Kris whatever happened to our old blender – the one that sounded like a John Deere tractor. She tells me that one died back in the early nineties and there’s a nice one on the kitchen counter. I have such a man’s keen eye – that means I only see what I  choose to see and if not identified – I’m totally blind. There before resides a gorgeous five speed Braun that’s been eluding me the past six years. I stood and quizzed the me- WTF?- where have you been old friend.

I can’t express my excitement. Off to Fiesta Farms and back with strawberries, oranges, yogurt, bananas, peaches, blueberries and into blender bowl. Churn, churn, churn, churn. Pop the lid, down the hatch and welcome back the seventies. Dammit, it still tastes the same; all slimy and loaded with fruit gravel. Hmmmm .. what about an onion, garlic, red pepper and pumpkin chaser or maybe a Cronut burger/ fried Mars bar smoothie.

Oh Canada, thou are not Syria.

The rain washed away the dry and parched bestowing this morning freshness not witnessed in many areas of the world. Opposite side of the planet, war ravaged Syria is saturated in fractured rubble, toxic dust - the scent of death and the pristine morning and calm we share is only a distant dream.

We get the glorious privilege of waking from sleep to walk into the kitchen, plug in the tea kettle, let the dogs out and collect the morning paper absent an artillery shell or savage attack.

I look at that region of the world wound so tight in grievances and religion and hatred and wonder how they ever came about. How did great societies emerge from such dissonance?

There was a time people viewed Canada as remote and flyover – not anymore!

We have serious economic and equality issues but none that can’t be solved through dialogue, cooperation and fairness – things for us that are not impossible tasks.

No so far side of the world.

This final week of August leading to Labor Day is most likely the most laid back of the year. Most everyone turns invisible except for us Facebook squawkers. There’s a quiet about life – even traffic pretends to be subdued. The week ahead is idyllic for cottage living and just doing nothing.

The hard rains of June and July irrigated backyard gardens and everyone is delighting in the size and weight of their organic conceptions. The markets are colored ripe from end to end.

Today, I will once again tour the streets on my bike – look at the rows of houses, front yards covered in green, hear the summer’s end laughter of children who have not yet concerned themselves about returning to school and smile a smile of true individual freedom.

I will also mourn those places in the world where even a word spoken out of place can lead to sudden death and know we have chosen wisely. The months and years to come thousands and thousands will follow in our footsteps.

Oh Canada!

The Disconnect Between Hollywood and Music..

I get the Bob Lefsetz letter and read it like most industry folks and enjoy the whining and pining and the serious advice concerning really making it in music; mostly in Bob’s world.

Last night’s VMA awards pretty much summed up what’s to be achieved in the cartoon setting now referred to as the height of music accomplishment in Hollywood.

Gone are the Phil Spectors, Brian Wilsons, the Byrds .. enter the dancing zoo clowns.

The Miley Cyrus performance with bears and WTF was more evidence the best place to be is a far distance and just enjoy music for what it truly is – a communal conversation. Why would anyone subject themselves to such humiliating stage play?

Rhianna, Selena Gomez, Nikki Minaj – hilarious! The guys – not funny enough.

Honestly, two minutes of scratchy blues man Robert Johnson smokes these musically illiterate shams.

The say all politics is local – same goes for music.

The three ring circus comes to town a few times a year – you drop a few coins – watch the dancing bare all – laugh, get dazzled by the glitter and strobes and back to the flat screen.

All other days it’s home grown. The bands you know, the players you trust. No big shine or ass in face just folks doing what they’ve been doing since instruments were shaped – playing and picking, talking music. The fun stuff!

Cyrus act has nothing to do with child fantasy vs. adulthood. Young Elvis was marketed by a shrewd manipulator but he had big talent and staying power. Cyrus is just trying to get seen and compete with others in the same messy territory. She will die a quick populous death like Millie Vanilli. Nothing radical about what she did - it's been around decades as they remind us in dancehalls of Jamaica. It's just that Cyrus has no rhythm or charm or skill to pull it off. If she did - she wouldn't be the big laugh today.