Eddie Cano / Cole Porter & Me

Articles about jazz were a frequent feature of “men’s” magazines in the 1950’s. After the emergence of Playboy in 1953 a flock of “knock-offs” took flight in the mid 1950’s such as Caper, Eve, and Escapade to name a few.

The September 1956 issue of Escapade published an extended article by Joe Knefler that documented an RCA Victor recording session for the first album by Eddie Cano as leader. Escapade arranged for staff writer Joe Knefler and photographer Erwin Lang to attend the recording session at Radio Recorders on May 22, 1956, the second session for Cano’s first album as leader.

ESCAPADE GOES TO A PROGRESSIVE JAZZ RECORDING SESSION

“Only on rare occasions is an authentically new and exciting musical sound captured through the electronic marvels of modern hi-fi tape and wax recording. Such occasions are rare because they demand an exacting blend of sensitive creative talent, a competent team of sound and recording engineers, and the financial wherewithal to bring them together and to provide the expensive equipment required. The results, as in the case of the current RCA-Victor album, “Cole Porter and Me,” offering progressive arrangements of six Cole Porter standards and six originals by pianist-leader Eddie Cano, sometimes justify the time, talent, effort and money involved in such undertakings.

Four of the selections, Porter’s “Love for Sale” and “What Is This Thing Called Love?” and two of the Cano originals, “Ecstacy” and “Algo Sabroso” {“Something Tasty” in English) were recorded at the studios of Radio Recorders on Hollywood’s Santa Monica Boulevard the evening of May 22, a Tuesday. Tuesday is the traditional musicians’ night off on the West Coast. The session began at eight o’clock and continued until after eleven.

Escapade, represented by this writer and Erwin Lang, noted photographer, had arranged to be on hand. “I think it might be interesting,” Eddie Cano said. “We’re doing something off the beaten track. We’re pretty excited about it.” It takes a good deal in the line of music to get Cano excited. A native of Los Angeles, he studied music from the time he was first able to climb up on a piano bench. Although he is still young (under thirty), he already has an extensive career behind him. He has arranged for most of the better modern and progressive orchestras. He has recorded with big bands, among them Les Baxter’s. He has played with and conducted small groups, both progressive and Latin. He has written a number of songs, most of them with a Latin flavor, which have been successfully recorded by such groups as those of Xavier Cugat and Tito Puente. He has developed a keen interest in modern sounds, and has devoted a great deal of talent and imagination to blending the Latin and progressive jazz structures and rhythms, an endeavor in which he has been notably successful.

The recording date was under the direction of RCA-Victor’s West Coast artist’s representative Milton (Shorty) Rogers, himself one of the modern jazz greats and leader of the famed Hermosa Beach Light House “Giants,” who brought the term — “West Coast sound” into modern jazz lexicographies. Rogers is a short, solidly built young man who wears a moustache and goatee, the possessor of a pleasant personality and a sharp ear for chords and rhythm. The technician in charge was Radio Recorders’ expert studio engineer, Val Valentin, a wiry young Latino, very “hip” to progressive trends in music and with an ear capable of detecting the smallest stray overtones. Valentin was assisted by Jack Manchen, recording engineer, who handled the tape. Also in the glassed-in engineer’s booth were Leonard Poncher, Cano’s personal manager, a smooth and immaculately clad young business type; Bob Van Grove, Cano’s business manager, and Van Tomkins, an alert young concert tour promoter who expressed an interest in taking the Cano group on the road.

There were six men in the booth, all intimately concerned with Cano’s activities, and seven men in the large, bare, acoustic-tiled studio, also with a common concern. These were Cano and the six members of the group.

In addition to Cano, they were Larry Bunker, who had been the drummer with the original Gerry Mulligan Quartet and who, currently, is musical director for Peggy Lee (at this session, he played vibraphone; he is also an accomplished pianist); Jack Costanzo, bongo player formerly with Nat Cole, Stan Kenton, Peggy Lee and Frances Faye, and currently leader of his own orchestra, in which Cano is the pianist; Bill Richmond, drummer, who had just left Les Brown and had played with Harry James and other big bands; guitarist Tommy Tedesco, formerly with Ralph Marterie and currently with the Dave Pell Octet; timbalist Eddie Aparicio, who had previously worked  with Cano, as well as with Katherine Dunham, Josephine Baker and Rene Touzet’s recording mambo group, and bassist Tony Reyes, formerly with Xavier Cugat, Tito Puente, Les Baxter and the Voices of Walter Schumann. Every member of this group, in reality an elaborate rhythm section, rates near the top in his field.

And every man had the “feel” of what Cano was attempting to accomplish: an artistic reconciliation, so to speak, of the progressive jazz and Latin, or Afro-Cuban, rhythm schools.

If there is anything such as a true “West Coast sound,” this is probably it. Whereas early New Orleans jazz found its source in the frustrated creative urge of the suppressed Negro, on the West Coast there has always been a tremendous Latin cultural influence, reflected in place names, local history and a large population of Latin descendants. Every California child, especially in the southern section of the state, grows up in awareness of this; he hears mariachi music and Mexican and Spanish folk songs almost from the cradle. On the West Coast, a blend of jazz and Latin music is most logical.

“What name would you give to this music of Eddie’s?” I asked Poncher, a facile phrasemaker who named the album for which these sides were being taped. “Progressive Latin?” “No,” he said, “because it isn’t Latin. It’s jazz. Jazz with a Latin flavor. Progressive jazz with a Latin flavor.” Rogers, standing near, nodded his head in agreement. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s jazz. The Latin flavor primarily comes from the rhythms — bongo, conga and so on.” Rogers, a top authority on rhythm, followed with his hand on a table a conga bell beat which Aparicio was practicing. The sound came over the system greatly amplified. “It’s exciting stuff — real crazy,” Rogers said.

Out in the large studio, Cano told me, “We’re going to do ‘Love for Sale’ first. The Porter tunes down for tonight are ‘Love for Sale’ and ‘What Is This Thing Called Love}’ We’ve done the other four — ‘It’s All Right With Me,’ ‘Get Out of Town,’ I Love You‘ and I Get a Kick Out of You.’ We’ll do two of mine, ‘Ecstasy’ and another I haven’t titled yet.” (This was ‘Algo Sabroso,’ which was titled during the session. Cano is called “The Buddha” by fellow musicians, because of his stocky build and outward placidity, and Valentin, a clever phrasemaker in his own right, suggested calling it “Buddha’s Rock.” “Uh-uh,” responded Cano. “Suppose I want to play China or some other Buddhist country someday?” Cano isn’t particularly fond of his nickname).

Soon after eight, the musicians were in their chairs and Eddie counted off the tempo. It wasn’t a take, just a run-through. The band swung into “Love for Sale” while Valentin, confronted by his panels of switches and dials, carefully monitored the microphones for balance. There were eight microphones for the seven musicians, one for each instrument except the piano, which had two.

In the studio, the band sounded surprisingly full. Cano plays full piano and had written very tight arrangements. The rhythms were complex and changing, although the tempo held steady. Tedesco’s guitar choruses were impressive. When the arrangement ended, Reyes muttered, “Fluff, fluff, fluff!” “Not too bad,” was Cano’s calm verdict. He looked at Bunker. “Yeah, it was me,” Bunker said. He ran a swift phrase, studying the music carefully. “I think it’s this B-flat,” he said. “What have you got?” Eddie played the same phrase. He had a B-natural. “I guess that’s it. Should be natural.” Bunker made a penciled correction on his sheet, and ran the phrase again. “Yeah,” he agreed. The phrase was tricky and played in precise unison on vibes and piano. Cano and Bunker ran through it together. “Crazy,” Bunker commented.

Valentin came out of the booth, although the two-way speaker connecting the studio and booth was operating and conversation was possible between them. “It’s too damn heavy,” Valentin said. “I don’t want to stiffen you up, but keep it down.” Cano nodded. “You, mostly,” Valentin told him. “You’re hitting it too hard and that pulls the others.” Eddie nodded again. “Can’t get the vibes clean on those solo breaks,” Valentin insisted. Richmond piped up. “Tell Bunker to use his Hampton sticks.” Everybody laughed, easing the tension.

“Shall we try it?” Valentin asked, heading back for the booth. “Might as well,” Cano agreed. The musicians resumed their places and waited. After a few moments, Valentin said over the speaker system, “This is a take.” The studio grew quiet. Rogers enunciated the code number of the side and the final, “Take One.” Cano counted off, and the band cut in. They went through the entire arrangement without interruption. When it was over, the men sat back and relaxed. “It swung,” said Costanzo. Cano nodded. “Any fluffs?” he asked. Nobody said anything. Valentin called from the booth, “Want to hear it?” “What do you think?” Cano asked. Rogers shook his head. “It’ll be a killer,” Valentin soothed. “Come on in and hear it from here.” Although usually the play back was direct to the studio, the bandsmen all trooped into the small crowded booth where Manchen was reversing the tape. It gave off an odd jumble of noise, running fast and backward. “Crazy sound,” Bunker said. Everyone laughed and relaxed except Cano, who looked nervous. Just then, Manchen started the playback. It was startingly loud in the small booth. The piano started heavy, and the others played heavy keeping up. Tedesco’s guitar choruses sounded mushy. The heavy piano caused overtones in the vibes whenever Bunker opened the pedal. Cano nodded. “It’s too much,” he commented. “Got to get it down.” “Yeah,” Rogers said. “But don’t tighten up. The beat’s fine.”

The band trooped out silently and huddled around Cano at the piano. “Let’s get off this for a while,” he finally said to Rogers, using the speaker system. “We’re tight on it. We’ll do ‘Ecstasy’ now.” “Okay,” Rogers acquiesced. “Want a run-through or a take?” “Let’s take it,” Cano said. He played a few bars, to set the tone and tempo and give the band the feel of it. “Ready. Quiet,” Valentin said. Rogers read off the new code number. “Take One,” he said. The pause had settled the band. Cano softened up, and the musicians played more subtly. In the booth, it still sounded loud, but cleaner. Near the end, Aparicio fluffed a timbale pickup. Unflustered, Cano stopped the band. “Want to hear it that far?” Valentin asked. Cano nodded, and Manchen played it back over the system. At the fluff, everybody laughed. “Man, that’s real cool,” Costanzo jibed. “Okay, guys, let’s do it,” Cano said. They were quiet as Rogers again gave the code. “Take Two,” he said. Cano counted off: “One—two—three—” The first note of the arrangement was a pickup note from that bar. The band swung out; there were no fluffs. “Man, that swung!” Costanzo said. “Want to hear it?” Valentin called from the booth. “No, we know that’s good,” Bunker said, laughing. The men relaxed, listening to the playback, their heads rocking in rhythm, their feet tapping. “That’s got it,” Cano said. Rogers, grinning, held up his hand, the thumb and forefinger making an “O” in the familiar “okay” signal.

Almost without a break, the now-relaxed band went into “Love for Sale.” The sound was under control. The unison parts went off perfectly. Tedesco’s guitar solos were clean and sharp. The tune was on tape after two tries, and the band took its first ten-minute break of the session. Rogers was happy with the results so far. “Crazy. Crazy sound,” was his verdict.

Rogers hadn’t had dinner after a long day, and some of the bandsmen went out to a small coffee shop at the corner for sandwiches and coffee, and brought back a snack for Rogers. An RCA-Victor man brought him some letters to sign. Cano had decided to tape the unnamed original next. It was a far-out, experimental arrangement, whose opening bars sounded almost like mariachi, or Mexican hillbilly, music, with double-octave spreads on the pianos. The complex rhythms and progressive chords of later sections were developed as the piece progressed, and the ending bars were swinging, adventurous, hard-driving and cerebral. It was a difficult thing to play, but precise and beautiful when played properly. Everyone anticipated that it would be a high-spot of the album.

After the break, the musicians took their chairs. There was none of the hi-de-hi horseplay popularly imagined as the setting of a jazz recording session. These were competent, serious musicians, professionals, giving all the technique and sensitivity they could muster to the job at hand. There was no bop talk. There were occasional uses of such esoteric terms as “cat,” “cool,” “crazy” and “tasty,” which sound natural when used by musicians but affected when employed by laymen. Bunker wore, like Rodgers, a goatee and moustache. The others were clean shaven and all were conservatively dressed and mannered. Cano, Tedesco, Aparicio and Reyes are of Latin descent; Costanzo looks Italian. Richmond has the appearance of a collegian in a Brooks Brothers’ ad. A typical zooted “hepcat” would have felt embarrassed among them.

Over the address system, after a run-through of the progressive arrangement, which wound up swinging solidly, Valentin called out, “How about calling it ‘Buddha’s Rock}’ ” After Cano demurred, Rogers said, “Let’s make one.” There were the usual preliminaries and the band went into it. Cano had set the tempo too far up, and it didn’t jell. There were fluffs and overtones and at the end the band was pressing. There was a moment of silence. “You don’t want to hear it,” Rogers said. “Slow it down. Okay, Take Two.” Cano counted off a slightly slower tempo, and within eight bars the band was hopelessly bogged down. Most of the trouble seemed to be with the bass, bongos, timbales and drums.

The rhythms were complicated and called for precise execution. Cano stopped the band and demonstrated on the piano the general idea. “Okay, let’s go,” he said, giving Rogers the nod. Cano counted off. Take Three was it. The piece went off perfectly and wound up driving. The bandsmen were inspired, finding every subtle rhythmic nuance, every tonal color. At the end, Bunker, whose part was particularly difficult, gave a big grin and threw his sticks across the room. “I fluffed,” Aparicio said. “On that ‘E’ pickup.” “Never heard it,” said Costanzo, who was sitting next to him. “I did, though,” Aparicio insisted. With one accord, the band trooped into the engineer’s booth to hear the playback. “There’s the fluff,” Aparicio said. “Man, that sounded good,” Costanzo said. “I didn’t notice it,” Cano said. “That’s the kind of fluff we like,” Valentin said. Rogers was beaming. He got up from his chair and exuberantly embraced Cano. “Man, that’s the greatest!” he assured him. The other musicians, as well as the crew in the engineer’s booth, also were excited. “What a sound!” Valentin said. “That’s got it, Eddie.” Cano had lost some of his usual placidity. He was grinning happily. “I like it,” he said. “Crazy!” Rogers assured him. Even Richmond, the calmest of the lot, was happy. “Great sound,” he kept saying. He’d done a particularly fine job on the side. “Tasty, man, tasty!” Bunker said. “Hey,” Valentin interposed, “there’s your title — ‘Algo Sabroso’!” “What’s that?” Bunker demanded. ” ‘Algo Sabroso’—’Something Tasty’ in English,” Cano said, his eyes lighting. “Yeah— that’s it, man!” Agreement was unanimous, and Rogers entered the name on his charts.

With “Algo Sabroso” out of the way, Cano decided to wind up the session with a short and comparatively simple arrangement of “What Is This Thing Called Love.” It opened with a piano introduction, followed in succession by the entry of the bass, the bongos, the drums, the guitar and, finally, the vibraphone. It went out in reverse order. For some reason, the piece refused to jell. Perhaps there was a letdown after the excitement of “Algo Sabroso”; perhaps the musicians were a bit tired after the concentrated effort of the last few hours. It was nearly eleven o’clock. The Cole Porter classic sounded flat, colorless; there were many small mistakes. Bunker, running a rather fast phrase, looked disgusted; the vibes were lagging. “It’s a drag,” he muttered. Cano looked over his music, idly fingering the treble. The musicians sat back, resting. One or two lit cigarettes. Rogers came out of the booth. “What’s up?” he asked. “This is a nice bit. Let’s get it on tape.” “Okay,” Cano said. “We’ll run through it again first.” Cano began the introduction, in which he played a simple, one-handed treble phrase; after a couple of bars, he fingered a bass counter. It went well, with a nice lift. The others came in on cue and the tune swung easily. Played properly for the first time, it was evident that the arrangement was effective. There were no fluffs. At the end, Cano looked at the band. “Let’s do it. Right, huh?” The band got set as Rogers cued the tape. “Take Seven,” he said. Cano counted off. This time, everything fell into place. It was a beautifully executed job from end to end. When it was over, Rogers called, “That did it, fellows. Great!” The band listened attentively to the final playback. Costanzo, grinning, followed the beat on his big bongo. “Swings!” he said. “Yeah,” Cano agreed.

Aparicio had packed his timbales and departed quietly during the taping of the final number, as there was no timbale part in the arrangement. Now the others straightened ties and donned jackets, lit cigarettes and went about packing their instruments. Poncher and Rogers came out of the control room. “I’m gonna eat, man,” Rogers said. “A good night’s work.” It was now eleven-twenty. Four sides of the twelve-side album had been taped successfully, four had been taped at an earlier session, and now Rogers and Valentin discussed available studio time for the final session. The following Friday was best for Cano and the band. Valentin checked schedules and found available time, and the date was set.

“How do you like this piano?” Rogers asked Cano. “Fair. Fair box,” Cano said. “I’ve played better, though.” “You ought to come out to my place one of these nights. I’ve got a concert Baldwin, real fine,” Rogers said. “Bring Laura.” Laura is Cano’s young and pretty wife. “Jeez, I’d like to — but when?” Cano said. “I work six nights a week and usually gig the seventh.” “How about the Vegas date?” Rogers asked. “I guess it’s about set,” Cano said. Cano had been tapped to open a show co-starring Herb Jefferies at a big Las Vegas Strip spot. He was planning to take along about the same group that had just recorded. “Sounds real good,” Rogers said. “This album — will it be big?” Cano asked him. Rogers laughed. “I’m counting on it,” he assured Cano. “That new sound — if it catches …” Cano looked at me. “What do you think, Joe?” he asked.

“I liked it fine,” I told him.”

Joe Knefler

Escapade

September 1956

William Claxton photographed Eddie Cano for the album cover with Cano dressed, appropriately, in formal evening wear a la Cole Porter. West coast poet and jazz gadabout, Will MacFarland, wrote the liner notes.

Liner Notes – Cole Porter & Me – Eddie Cano

“Like a good martini, jazz and Latin are hard to mix, and as with a martini, if you do it properly, you end up with something heady and highly rewarding.

A smiling, urbane, rotund young man named Eddie Cano has done just that, as far as the Latin and jazz are concerned: the Los Angeles pianist has chosen six men from among the top performers in both fields and guided them through a program of six of his own sparkling new songs and a half-dozen pieces of Cole Porter music in bright Latin settings. What’s more, while doing it, he’s managed a delicate balance between the elements of jazz and Latin that outshines all attempts that have gone before, The result is as custom-finished a program of pulse-quickening, listenable music as could be wished for.

“I jumped at the chance to work with Eddie. I’ll have a lot of fun, and I’ll learn a lot more than I would anywhere else.” That’s a young timbales player talking; he’d left a lush job with a top Latin group in Los Angeles to join Cano for a few weeks’ work in Las Vegas.

“All the good Latin musicians I know look up to Eddie; they consider him the undiscovered genius of their circle.” That’s Shorty Rogers speaking—a musician of no mean accomplishments himself.

These observations establish Cano’s stature. To discover how he’s arrived at this position, you must take a look at the man himself, and his history. To do something different in music usually requires a musician with a different background, and Eddie Cano is a bundle of paradoxes: a grandson of the first-chair ‘cellist with the Mexico City Symphony, Eddie has never even been as

far south as Tijuana. Steeped in the traditions of the classics and conservatory-trained, his first real love was jazz, and his interest in Latin rhythms didn’t take shape until recent years. Sunny and easygoing socially, he is impressively serious about his music and his career.

Cano was born in Los Angeles in 1927. His father, a legitimate string-bass player, started him on piano at an early age, and his surroundings were strictly classical throughout his youth. While a music major at Los Angeles’ City College, he began playing with jazz groups, and during the late war years, while assigned to army bands, he picked up more jazz experience. Post-war found him at the Los Angeles Conservatory, delving into the mysteries of theory and composition. It was during his conservatory days that he took his first jobs with Latin-style groups, but he was still hardly what you could call enthusiastic. In 1948 he joined Miguelito Valdes and traveled to New York. Here his interest in Latin music really caught fire. The New York Puerto Rican element had a way of adapting the authentic Cuban style that swung hard for Eddie and appealed to the jazzman in him. He decided then that when the time came to put together his own group, it would involve a more polished version of that Puerto Rican-Cuban style.

Back in Los Angeles he began to work with the top Latin groups. He wrote originals for Les Baxter and recorded with him. Cal Tjader heard him with a Los Angeles group early in ’54. Two weeks later Eddie had made Tjader’s first Latin recording date, including three of his own tunes. The two years since were such a whirlwind of touring the East and jobs in Los Angeles and Las Vegas, that Cano had little time left to think of organizing his own group. In the fall of ’55 he began making his plans—writing new music and choosing to play it men who he felt sure were among the best anywhere. He was ready to test his theories of balance between Latin and jazz.

“Jazz is way ahead harmonically, but it’s restricted rhythmically,” Eddie says. “On the other hand, Latin music is advanced rhythmically, but primitive harmonically. But the practice of just playing jazz harmonics on top of Latin rhythm isn’t the answer; all you get is a hodgepodge.”

Eddie felt that the way to combine the two without clashing was to let them retain their individuality. His arrangements go directly from Latin to jazz, blending without jolt or clash, but subtly sectionalized and defined. The jazz solos are played against jazz rhythm, the written figures are played against either; when the Latin rhythm is playing, it is in the solo spotlight itself, more or less unencumbered. “As to the two sides,” Eddie says, “there’s as much jazz on the Latin originals, and as much Latin on the Porter as the other way around.”

For all their differences Latin and jazz have this in common: both can be spoiled by extremes, if they get out of hand. If too rough-edged and primitively “authentic,” Latin and jazz become raucously boring. But if an attempt is made to smooth off too many edges, the result is anemic.

Eddie Cano’s triumph, besides fitting the two elements together so cleverly, is that he has made the final product a music with an identity of its own, pleasing in itself: sophisticated but still meaty, exciting without sacrificing smoothness.”

Will MacFarland

Cover Photo by William Claxton