One of Dick Bock’s last recording sessions as president and owner of Pacific Jazz Records took place on January 13, 1965, at Capitol Records Studio “B” as he taped the initial session for Gerald Wilson’s fourth big band album. Writer Leroy Robinson was present and documented the proceedings in detail, one of the finest evocations of what occurs in a jazz recording session. Photographer Joe Flowers was also in attendance and froze this moment in time. Robinson and Flowers work was published in the November issue of Jazz, Volume 4, Number 10, 1965. By that time Bock had sold Pacific Jazz to Liberty Records and Robinson reflected the change, noting that Bock was now a vice-president and head of jazz A&R for Pacific Jazz Records (a division of Liberty Records).
WEST COAST RECORD DATE
by Leroy Robinson
Photos by Joe Flowers
“In 1961 another name in jazz, Gerald Wilson, was heard, for the first time, over jazz oriented radio stations, with the release of his big band album, You Better Believe It!. For many it was a new name. For others it was a name responsible for many of the things that Count Basie and Duke Ellington have used in their vast band repertoires. Still, for the older jazz enthusiast it was a name that could be remembered in the early ‘forties when it was listed with the brass section of Jimmie Lunceford’s great band, and as the composer and arranger of many of the pieces the band played.
The response to this new name and band was a subtle one—especially in the east as Wilson is a part of the west coast jazz spectrum. To many eastern fans, nothing of value has, or ever will, come from the west coast. There tends to be an over-all hostility toward musicians not based in the east. A sort of chauvinistic pride exists with both critic and fan for those jazz musicians who live and play, for the most part, in and around New York City. Being a former New Yorker I have been among the chauvinist and can well understand some of their inimical feelings to west coast jazz. The reasons for this feeling I retain for another time.
It was immediately agreed when Wilson’s first album was released that it would undoubtedly be his last. This feeling was brought on by the critics who belonged to the prejudices mentioned above and the fact that his band contained musicians who were, for the most part, employed in studio orchestras in Hollywood, making them less interested in traveling the road with a new band and suffering all the hardships which usually prevail. The band in its first outing carried names like Harold Land, Teddy Edwards, Lester Robertson, Bud Shank, Buddy Collette and Mel Lewis—all excellent jazz musicians, all with an individual style. Of those mentioned, only Shank, Collette and Mel Lewis did not remain as permanent members of the band. However, Shank has returned to play on the other two albums that have been released following the You Better Believe It! success. Lewis became “The Peripatetic Mel Lewis”; being continually requested by band leaders on both coasts for his services and Collette continued to make music wherever it was needed on the local scene.
Of course, no one thought to question Wilson’s own plans about the future of his band. And it remained that way—that is until he came back in late 1962 with his second album, Moment of Truth. This particular album presented a problem to all of those people who least expected it—mostly the critics. It was an excellent album, and Wilson made it clear, now, that the band was here to stay. And that the title of the second album was arrived at because of the band’s now being “… a reality—a truth…” There was chaos among the critics around the world and a newly instilled interest in what Wilson and his band had to offer. Of course the individuals who really count—the Jazz Fan—had already examined Wilson’s band and its first album and welcomed the second album with open arms.
It was not too long thereafter that the critics finally accorded Wilson and his band the honors they justly deserved. The first thing they did was to vote him the winner in the big band category for the “Talent Deserving of Wider Recognition” in Down Beat’s 1963 International Critics Poll. This acceptance by the critics opened many other eyes and ears. The name Gerald Wilson was no longer looked upon as just an in-and-out west coast musician offering no worthwhile contributions, or sustenance, to jazz. The band got its first big chance to make their music for a large audience when it played the 1963 Monterey Jazz Festival. Wilson’s seventeen pieces ignited most of the excitement that prevailed that year. It was an important outing for them and they held their own, so to speak, even with the already well-known talent also on the program.
Portraits, his third album showed its face the early part of ’64. It too was well received—even with its predecessor, Moment of Truth, still in demand. But this did not hurt the public acceptance of Portraits.
After the Truth album the letters came in regularly—some from as far away as Australia. They all said the same things: how much they enjoyed his band sound; how different it is; how young and thoroughly original it is and how soon would it be before he and the band would be visiting their cities (and countries). To date the bands has not been afforded the pleasure of appearing out of the states. But the original big band sound still rings out over the air waves, and another big band album is in the making. I was invited to witness this date—the fourth album—and an opportunity to witness what really takes place at a Gerald Wilson recording date.
The session was set for 2 P.M. on a Wednesday afternoon. I arrived at 1:30 at the studio—studio “B” of the Capitol Records Building in Hollywood.
I found Wilson and guitarist Joe Pass seated at the piano working out some of the chord changes Pass would be using for the session. Wilson, relaxed, pressed out the different chords as Pass listened with an intense expression. There were only a few queries from Pass about the chords which Wilson answered obligingly. This would be Pass’ third recording date with the leader—having missed playing on Wilson’s first album.
Roy Ayers, one of the current crop of youthful talents playing on the west coast, made his entrance running, pushing his vibraharp like a lawnmower. This was Ayer’s first record date with Wilson. Saxophonist Curtis Amy followed wearing a natty snap-brim “stingy” hat and his usual broad smile.
“Hey what’s happening?” he asked of me. He also made the first complaint of the day. “We can’t see you over there.” This was directed at Wilson who was still seated at the piano. Amy, seeing the band’s leader seated at the piano, thought he would be stationed there during the recording. Wilson looked up somewhat perplexed, but pulled himself together immediately realizing what the problem was. “Everything will be fine. I’m gonna move from here.”
The piano was situated in the middle, to the rear of the studio, with the other sections of the band making up a sort of “U-shape” arrangement. The location of the piano did give Amy cause for worry if Wilson would have been situated there, but a podium had been placed in the center of the arrangement with a high stool so that he would be as conspicuous as possible. Wilson eventually carried himself to the location set aside for him as other sidemen began to arrive.
The studio began to swell with musicians. Bassist Herbie Lewis and drummer Chuck Carter arrived together dragging their instruments on a dolly. Baritonist Jack Nimitz and trumpeter Freddy Hill followed, greeted everyone all around and began to assemble their instruments. Amy, blowing alto and soprano saxophones for the date, was already examining the two horns’ capabilities. Wilson sat quietly at his location, saying little, thinking much and taking in the various behavior of his sidemen.
“Hey brother,” said Nimitz as Teddy Edwards arrived. Edwards, a slow talking native Mississippian with just a slight trace of a southern drawl, looked around very casually nodding his head to all that caught his eye. Dick Bock, vice-president of Pacific Jazz Records and a&r man for the date, arrived. Wilson seeing his arrival through the glass wall of the control room waved a large hello. A little while later, Wilson made his way into the control booth to talk with Bock.
By the time Wilson returned from the control booth, the remaining members of the band had arrived and were completing their “tune ups.” Some lightweight trio, then quartet work was being carried on by vibist Ayres, guitarist Pass and pianist Phil Moore III, son of the well-known vocal coach Phil Moore. They were joined by drummer Carter, making up the quartet. They were working a blues thing.
A couple of interested passersby looked in the studio. One asked: “Who’s the group?” Another, actor Ross Martin (of Mr. Lucky fame), became involved with the blues thing being done by the rhythm section now including bassist Lewis. He went into a deep voice, accompanying the section in playing the blues. His distance from the the musicians made it impossible for them to be entertained by his interest.
Meanwhile Wilson perched atop his stool, listened attentively to the blues movement. He showed an apparent amount of pleasure as the musicians began to gain ground with the piece and their instruments were blending well. Wilson realizing their togetherness, alerted Bock.
“Hey Dick, get the rhythm now.”
“Can’t, Gerald, we’re not plugged in yet.”
The section carried on with Wilson interrupting only to add a few suggestions. The other band members now seated at their respective positions were also enjoying the impromptu set. The rhythm section was really cookin’.
“Got ’em Gerald,” said Bock after awhile, “now let’s hear the other sections.”
Wilson directed the reed section — Amy, alto and soprano saxophones; Anthony Ortega, alto saxophone and flute; Harold Land and Teddy Edwards, tenor saxophones and Jack Nimitz, baritone saxophone—to run through the opening bars of the same blues the rhythm section had been playing.
“Can’t hear alto—I don’t know how you wrote it but …” Bock’s voice sounded again. Wilson was so engrossed in what they were doing, paid little attention. Seems he heard some flaws himself, as was indicated by his brow being heavily wrinkled. He did take time to reply to Bock’s comment with: “Okay later.”
Balancing the reeds turned out to be a major problem. So many problems arose. Wilson joined Bock in the control booth, briefly, to listen to some of the problems. Wilson then asked the reeds to each play two bars starting with Amy, then Ortega.
“Okay reeds, two bars each, over and over.” Wilson came charging out of the control booth to conduct the last bars of the reed section now blowing in unison. The reed section’s foible had undoubtedly been rectified as Bock let out: “Okay, okay, now let’s hear the brass.”
“Do the ensemble chorus, fellas—the real quiet one, real down easy,” Wilson requested of the brass—Freddie Hill, Melvin Moore, Al Porcino, Jules Chaikin and Nathaniel Meeks, trumpets and Lester Robertson, John Ewing, Bob Edmondson and Don Switzer, trombones. They began to swing all by themselves. There were no problems with the brass section. The reactionary smiles from the other band mebers more rthan confirmed Wilson’s broad smile.
“Okay, Gerald, we’re ready when you are,” came from Bock.
Wilson positioned himself at the podium, checked all the musicians.
“Okay from the top — you known the routine.” Bock broke in before they could get started. “Is there a title, Gerald?” Wilson stopped. Thought for a second, then came back. “Yeah, but for now just call it Blues Two.” The blues and first take got underway.
Wilson’s conducting, at first, was limited to an occasional waving of the hands. He appeared to be examining the band for balance. All of a sudden, Wilson glanced at the reed section. He waved his hands above his head, making an “X”, several times to stop the band. It turned out Wilson’s perceptive listening had discovered an outlaw in his band—a wrong note that was played just before the bridge of the piece. After he halted the band, he started toward Amy, who immediately shouted his confession, laughingly, that he had been playing D sharp instead of B flat as was written in the score. It seems the key on Amy’s horn had gotten stuck, causing the situation.
Once again the band got underway with the moderate-tempo theme. Ayers took the first solo, followed by trumpeter Meeks. The piece was clean. It had a tremendous mood-evoking melody. It was helped tremendously by Wilson’s dramatic gestures while conducting. The piece carried through to the end without any further interruptions. It sounded to this listener to be a good take.
A break was called to listen to the first piece. Bock came from the control room to join Wilson, Ayers and Nimitz who were already sitting near three large speakers in the studio listening to the playback.
The take had more flaws in it than this listener had realized. But Wilson, who concerned himself chiefly with the playing of the composition, and Bock’s concern centering around reproducing the band’s sound, decided upon another take.
The band was assembled again. The spurious characteristics heard during the playback were not fully removed until take 7 but not without an in-between proscription by Bock.
“Let’s do the ballad right quick,” Wilson suggested right after the blues piece. “It’s guitar mostly,” he added.
“How much do the vibes have to do with this one?” asked Bock.
“Just background;” Wilson came back loudly.
Take 1 of the ballad was short. There was a squeak in the vibes. The take 2 took place and came off well it seemed—a feeling the musicians shared too. But after the take ended Bock said, “Okay let’s record one, now.” “Take 1” said trumpeter Chaikin, “should have been it.” It was during take 2 that the engineer discovered where the squeak was and went about oiling the instrument. It was at this point that the audio was discontinued, and Bock had forgotten to let the musicians or Wilson know. Bock came back apologetically with: “Sorry, we had a vibe-oiling problem and had stopped the tape machines.” The take that followed, take 3, had its problem too.
“Hold it! Hold it! There’s static in the guitar,” Bock said halting the take. “Okay, let’s try it now—no fuzz in the guitar please.” They continued. The take came off without any further difficulties.
“Bar 51, like an explosion!” Wilson requested of his men as he spoke of the next composition. There was a conga drummer added for this piece.
“What’s this one?” asked Bock.
“This one’s Four,” Wilson replied. There was an area of confusion running through my mind. I thought it might be Miles Davis’ Four.
“How do you spell that?” Bock further questioned.
“F… O … R … E,” Wilson offered with a slight chuckle. A voice also echoed for the benefit of Bock: “FO”. After some chuckles it was established that the take would be called, for now, Latin Four.
After take 4 of the Latin piece, the three speakers again drew an audience. Enthusiastic reactions came from Bock, Wilson, Herbie Lewis, Ayers and Pass. Lewis enjoyed the playback so much he went into a moderate “twist.” Wilson always the serious of listeners, discussed the take with Bock. A take 5 became necessary.
“More introduction this time. The rhythm section is playing down,” Wilson said to the rhythm men.
“Got it! Take 5 is almost perfect,” Bock commented at its ending.
“Let’s run through Perdido, one time,” Wilson said with enthusiasm.
“Famous last words,” Bock said wittily. “Solo order please,” he later added.
“Alto (Ortega) first, trumpet (Hill), then ensemble, then Teddy and some other stuff later,” said Wilson.
“Later is what I’m worried about,” Bock answered with humorous concern.
“I’ll tell you when,” was Wilson’s reply to Bock’s concern.
There were two false starts then:
“Perdido take 3”
Take 3 sounded perfect. Wilson kept this up-tempo classic under control with his arms waving like a metronome. It was a fascinating tempo. Faster than I had ever heard the tune—even faster than at the 1963 Monterey Jazz Festival. The take was a clean one. Bock seemed to think so too, when he said at its completion, “That was a good rehearsal, now let’s make a record.”
Wilson did not completely agree with Bock’s reaction. The brass’ handling of the coda was not exactly the way he had conceived it. There was a short take 4, then take 5 began and ended with more fire than the four predecessors. Bock screamed, joyously, into the studio. “Pretty good, pretty close.”
“Let’s hear it Dick,” Wilson said. “Let ’em get the blood in their chops.” This was Wilson’s reaction to the thoroughly stimulating performance by his sidemen.
It was indeed a blood-thirsty Perdido. And it was a musically rewarding experience—one I’m sure even Duke (Ellington) would have praised.
The musicians—all of them this time—listened to the playback.
And as the last bar played, there was a segue to packing away the instruments and making it … until the next session.”
Leroy Robinson
Dick Bock produced a seven-inch disc-jockey promo, A/B-100, that presented rehearsal snippets of “Caprichos” on A-100 at 33⅓ rpm, and a rehearsal snippet of “Eric” on B-100 at 45 rpm. It carried a warning: “CAUTION: Do not schedule for air-play before AUDITIONING.” “Caprichos” and “Eric” were recorded at the last recording session for Moment of Truth on January 8. 1964.
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