Shades of Blue

by Bill Moody

  I blink and sit up, stiff and sore, the side of my face cold from the glass. The flight attendant’s pushing a cart down the aisle toward us is only a few rows away. I glance at my watch and see we’re only an hour or so from New York.

  “Let me out for a minute. Grab me a tray if I don’t get back in time,” I say, crawling over Brody and head for the toilets. There’s a line in both aisles but it moves pretty fast. I stretch, do a couple of knee bends and by the time I’m back at my seat, I’m feeling more with it.

  Brody has already wolfed down the breakfast and is eyeing mine as I gratefully sip hot coffee and cold orange juice. I pick at the plastic dish of fruit but pass on the barely thawed roll and rock hard butter. “Help yourself,” I say, pushing the tray his way. Everybody is awake now, readjusting their clothes, slipping into shoes, gathering up their belongings as we get the first announcement that we’re on approach to Kennedy.

  “So where are you staying?” Brody asks.

  “Ramada Inn, midtown, for two nights anyway. If I want to stay longer, I can probably swing it. How about you?”

  “Friend of mine has a pad in the Village. He’s out of town so I have it long as I want. You can always crash there with me if you want.”

  I nod, not sure how long I’ll be in New York. “I may run up to Boston for a couple of days and see my folks too.”

  “When is the session?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon at two.”

  “Nervous?” Brody grins.

  “Should I be? It’s only Roy Haynes and Ron Carter.” Now, as New York looms below, I feel that adrenaline rush again and yes, the butterflies too. “If I can’t sound good with those two, I might as well give it up.”

  Brody shakes his head and smiles. “Wow, Roy Haynes. That’s who I wanted to be.”

  “You play drums?”

  Brody shrugs. “Well, I thought I did. I took private lessons from a guy in San Francisco, played in my high school stage band, and when I went to Berkeley, I kept at it. Formed a group.” He pauses for a moment, looking sheepish. “We called it The Jazz Bears.”

  “Catchy.”

  “Well the Jazz Messengers was already taken.” Brody looks away for a moment. “We played some frat parties, got in a couple of local clubs but…” His voice trails off.

  “What?”

  “You ever see the movie Amadeus about Mozart?”

  “Sure, several times.”

  “Well, I’m Salieri. Lot of desire, some training, but the talent just isn’t there. Took me awhile to realize that, but it finally sank in. So, I was prelaw at Berkeley, started reading up about copyright, that kind of thing and decided the way to stay involved with music for me was this gig I have at ASCAP. Most of it’s bullshit work, but occasionally I get to track down some talented musician who got screwed out of royalties and show up on his doorstep with a check.” His eyes meet mine. “I would love to investigate this music you’ve got, see if your friend did write some of it. Wouldn’t that be a kick if he did?”

  The fasten seat belt announcement comes on then as we feel the plane bank. I hold the arms of the seat with both hands, and look at Brody watching me. “It’s landings for me.”

  ***

  We share a cab into Manhattan, feeling the hum of the city already as we cross over the Triborough Bridge. Midtown is chaos as usual. I get out at the Ramada, leaving the cab to Brody. He hands me a card with a phone number. “Let’s get together for dinner later, huh? I know some good places in the Village, maybe catch some music.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll call you.” I start away then turn back. “Look, I’ll make a call, see if you can come with me to the session if you like.”

  “Way cool, man. Way cool,” Brody says as the cab pulls away.

  All goes smoothly at check in and there’s a message to call Larry Klein, which I do first thing.

  “Evan, you made it. Everything okay with the room and all?”

  “Fine, Larry. Just a little tired and jet lagged.”

  “Well just take it easy today. There’s a rehearsal studio on 56th, not far from the hotel. Nice piano there if you want to run through anything. Just tell the guy I sent you over. I called them already just in case.”

  “Great, I’d like that. By the way, I ran into a friend on the flight. Okay if he comes to the session? He’s a big fan of Roy’s.”

  “Sure, I don’t see why not. There’ll be some other people there anyway.”

  “Thanks, Larry.”

  “See you tomorrow afternoon.”

  I hang up the phone and sit on the bed for a minute looking out the window at mid town Manhattan. On the road again. Calls made, nobody to see, nowhere to go, just time to kill. I put my clothes away, grab the file of papers, the book I never opened on the plane, and head out for a late breakfast.

  I walk over to 9th Avenue and find a diner and a booth by the window. A heavy set guy in a white apron comes over and swipes at the table with a damp rag. “Okay, my friend. You going to order or what?”

  Ah, New York. I order bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee, lingering for over an hour, reading, eating, smoking through two cups of strong coffee. I love walking in New York and with a vague, general destination I start downtown, following what I’ve read in the book. I turn east on 30th Street and find 207. It’s a large condominium complex now. I stand across the street and try to conjure up in my mind how it looked then, an abandoned Orthodox Greek Church that became the Columbia recording studio where Miles and his band gathered one August afternoon to record five of the most important pieces of music in modern jazz history.

  I imagined Jimmy Cobb, lugging his drums inside, setting up, waiting for Miles and Cannonball and Coltrane. Paul Chambers, unzipping his bass cover, leaning over, running through the famous line to the opening of “So What.” Bill Evans, arriving later, sitting down at the piano, going through Miles’ sketchy outlines for the music that would make up Kind of Blue, wondering if he’d been aware that Wynton Kelly, who had taken a taxi all the way from Brooklyn, had already come and gone so “Freddie Freeloader,” could be recorded first.

  I get into things like this, fascinated by historical events, tuning in, listening for echoes of the past, wishing I’d been there, been a part of it. I’d always wanted to visit the site of Custer’s last stand, the piece of ground in Montana. What would I hear there? The voices of dying soldiers, shouting Indians as they closed in on Custer and his men?

  Here on 30th Street I hear in my mind the voice of producer Irving Townsend. “The machine’s on…here we go: no title, Take 1…” and the magic began, a magic that has not lost its luster in over forty years, and never fails to resonate for me in a way no other record ever has.

  I must stand there for fifteen or twenty minutes, visualizing that session until I’ve had my fill and move on, walking back up town to the 56th rehearsal studio.

  I give my name to the guy at a small desk and he hands me a key, a newspaper in front of him that he never looks up from. “Upstairs. Number 4,” he says.

  It’s strictly no frills, just a small room, wood floors, an open window, a tin ashtray on the decent upright piano. I sit down, light a cigarette and go over “Goodbye Porkpie Hat,” making some notes on chord changes as I go. It feels good but I don’t want to overdo it. I want it to be fresh for tomorrow. I try “If You Could See Me Now,” and end up trying a few other up tunes, spending an hour or so just playing. It all feels good. I’m ready.

  ***

  I meet Cameron Brody in the Village at a small Italian bistro with checkered tablecloths, a candle on every table and grumpy waiters in black vests. He’s already got a carafe of red wine and is dipping chunks of bread into a dish of olive oil as I sit down.

  “Hey,” he says. “Get over the lag yet?”

  “Pretty much. Got a short nap in later this afternoon.” After the session in the rehearsal studio, I’d wandered around some more and finally drifted back to the hotel and dozed off watching
an old Rockford Files. By the time I’d gotten awake, it was time to shower and change and head for the Village.

  “So what’s good?”

  “Everything,” Brody says. “It changes every day.” He points to a small blackboard with the names of dishes scrawled in a shaky hand. “I don’t think anybody in the kitchen speaks English. This is the real deal.”

  We settle on soup and something that seems like seafood gumbo over the best pasta I’ve ever tasted. The place gradually fills up as we get through our dinner, the carafe of wine. Over coffee, I tell Brody he can come to the recording session.

  “Awesome,” he says, smiling. “Let me buy dinner then.”

  “No, you got the cab. This is on me.”

  He shrugs. “Whatever. But thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

  I sip the strong coffee and light a cigarette. Brody wrinkles his nose but the waiter brings an ashtray. He’s chosen apparently, one of the remaining places smoking is allowed.

  “I did a little digging this afternoon. I don’t think your friend wrote any of the tunes on Kind of Blue,” he says. “‘So What,’ ‘All Blues,’ and ‘Freddie’ are all solid Miles. You’re right. There was controversy on ‘Blue in Green’ with him and Bill Evans, and Evans has been on record that ‘Flamenco Sketches’ came from something he’d done earlier, but Miles got credit.”

  “Yes, I’ve been reading about it. Evans seems pretty adamant. I’ve been thinking. Cal may have done the same thing many musicians did. Write out the tune trying to figure out what they were doing and how they did it.”

  “Exactly my thought,” Brody says.

  “Flamenco Sketches” was a very unusual structure. With Kind of Blue, Miles had wanted to get away from the typical American song book of standard tunes. “Flamenco” was based on a series of five modal scales, each played as long as the soloist wanted until the cycle had been completed. Much different from playing say a Cole Porter song and taking two, three, or four choruses. This was different altogether.

  “Plus,” Brody went on, “there were only six people in the band and this was really a Miles-Evans collaboration. Cannonball and Coltrane were still getting into it, but Miles and Evans were the architects. Birth of the Cool, however is a different story, at least from what I’ve found.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Bigger band and they rehearsed for weeks. A lot of musicians contributed tunes even though the brain trust was Miles, Gil Evans, Gerry Mulligan, John Lewis, John Carisi, maybe even some others. The personnel changed all the time, depending on who could make the rehearsals, who had a gig and who didn’t. It was also ten years earlier.”

  I knew a lot of what Brody said was true. Rehearsal bands are notorious for many of the band pulling out something they’d written or sketched out. Sometimes they got played, sometimes they didn’t. Some stuck, some didn’t. It was like a workshop according to the liner notes of the recording.

  “Then there’s the odd tune, like ‘Boplicity,’” Brody says. “Cleo Henry. What happened to him. Writes one tune and it gets recorded, becomes kind of a signature thing for the album. Lot of room for shared composing credit on the others.” Brody looks at me. “If you could confirm that your friend made some of those rehearsals, well…” He lets that hang in the air. “Boplicity, duplicity, complicity, multiplicity.” He shakes his head. “Can’t think of anymore, but that was a different era. Records weren’t kept well, credit got sold, switched around, who knows what really happened and when and by whom.”

  I take a drag on my cigarette and finish my coffee. “So you’re saying what.”

  “I’m saying officially, ASCAP, BMI records show the copyright registered for all the tunes on the recording are valid. The individual composer would file for each but since Miles ran things, well, people forget.”

  The idea I’d been floating around in the my mind, now had greater importance. “What if I could find somebody who made some of those rehearsals, who knew Cal?”

  “That,” Brody says, “would be a good start.” He smiles.

  “What?”

  Brody grins. “Nothing. I guess the guy who sorted out a missing tape of Clifford Brown could do that.”

  Chapter Nine

  I get a taxi to Avatar Studios in midtown, and arrive early. Cameron Brody is already there, pacing in front of the building, drinking coffee from a paper cup. “You sure this is okay?” he asks, as I come up. “I mean I don’t want to get in the way or anything.”

  I smile and pat him on the shoulder. “If it wasn’t, they would have told me. Come on.”

  We go inside and check in with a security guard, who consults a clipboard. “Evan Horne and guest?”

  “Yes.”

  He has Brody sign in and sends us upstairs to Studio B. Inside, it’s all wood paneling, wood floors, and two isolation booths with sliding glass doors. In the center of the room a drum set is centered on a red rectangular carpet, the cymbals gleaming in the overhead light. Cameron Brody stops and walks all around the drum set like a little kid. “Far out,” he says. “This is so fucking cool.”

  I glance up at the glassed in control booth that overlooks the studio. A young guy in a dark sweatshirt and longish hair is seated at the board, scanning dials, while another older man in a suit is talking, gesturing, pacing. Has to be Larry Klein.

  One of the booths is dark but I can see the grand piano inside. A handwritten note is taped to the glass that says: Do Not Touch. In the other booth, I see who’s going to play bass.

  Tall, slim, studious looking in a tweed coat, pale blue shirt and yellow floral bow tie, just as I’ve seen him dressed in many photos, Ron Carter sits on a high stool. The bass is cradled against him as he gazes at some music on a stand in front of him. How many times have I heard him with Miles, that great quintet of the sixties, and now, here he is, waiting for me.

  I walk in the booth. “Ron? Evan Horne.”

  “Hey,” he says with a friendly smile. He stands up and holds out his hand. “Just looking over your tunes,” he says. “I’m doing a television show later,” as if to explain his coat and tie. He points to the music. “Anything I should know about this?”

  “No, I use the original changes on ‘Porkpie’ and ‘Foolish Heart.’ We’ve all played that. I’ll just play maybe four bars in front before the melody.”

  He looks up. “Yeah. Roy gave me a cassette of yours. Some very nice playing.”

  Before I can say anything, the man in the suit comes in. “Evan, Larry Klein.” He’s all smiles and enthusiasm and frenetic energy. He nods to Ron Carter, who just glances up from the music and begins working on his bass lines. “Come on, let’s check out the piano,” Klein says.

  I follow him over to the other booth. He flips on the lights and I sit down at the grand piano. And it is grand. The sound is gorgeous and the action feels very comfortable under my fingers as I run through some chords.

  Klein beams, listens for a moment, then turns as we both see Roy Haynes come in with a woman and another man. Haynes waves and comes over. Always known for his dapper attire, he’s dressed casually but expensively in a sweater and slacks and soft looking tan loafers.

  “Hey,” he says, smiling at me. “You ready to make some music?” We shake hands. “I’m sure glad you could make this.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  And I am. A kind of calm had descended on me the minute I walked in the studio. I felt relaxed, confident, and I know even then it’s going to go well.

  “Okay, let me see if they set my drums right.” He walks out of the booth, over to his drums, and unzips a small black bag that holds sticks and brushes and mallets and sits down at the set. He taps on the snare drum, moving the stick around the edge, listens and makes some adjustments with a drum key, then turns and waves to the control booth.

  The engineer’s voice comes over the playback speakers. “Okay, guys, put on the phones, let me get some levels. You first, Evan.”

 
; I nod and put on the headphones and begin to play the opening to “Goodbye Porkpie Hat,” looking toward the booth. The woman that came in with Haynes is talking to him now. She has a notebook in her hand. I see her glance over at me and write, but I see Haynes look up and smile as I start to play.

  “Okay, that’s fine.” The engineer’s voice comes through the headphones. “Ron, you next.”

  I listen as Carter plays some deep long tones, then walks for a few moments. “You going to bow any?” the engineers asks.

  Carter looks over at me and I shrug. “Maybe on the ending?”

  Carter nods and tries the bow. “Got it,” the engineer says. “Roy?”

  Haynes nods to the woman as she walks away and sits down near the wall with Brody and the other man. Haynes taps on all the drums, plays a little time on the cymbals and hits the bass drum a few times. “Thanks,” the engineer says.

  The first time I recorded like this it was weird, hearing everybody only through headphones, but I got used to it. We can all see each other through the glass and the isolation booths make doing the final mix more precise. I’d read once that Benny Goodman’s band had been recorded with one microphone and a reel to reel tape recorder at Carnegie Hall. Things have changed.

  The engineer comes on again. “Okay, let’s do something together so I can get a mix.”

  “How about a blues,” Haynes says. I can see his lips move and hear his voice in my ear. “Go ahead, Evan, pick something, you start. But remember not too fast. I’m old.” He laughs.

  I nod and play four bars in a medium tempo and go into “Israel,” a Bill Evans tune. Carter is in on the fifth bar as Haynes plays some little crackle thing on the snare, his right hand is on the ride cymbal. I’d already seen it was one he favored. A flat one, with no bell, the definition so precise you could hear every tick of the wooden tip stick distinctly.

  We play a couple of choruses and the rush is so strong I want to keep playing, but Haynes stops. “Whoa, listen to this cat,” he says. “Let’s save some of that. You got enough, Buzz?” he says to the engineer.