Tag: jazz educators

Missing the Gig: Remembering Clark Terry (1920-2015)

Clark Terry holding a trumpet

Clark Terry. Photo courtesy Marcus McLaurine.

[Ed. Note: Composer, trumpeter, flugelhornist, band leader, and jazz educator Clark Terry died on February 21, 2015 just two months after his 94th birthday. An NEA Jazz Masters inductee who recorded over 100 albums in his own name and appeared as a sideman on over 750 others, Terry had a profound impact on countless musicians, among them composer, bassist, and band leader Marcus McLaurine who performed with Terry for more than 30 years. We asked McLaurine to share his memories of this iconic American artist.–FJO]

To be a real leader, one must possess certain traits such as dignity, integrity, and a sense of fairness, all of which Clark Terry embodied. I personally learned about who the man Clark Terry was many years ago, after being in his band just a short time. I was driving a 1965 Rambler at the time, and it so happened that I was having car trouble this one particular week. So the evening of a gig with Clark’s group, I needed a ride into Manhattan to perform at a club called the “Village West.” I figured since my car was not running I would just call a cab and I should be able to make it on time. The only problem was that every cab company that I called said that they had no available drivers. Now I really started to panic, because I wanted to make a good impression with Clark, as far as being on time was concerned. I realized that I did not have much time and if I didn’t get a cab soon I would be in hot water.

Lo and behold, I did finally reach a taxi service that was able to come and get me and my bass, but the trip would not be an easy endeavor. I lived in Jamaica, Queens and to get to Manhattan from my house when the traffic was good would be about thirty minutes, but now the cabdriver would have to deal with the tail end of rush hour. I knew that there was no way that I was going to make the performance on time. (This was before cell phones were available.) . After much bobbing and weaving through the traffic, the cabby finally made it to the lower west side of Manhattan where the club was located. I paid the driver and hurried inside, but to my surprise the band had started without me and another bassist was on stage performing.

My heart sank into my stomach, because my worst fear was now being realized and I would surely be fired. So I patiently waited until they finished the first set. Clark caught my glance as he was leaving the bandstand and with a gleam in his eye he said, “You really blew it, didn’t you!” Thinking to myself, “Yes, I know that I did,” he then stated emphatically, “Where were you this afternoon for the gig that we had in Midtown Manhattan?” The reality of the situation hit me like a ton of bricks. I had totally forgotten about a job that we had that afternoon. Words cannot fully express the sense of depression that swept over my whole body. Clark casually walked away with some of his friends and the rest of the band, as they made their way back to the band’s dressing room. The whole time back there Clark completely ignored me and I can remember the drummer at the time, Charles Braugham, trying to console me, but to no avail. Well, the time was fast approaching for the band to return for the next set and because I had not spoken to Clark during the entire break, my fate was left in limbo. (Would he fire me or would he let me stay?)

Clark was very clever in how he dealt with the situation, because I think he wanted to see how I would react to what had just transpired. The moment of truth finally arrived and Clark came over to me and said, “This is what we’ll do: You pay the bassist who did the first set and you come and finish up the gig.” The sense of relief that I experienced was overwhelming and I truly could not believe what I was hearing. That day I realized that I was dealing with someone who was of extraordinary character, because the average person would have given me my walking papers. From that day on I became a huge fan of Mr. Clark Terry and he could do no wrong in my eyes. Clark, thank you for giving me the opportunity to be associated with your extraordinary legacy.

Clark Terry and Marcus McLaurine sitting together.

Clark Terry and Marcus McLaurine. Photo courtesy Marcus McLaurine.

Performing with Clark Terry was a pure joy and very challenging at the same time, because his mere presence on the bandstand raised the bar exponentially. His knowledge of the American songbook and of more contemporary composers was extremely vast. I can remember performing at the Village Vanguard with Clark and he began playing a piece impromptu. Clark would do this every now and then, which really forced everyone in the band to learn as many songs as possible. I had no idea what the piece was and was having a great deal of difficulty with the song. Needless to say, this was a very uncomfortable situation to be in. I later found out that the song was “Sweet Lorraine” and I am sure Clark played the song in honor of Lorraine Gordon, who was the wife of Max Gordon, the owner of the Village Vanguard.

Clark Terry was also noted for his highly identifiable sound, which was very rich, warm, and full. All you needed to hear were just a couple of bars of him playing and you knew immediately that it was Clark Terry! His sense of time, rhythm, and melodies were impeccable, and it seemed that Clark was always trying to push himself beyond the envelope, to do things on the horn that no one else had done, such as playing two horns at once or playing the trumpet or flugelhorn upside down. It was a true marvel to watch how he would gradually flip the flugelhorn upside down while never letting the horn leave his lips—all of this while still playing. Pure magic!

Another identifying quality of Clark’s was this language that he had created called Mumbles. I first heard this routine at the University of Nebraska’s student center in 1972, where Clark was performing with the university’s jazz ensemble. I remember laughing so hard that my face was aching. The language sounded like gibberish, but he would do it with inflections from other countries, such as Germany, France, and Italy. You could not understand a word of what he was saying, but you felt as though you understood every word. Clark made a recording with Oscar Peterson called Oscar Peterson Trio + One and, as legend has it, Clark performed this mumbles language over the blues. After listening to the playback Oscar Peterson thought this new language that Clark had created was hilarious and hence “Mumbles” made it on the recording and the rest is history!

Clark was the consummate entertainer on the bandstand with a style that harkened back to the days of Louis Armstrong, Dizzy Gillespie, and countless others. He always engaged the audience and had this uncanny ability to know just what material to perform next. Clark was also noted for being one of the first jazz educators and was always more than ready to help young musicians who were eager for knowledge. A couple of Clark’s earliest students were Miles Davis and Quincy Jones, who later became jazz icons in their own right.

I was very fortunate in that Clark asked me to be a part of his jazz camps and this was where I was able to learn his method of teaching, where he stressed a system of phrasing that he called the Doodle System, which was phrased “daddle, deedle, dawdle, dowdle, doodle.” The idea would be to sing this phrase very slowly and then, once you had mastered it, gradually increase the tempo, so that you could develop good phrasing for your solos. When you hear Clark performing you can hear him utilizing this system of phrasing in his solos.

Clark also had a great sense of humor and always maintained that feeling of being positive on and off the bandstand. Anyone who was fortunate enough to come in contact with him quickly recognized this and would always cherish the moments spent with him. I personally feel blessed to have had the opportunity to be associated with Clark for more than 30 years. Clark was more than an employer to the members in his bands, he was a true friend for life and we all will miss him dearly. We have truly lost one of the giants. Godspeed, CT!!!

A Master Communicator: Remembering H. Owen Reed (1910-2014)

[Ed. Note: When Elliott Carter died in 2012 only a month shy of his 104th birthday the news made international headlines and even landed on the front page of The New York Times. In a great many of the memorials to Carter, writers opined about how he had been the last surviving composer of his generation, a link to a past which we no longer had. But another significant centenarian, H. Owen Reed, survived him, a composer with albeit a somewhat different, but also exemplary, career trajectory.

A Francophile as was Carter, Reed, who was born in Odessa, Missouri in 1910, obtained his Bachelor’s Degree in French in 1937 shortly after receiving Bachelor and Master’s Degrees in Music from Louisiana State University. But rather than going to Paris to study with Nadia Boulanger, as Carter had done a few years earlier, Reed, who also counted among his most significant compositional mentors an important female pedagogue, Helen M. Gunderson (1909-1997), enrolled at the Eastman School of Music where—under the tutelage of Howard Hanson and Bernard Rogers—he obtained a Ph.D. just two years later in 1939. Private studies followed with Roy Harris, Aaron Copland, Leonard Bernstein, and Bohuslav Martinu, among others. He was honored with a Guggenheim Fellowship in 1949 which resulted in his spending six months in Mexico studying local folk music. That experience informed what his arguably his most popular composition, La Fiesta Mexicana, a work which has been performed all over the world and has appeared on numerous wind band albums since its premiere recording under the direction of the legendary Frederick Fennell. Because of the success of this composition, Reed has been credited with kindling many composers’ interest in writing for wind ensembles, something he continued to do extensively throughout his long career, although his output also encompassed works for symphony orchestra, chamber ensembles, and opera. While he might not be categorized as an avant-gardist, many of his scores explored unconventional musical notations and extended techniques. He composed extensively for jazz groups as well and his Latin-tinged “El Muchacho” was recorded by Cal Tjader.

A lifelong learner, into his late 60s, Reed was still embarking on field trips, traveling to Norway and the Caribbean to study the traditional music of those regions. His immersion in Native American culture, which involved extended stays at tribal reservations in Arizona and New Mexico inspired a trilogy of chamber operas based on Native American folktales. And Reed also remained active as a jazz performer, leading combos since his early 20s. Just last year, at the age of 102, he was still improvising at the piano.


Among Reed’s most important legacies was his devotion to younger composers. He spent four decades teaching composition at Michigan State University where he remained Professor Emeritus after his retirement in 1976. His many students included David Maslanka and Adophus Hailstork as well as the late Clare Fischer (1928-2012) who, in addition to his own compositions, arranged music for artists ranging from Dizzy Gillespie and the Hi-Los to Prince and Celine Dion. Reed also authored nine books which remain important reference materials for music students.
After learning of Reed’s death on January 6, it seemed most appropriate to contact someone who had ties to him both as a student and a professional colleague and someone who shared his passions for both contemporary composition and jazz improvisation. So we approached composer/percussionist Charles Ruggiero who had a nearly half century-long friendship with Dr. Reed (as he called him throughout his life), first as his student and subsequently as a fellow composition teacher at MSU. Ruggiero’s detailed account of that remarkable relationship offers those of us who were never fortunate enough to get to know H. Owen Reed, a personal sense of who he was as a composer, teacher, and human being. Another Reed alum and MSU faculty colleague, composer Jere Hutcheson, who actually knew Reed even longer than Ruggiero, has contributed some additional comments herein as well. —FJO]

*

Charles Ruggiero and H. Owen Reed

Charles Ruggiero and H. Owen Reed at Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp

I first learned of Michigan State University’s music program circa 1966 when I participated in the Villanova Jazz Festival as the drummer for the New England Conservatory’s jazz band. Supplemented by a lead trumpet player ringer from the Berklee College of Music, our band played well at Villanova, but we weren’t able to stay at the festival very long, so we didn’t hear many performances by other bands. On the long bus ride back to Boston, several NEC band members expressed optimism about our chances of winning the award for the best big band. However, the next day our faculty advisor told us that although we had played very well, the Conservatory’s band hadn’t been awarded the first-, second-, or even third-place award. The winning big band at Villanova that year was the MSU Jazz Ensemble. A few years later, when I decided to pursue a Ph.D., I placed Michigan State near the top of my short list, since in addition to having a strong doctoral composition program, MSU also offered excellent jazz performance opportunities and advanced courses in jazz arranging—just the curricular combination I was hoping to find!
Five of the six graduate programs I had applied to communicated with me mostly by mail, but H. Owen Reed personally called me several times while I was making my decision about where I would pursue my graduate degrees. He answered all the questions I had about MSU, the University’s composition program, the Lansing area, and the State of Michigan. Neither my wife, Pat, nor I had ever been to Michigan. We both were New Englanders who had been brought up in Connecticut and had spent much time vacationing in the mountains of New Hampshire. From our study of maps, Pat and I discovered that there were no mountains anywhere near Lansing, Michigan, and we were concerned that mid-Michigan might be a rather dull and foreign-looking place to live.

Dr. Reed (to signal my respect, I always addressed him that way), who had spent some time in Massachusetts, assured us that Michigan was a wonderful place to live. He told us that in the UP (which we eventually figured out meant a place many hours away from Lansing, in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan) there were some small but beautiful mountains and that in the Lower Peninsula there were lots of hilly areas similar to those found throughout the lower New England states. That sounded good to us. But what Dr. Reed told us about Michigan hills and mountains turned out not to be completely true. There are no mountains in Michigan that are even remotely similar to those found in New Hampshire, and real hills, like those one frequently encounters on bicycle rides in New England, are extremely hard to find! But Dr. Reed’s sales pitch wasn’t all bunk; we discovered after living in the Lansing area for several years, that Michigan, at least large chunks of it, are indeed quite beautiful.

When I told Dr. Reed that another Big Ten university had offered me a good paying half-time assistantship to teach percussion but that I wanted to focus more on composition and music theory and to study with him, it took him only a few days to call me back and offer me two assistantships, one in music theory and one working at WKAR-TV. I was delighted and honored that Dr. Reed had done this; it suggested not only that he really wanted me to come to MSU but also that he was proactive and capable of making things happen quickly even in an institution as large, complex, and often slow-moving as a Big Ten university.
It’s still not clear to me why Dr. Reed so actively recruited me. He always was supportive of me as a composer, in a general way, but at least early on in our relationship I think he was more impressed with my work as a percussionist than as a composer. Included with my application portfolio of compositions were recordings of me playing both one of my works for vibraphone and voice and a transcription for marimba of Chopin’s Fantaisie-Impromptu in C-sharp minor. Scoring for Percussion, an innovative and useful text written by Dr. Reed and Joel T. Leach was published in 1969, and in 1971 Dr. Reed still was strongly interested in all things percussive! Perhaps he was impressed by my recording of the Chopin and the fact that I was the percussion instructor at the University of Bridgeport in Connecticut, or, more likely, my credentials as a jazz drummer swayed him.

My 1971 MSU application included a very brief letter of recommendation written by John Mehegan. In the year before moving to Michigan, I had studied jazz theory and improvisation with Mehegan and then had become a member of his Connecticut-based jazz trio. (For his New York gigs, Mehegan used Art Blakey and other NYC-based drummers.) Mehegan was also a prominent jazz theorist, pianist, and critic (writing for Down Beat, the New York Herald Tribune, and other publications) who taught jazz improvisation at such prestigious schools as Julliard and Yale University as well as at Tanglewood in Massachusetts. From the 1940s on, Mehegan was at times very closely associated with Leonard Bernstein. H. Owen Reed had worked with Bernstein at Tanglewood in the early 1940s and may have been aware of Mehegan’s relationship with Bernstein. In any case, I was very pleased that Dr. Reed had accepted me into his composition studio, even if it was largely because of my work as a jazz drummer with Mehegan’s trio.

(From Dr. Reed’s earliest musical experiences as a Missouri boy studying piano—just after the peak of the ragtime craze and the emergence of stride piano—to his college days when he played trumpet in dance bands, to his years playing piano as a member of MSU’s Geriatric Six faculty jazz group during the last decade of his teaching career, he was inspired by jazz and thoroughly enjoyed performing it to the best of his abilities. He never claimed to be a great improviser or to possess extraordinary instrumental technique, but he surely did enjoy playing jazz, especially when surrounded by friends.)

*

I arrived in East Lansing in the summer of 1971 with great expectations about my studies as an MSU graduate composition major, but I soon was surprised and quite disappointed to discover that MSU’s jazz program had gone into a state of rapid entropy. The program had been founded in 1960 by Dr. Gene Hall (who had established the first degree-granting jazz program in the United States at North Texas State Teachers College) and had quickly developed into one of the best in the nation, led by such talented graduate assistants as George West and Bob Curnow, but by 1971, MSU’s jazz program was essentially leaderless and in shambles. On the other hand, I found studying with Dr. Reed to be a very positive experience. And I learned much from my work as a music theory teaching assistant and as a score reader and producer’s assistant at WKAR-TV, MSU’s public television station, which back then produced new 30-minute classical music shows every two weeks or so.

Some Additional Memories from
Jere Hutcheson

Owen and I remained close friends from the time I arrived at Michigan State University in 1963. I had chosen MSU for my doctoral study because of Owen’s reputation. In a sense, our relationship went back further than that. Both Owen and I had earned our MM degrees at Louisiana State, and in both cases Helen Gunderson was our major composition teacher. Owen was Gunderson’s first student with a graduate degree in composition, and I was her last. Gunderson spoke of Owen often, and she encouraged several of her students to apply to MSU’s doctoral composition program.

Owen was a natural-born leader. When a newly appointed director of MSU’s music department passed away suddenly, Owen was elected to complete the year as interim director. He was active in the Music Teachers National Association (MTNA), serving as chairman of its theory-composition section. When MSU was preparing to celebrate its centennial year, Owen was selected to compose an opera to commemorate the anniversary: thus sprang Michigan Dream. Owen was active on the faculty council that conceived and built the University Club. I suspect that his experience as the leader of his own jazz combos during his college days is where this quality for leadership began.

What do I owe to Owen Reed as a teacher? Owen was meticulous in matters of score preparation. This was especially important when composing for large ensembles, especially orchestra and band. He was also very knowledgeable in the area of percussion instruments, their special uses and notations.

Owen’s music had integrity. I never felt that there was any fluff there; every note was important. All of us who studied with him gained from his musical insight and from the integrity of his thinking.

There were other talented composers on MSU’s faculty in the early ’70s, including James Niblock and Jere Hutcheson, but Dr. Reed was the recognized leader of the composition area. He made all of the major decisions about the area’s admissions and degree programs, and he taught all or almost all of the graduate majors. When classes were in session, every Thursday from 3 to 5 in the afternoon, Dr. Reed held his seminars for composition majors in his large office on the fourth floor of the Music Practice Building, an office that was part of a two-room studio suite designed built for his exclusive use. By the 1970s, he was well connected in the field of composition, so there was a steady stream of established composers who presented their music and ideas about composition to his seminars. Most of these sessions were relaxed, somewhat informal, unscripted, and generally practical in nature; rarely did Dr. Reed or his guests talk about aesthetics, complex analytical systems, or other “erudite subjects.”

Although H. Owen Reed had written college-level textbooks on various aspects of “basic” music theory in the 1950s and ’60s, during my years of study with him, Dr. Reed very rarely discussed matters of tonal or atonal theory with me. Maybe by the ’70s he had decided that MSU students should study these topics with other members of the faculty. Or perhaps his then intense interest in percussion and notation, and his desire to focus his students’ attention on these topics, especially notation, left little lesson time for other things to be explored.

I thought my studies with Dr. Reed would be similar to the composition lessons I had taken at New England Conservatory, where normally each week I got a short assignment designed to help me develop specific techniques (mostly traditional contrapuntal and motivic variation techniques), but it turned out that most of my lessons with Dr. Reed were quite different. I had hoped Dr. Reed would help me better understand pitch structures in 20th-century music, explore new concepts of musical form, write more effectively for large ensembles, etc. Instead, for most of my lessons, Dr. Reed simply would have me show him what I had been working on during the past week, and then he would comment on, make suggestions for changes in, and ask questions about what I had written. Often, he would offer some praise and encouragement early in the lesson and then give me some advice on changes I might consider making. Sometimes, he would show me music he was composing, arranging, or notating at the time, pointing out details in his scores illustrating things he thought, perhaps, I should consider using in my music. Often, he would talk about various other things that were on his mind, not just music topics, but a recurring “theme” of my lessons with Dr. Reed was notation—all aspects of notation, including how to produce scores using a particular type of transparent film (large quantities of which Dr. Reed purchased with grant money) that he had recently adopted in place of traditional onionskin music paper—this was, of course, before most people had easy access to photocopiers and personal computers, both of which technologies have radically changed the way music is composed, notated, printed, and distributed.

In the early 1970s, Dr. Reed and many other members of the MSU community of composers were much interested in the latest music of George Crumb and other younger members of the art music avant-garde. Most of the things that fascinated us about such works as Crumb’s Ancient Voices of Children (1970), Songs, Drones and Refrains of Death (1971), Lux Aeterna for Five Masked Musicians (1972), and Vox Balaenae for Three Masked Players (1972), were at least partly notational in nature. It’s not by coincidence that all four of these Crumb works were published as facsimiles of the composer’s handwritten manuscripts. Traditional music notation, especially when typeset, simply wasn’t a flexible or rich enough symbolic language to express Crumb’s musical conceptions in meaningful, accurate, detailed, and performer-friendly ways.
Led by Dr. Reed, many MSU graduate composers were interested in finding ways to: specify indeterminate pitches and rhythms in our scores; clearly notate passages in which freer rhythms and arhythmic materials are combined with more traditionally notated rhythms; graphically represent the textures of our music more clearly than was possible using only traditional notation; notate “special” or “extended” instrumental techniques in coherent ways; provide performers with helpful markings and instructions that would increase the likelihood of having our music played well; etc. This was interesting stuff, to be sure, but scouring recent scores for innovative notations and figuring out the best ways of using the new film transparencies became almost an obsession for some of us at the time.

Although to this day I wish Dr. Reed had given me at least some technical exercises during my composition studies with him, over the years, as a composition teacher myself, I’ve come to a better understanding and appreciation of Dr. Reed’s composition pedagogy. With me, instead of following a pre-determined study plan, Dr. Reed dealt with issues as they arose in my writing, and while this didn’t allow for systematic development of compositional technique, other than notational technique, it did allow Dr. Reed to focus my attention on several very important matters. I think Dr. Reed’s game plan was to encourage me, primarily through focused praise of whatever kinds of music I wanted to compose, gradually building my trust in his judgment to the point where he could then make very critical comments about my work that I would take seriously but which would not discourage me from composing. I feel that this approach works well with many young composition students.

*

Like most teachers, H. Owen Reed had his “pet theories” and recommended practices that he reinforced by repetition. One of these was something I call prescriptive theory of compensating parameters. I can’t remember his own name for it. Anyway, his theory stipulated that when one or more parameters (melody and harmony, for example) become more complex, other parameters (perhaps rhythm and texture) should become less complex. When applied simplistically or rigidly, this idea becomes little more than a bromide, but I’ve come to appreciate its value. Although Dr. Reed’s theory of compensating parameters ran somewhat counter to the maximalist ideas of mid-20th-century composers like Milton Babbitt, at its core it reflected Dr. Reed’s profound understanding of what, how much, and how rapidly the human ear and brain can process music.
H. Owen Reed was a master communicator. I believe he was capable of holding at least a 15-minute conversation with just about any English-speaking person, regardless of that individual’s background, education, occupation, etc., at the end of which the other person quite likely would be thinking: “What a nice guy he is!” As host of his annual end-of-year party for his students at his Okemos home, Dr. Reed would charm all the young spouses of his male students, emphasizing his Missouri accent and turning on his genuine Southern charm. The next day, though, he could be perfectly at ease exchanging ribald limericks with some old colleagues. And when serious decisions had to be made, Dr. Reed could be quite businesslike, analytical, and ready and able to express his views as forcefully as necessary to make his points.

One of the things I learned from Dr. Reed is that there are times and contexts when it’s appropriate to discuss almost any topic, and other times and contexts when it is completely inappropriate to discuss almost anything. I remember being backstage with Dr. Reed at MSU’s Fairchild Theatre after a recital by Paul Zukofsky and Gilbert Kalish, during which they played the Ravel Sonata for Violin and Piano. On the other side of the stage one older member of the MSU string faculty was rather vehemently expressing to Zukofsky his disapproval of the inclusion of the Ravel sonata on the program because of its use of jazz and blues elements. Overhearing these comments, astonished and embarrassed, I intended to express my very different opinion of the Ravel sonata, and started to walk to the other side of the stage. But before I had taken two steps, H. Owen Reed grabbed me with one hand and locked my arm with his other arm, so that I couldn’t move. Although I hadn’t told him of my intentions, Dr. Reed had read my mind, and had determined that this was neither the time nor place for me to express my support of jazz in the concert hall!

Another time, many years later, after a concert in his honor at Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp in Michigan, many people, including some of the students who had just played his music, surrounded the famous ancient composer, telling him how much they enjoyed his compositions, how great he looked, how excited and honored they were to meet him and speak with him, etc. Dr. Reed smiled at each person he spoke with and told all of the student performers how beautifully they played his music and how much he enjoyed the program. After the crowd of Reed admirers dispersed, I paid my respects to my former teacher. We had a nice chat, some pictures were taken of the two of us, etc. Then I asked Dr. Reed if he enjoyed the performances of his music that he had just heard. The smile on his face straightened, he moved closer to me, and in a very serious soft voice he told me that his hearing had deteriorated so much that listening to live performances of his music was literally painful because of the consistently loud distortion of the high frequencies he had to contend with whenever he heard even moderately loud music.

Unquestionably the most important thing I took away from my composition lessons with H. Owen Reed was to have the courage and good sense to write the kind of music that I really want to write. Early on in my studies with Dr. Reed, I was struggling with an orchestra piece. I thought that I had a “good concept” for the work, but I had spent many hours working on it with relatively little music to show for all my time and efforts. The piece was consistently atonal, texturally dense, and rhythmically complex with no clear metric framework. At one of my composition lessons around the middle of the term, after he had noticed my lack of progress with the orchestra piece for several weeks, Dr. Reed studied my current draft of the score for a minute or two and then asked me why I hadn’t incorporated any jazz elements into the music I had brought to my lessons. I was stunned. He knew I was active as a jazz performer and arranger, and I knew that he was a true jazz enthusiast, but my composition lessons at New England Conservatory and my sense of what kinds of music graduate composition majors were “supposed to write” hadn’t allowed me to draw upon jazz in my “serious” compositions. Dr. Reed’s question opened the creative floodgates for me and helped me decide on the direction I would take as an artist for the rest of my life—a path that would take some courage but would allow me to speak with my own voice as a composer. That one lesson was worth the price of four years of MSU composition credits.

*

I’m sure that Dr. Reed had definite opinions about the music and careers of at least a few dozen of his former students, but when speaking with me, he always was a diplomat par excellence. In the 1970s and ’80s, I heard him cite the accomplishments of several of his former students enough times to conclude that he felt all of them were among a select group; the former students he mentioned most often to me were (in alphabetical order), Dinos Constantinides, Adolphus Hailstork, Jere Hutcheson, David Maslanka, and Bill Penn. I’m pretty sure Dr. Reed did not like their compositions (or those of any other of his students) as much as he admired some of the music of one of his teachers, Howard Hanson, but he certainly considered all five of these composers major talents. I find it interesting that I don’t have even the slightest hint about which of his former students Dr. Reed might have thought was the “best” or “most successful” composer. In the nearly 45 years I knew him, I can’t remember a single comment Dr. Reed made to me or to anyone else¬ that could be interpreted to suggest he felt any of his students was a better or more successful composer than any other of his many talented musical disciples—except, perhaps, for comments he made freely and frequently about one of his former students who attended MSU in the early 1950s.

If there was one student whom H. Owen Reed was the most proud of and whose music he liked the most, it probably was the jazz composer, arranger, pianist, bandleader, and Latin-jazz Grammy Award winner Clare Fischer (1928-2012). Typically, whether he was telling me about Clare Fischer’s days as an MSU music major, about Fischer’s latest jazz recording, or about Fischer’s arranging work for some pop-music superstar, subtle changes in Dr. Reed’s tone of voice and body language suggested to me that he felt Clare Fischer was unique among his students, a one-of-a-kind genius who had both exceptional musical skills and wide-ranging professional accomplishments that were unlike those of any of his other former students.

However, if Dr. Reed could have read the previous paragraph and if I could have asked him about it, I’m sure he would have said something like: “No, I don’t think what you’ve written is correct. Clare was a fine arranger and a fine composer, but I wouldn’t say he was a better composer than David or Jere, etc. And Clare’s greatest accomplishments were in jazz and popular music….” I’m sure Dr. Reed would have fine-tuned his diplomatic response so that it would have pleased (or at least not displeased) any former student mentioned.

Back at Jazz Camp West

Jazz Camp West
The 2013 session of Jazz Camp West began last Saturday. This year’s faculty roster includes some of the most respected and widely known artists playing jazz today. Examples include trombonist-composer Wayne Wallace, pianist-composer Jovino Santos Neto, drummer-composer Matt Wilson (who is this year’s artist-in-residence), and the vocal-guitar duo Tuck and Patti (Tuck Andress and Patti Cathcart). To be thorough, the list also includes: pianists Randy Porter, Glen Pearson, Dan Zemelman, Ben Heveroh, Walter Bankovitch, and Matt Jenson; trumpeters Erik Jekabson and Mario Guarneri; saxophonists Laura Dreyer and Charles McNeal; flutist John Calloway; drummers Allison Miller, Deszon Clairborne, and Tommy Shepherd; vocalists Faye Carol, Terrence Kelly, Greta Matassa, Michelle Hawkins, Celia Malheiros, and Shanna Carlson; guitarists Anthony Michael Peterson and Brian Pardo; bassists Troy Lampkins and Hans Holt; percussionists John Santos, Ami Molinelli, and Mark Rosenthal. Dance is an integral part of Jazz Camp West and the lineup of dance instructors features Sidney Weaverling, Ryan Mead, Lynn Brilhante, Ronnie Reddick, and Aaron Draper. I had the pleasure of attending as a faculty member in 2012 and consider it an honor to be returning in the same capacity. Since a summary of the camp’s history and its founders’ vision can be found in last year’s post, this post will focus more on my own impressions of the camp’s daily routine.

Breakfast is the first scheduled event that takes place in two dining hall rooms, one to serve (well, self-serve, buffet-style) and one to dine in. The fare is all-American: scrambled eggs for 300 people, bacon, potatoes, fruit (cantaloupe, melon, grapes, apple, and/or banana), oatmeal offered in a wide range of viscosities, toast, oleo, juice, and the all-important coffee. (Tea or hot chocolate is available as an alternative caffeine delivery beverage.) This starts at 8 a.m. and is interrupted promptly at nine by the morning yoga class. For those who want to engage in an activity less physically demanding, there are jam-sessions and classes to attend. I don’t want to engage in physical activity at that hour and usually sleep through breakfast, but as early as 9 a.m. I could take classes in beginning improvisation, jazz basics and fundamentals, paradiddles for beginning drummers, advanced theory and ear training, Cuban-style salsa and rueda de casino, how to play the pandeiro, and how to spit out rapid-fire lyrics—or play free music!
This is all available during the first hour here. All of the classes are an hour long and later in the day student campers can pick from an offering of topics ranging from hip hop basics to the music of Bob Marley to laying in a gospel rhythm section to playing steel drums. There are combos where students get tips on how to better work together as a group and late-night jam sessions where they get to play with the instructors named above. Every day two concerts are held, one featuring the students and one featuring the faculty. Needless to say, the faculty concerts are miniature jazz festivals in themselves.


Tuck and Patti in performance at Jazz Camp West on Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Tuesday marked the official 30th anniversary of Jazz Camp West, and the faculty concert was a fantastic celebration of music and emotion. Many of the artists involved in JCW feel that it is one of the high points of their year. One artist stated in a faculty meeting that it is the best teaching situation he is involved in. Allison Miller originally came as an artist-in-residence and has returned no less than three times as a regular faculty member. This year marks the sixth time Tuck and Patti have come to teach at JCW. One of the reasons for this is that Jazz Camp West is a place that honors the idea of spirituality as an element in music instruction. It’s not an institutional environment that needs to negate intuition and passion, but rather a learning environment that fosters and salutes them. In this sense, JCW is a bridge between the traditional and modern approaches to jazz education, where the former was steeped in mentorship and the latter in academic meritocracy.

Of course, current economic trends have forced Living Jazz, the umbrella organization that sponsors Jazz Camp West, to start thinking of new ways to raise money so that JCW can see another 30 years of teaching American music. Hopefully, next year will see a surge in attendance and contributions from interested donors. I know that I have become smitten with the experience of Jazz Camp West and hope that I will be invited back again and again. But that can only happen if JCW stays in business.