Johnny
Hodges (1907-1970) was one of the finest alto saxophonists
of the 20th Century, a star of Duke Ellington's magnificent
orchestra for decades. Hodges joined Ellington in 1928 and,
except for a stint leading his own band (1951-1955), remained
with Duke until he died in 1970.
A
music teacher can show you how to the play an instrument, teach
technique, and drill you on scales. Finding your own voice, however,
is a singular journey that for most musicians starts with imitation.
You hear someone playing a phrase or using a style that strikes
your fancy, and you take that memory home and try to squeeze it
out of your horn. In the process something is added (or perhaps
not even realized). What eventually emerges is not perfect imitation
but rather a sound that is an amalgamation of both your strengths
and weaknesses. Eventually, what comes out of the bell of your horn
is something that is organically yours.
When I was
a kid learning how to play the alto sax, my access to possible
mentors was pretty limited. There was, of course, my parents’
Glenn Miller records. Tex Beneke just didn’t appeal to me.
It seemed he was always on the verge of turning his solos into
polkas. Besides, I wanted something more expressive. It is too
bad that Miller didn’t let Al Klink loose. After Miller,
I think Beneke became more rounded and his solo work improved.
My brother had a collection of Dave Brubeck albums. I can recall
being very impressed by Paul Desmond’s cool and clinical
approach, but not a style I wanted to emulate.
In the mid-1960’s,
I got my first Ellington album -- "Will the Big Bands Ever
Come Back?" -- and discovered Johnny Hodges. It was an epiphany.
His tone was rich and his use of the chord was spare but meaningful.
He could slide into a note that made the trip more important than
the arrival. When I first heard Billie Holiday and the way she
could noodle about a note, my thoughts jumped back to Hodges.
With the arrogance of youth I tried to imitate him, and of course,
woefully failed. I don’t think anyone has ever come close.
Of my own musicianship, I have much to be humble about. Yet, my
attempt to imitate this master made me better for the effort.
In the summer
of 1968, the Ellington band played a one-night gig at an aging
ballroom called Canoe Place Inn at Hampton Bays, New York. A friend
of mine took me to meet Hodges between one of the sets and we
shook hands. I do not recall what I said, but probably came off
sounding like a teenage rustic rube. My parents were fond of reminding
me that I refused to wash my hand for a week hoping something
rubbed off the master.
Years later
when I switched to bari, I found my next mentor at the other end
of Ellington’s sax section. Harry Carney, however, is another
story.
Marble
City Swing Band -- Norm Gluckman is playing baritone sax, sitting
on your right in the reed section.
When
I moved to Vermont, playing music was about the furthest thing from
my mind. I had a growing family, and it was enough to do what had
to be done to keep kit and caboodle together.
"Moonlight
in Vermont" is not just great song, but a way of life in the
Green Mountain State. Like many Vermonters, I “moonlighted”
at a second and sometimes a third job. A student at the school where
I was working knew that I had once played alto sax and was interested
in big band music. He told me about a regional swing band and invited
me down to a rehearsal. I was a bit anxious about accepting the
invitation. I feared that I would not be able to play the horn after
a 10 year hiatus; no armature, questionable technique, and a horn
that needed pads, cork, and springs.
Fortunately,
the student was persistent, and I had the sax overhauled, regained
my armature, but still had questionable technique. That I was offered
the second alto chair on the first visit, probably spoke less to
my rusty musicianship and more to how desperate they were to fill
the chair. It was the start of a 16-year gig for me.
The Marble City
Swing Band played throughout northern New York, Vermont, and New
Hampshire. Like many musicians, I played at venues I probably would
never have had the opportunity to go to otherwise, and have had
experiences that have enriched my life. We played at several gubernatorial
balls including those for Madeliene Kunin, Richard Snelling, and
Howard Dean (now head of the National Democratic Party). I discovered
that republicans can swing and that Howard Dean’s favorite
big band song is “Take the A Train."
We played a
lot at the ski lodges throughout the region and had regular gigs
at the Killington and Pico base lodges. We warmed up the crowds
at music festivals for the likes of Count Basie’s orchestra
and have been given the downbeat at one job in Warren, Vermont by
Skitch Henderson. There was a wedding gig on an old steamer that
cruised Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire. The bridal party was
dressed up in nautical uniforms. The band was once transported to
a private island in Lake Champlain by a small flotilla of motorboats.
This was no less complex an operation than an amphibious assault
. Our return to the boat landing in the middle of a thunderstorm
brought to mind Dunkirk.
There are of
course the bookings at venues not really compatible with big band
music. I can remember walking into a club near Barre, Vermont, and
knowing immediately that we were in trouble because the dance hall
was decorated with cowboy paraphernalia. When the audience showed
up they were wearing cowboy hats, boots, buckles, etc. The closest
we could come to satisfying the crowd was in the title of a Sammy
Nestico chart called "Hay Burner." We cleared the place
out by the end of the first set!
At one job at
Poultney, Vermont, the band almost left the gig. Despite everything
we tried, we could not get the audience to dance. "Moonlight
Serenad" and "In the Mood" charts which normally
got people out of their chairs, might just have well have been played
without any mouthpieces. By the third set, the band had gotten much
louder and faster. Ballads and break tunes were being played at
the same tempo . Finally, the business director (First Trumpet)
warned that anyone leaving before the end of the fourth set would
not get paid.
There are many
other experiences too numerous to mention, such as our gigs with
the Vermont Symphony Orchestra, New Year's Eve jobs at the Burlington
Radison, Sheraton, and Manchester’s Equinox, and countless
weddings. The thrill in all of this is to have been able to play
the music I love with a great bunch of people for audiences who
appreciated big band music. I still have questionable technique.
My
First Encounter with Sweet Band Music -
by Norm Gluckman
On my radio
program, I recently played a Charlie Barnet recording called "The
Wrong Idea. It is a parody of sweet band music (“Don’t
play it good, just play cute, make it sound like rooty, toot,
toot!") with a disguised reference to Sammy Kaye ("Swing
and Sweat with Charlie Barnet").
It brought
to mind my first encounter with this style of playing. When I
was a kid, every summer my parents or a favorite aunt and uncle
would take me to see the musicals produced by Guy Lombardo at
the Jone’s Beach Amphitheater at Long Island, New York.
Charlie
Barnet
After the production,
the audience would head to a large tent for refreshments and dancing
to the music of the Royal Canadians. While I was entranced by
the sight of the musicians in tuxedos and all those shiny instruments
on the band stand, it was the vibrato, that wavering sound that
would drop almost a half tone down the scale, which caught my
attention
At the time, I was
just learning how to play the alto sax. In recollection, I didn’t
like the style, but that consideration was only secondary. What
was important, was that I thought I could play the same way as
Carmen Lombardo, a professional musician. Clearly, I had not discovered
Johnny Hodges yet. I practiced my vibrato playing my scales a
la Lombardo with the intent of demonstrating my newly found expertise
to my music teacher at the next lesson.
My teacher, John Lamendola,
was a bass player and a veteran of the big band era. Recently,
I learned that he had done a stint with Woody Herman. Mr. Lamendola’s
response to my new “style” of playing scales was predictable,
but not within the capacity of a 10 year-old to understand. After
just a few measures, Lamendola told me to stop, gave me the jaundiced
eye, and said that if I ever played like that again, he would
take my saxophone away.
