The Boy Who Cried Freebird

by Mitch Myers

  The old man paused in midsentence and got an odd, faraway look in his eyes. He muttered something about Mel Schacher’s bass playing being “really, really heavy” and began singing the first verse of “I’m Your Captain.”

  Shannon turned to his older brother and said, “Great, you got Grandpa to have another one of his flashbacks. Are you happy now? It’ll take him all day to get it back together and Mom is definitely going to restrict us from our video games for the rest of the week. We better go out and buy some drugs so we don’t die of boredom tonight.”

  “Grand Funk Railroad—now what kind of name is that for a band?”

  DIMINUENDO AND CRESCENDO

  I tried calling my good pal Harlan the other day. I needed some help with my computer and if anyone knows about computers, it’s Harlan. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, my friend was nowhere to be found. Instead, Harlan’s voice-mail greeting confronted me.

  “Hi, I’m not home right now,” his voice explained. “This is Paul Gonsalves’s saxophone solo from ‘Diminuendo and Crescendo in Blue.’ If you have heard this before, you may press pound now and leave me a message.”

  I smiled to myself as Paul Gonsalves’s tenor blew through the wire into my ear. Harlan had come up with some wild phone greetings in the past, but this one was really too much. Now, you may be asking yourself what makes this bit of music so notable in the first place and I must say, I’m glad you asked.

  You see, Paul Gonsalves played this particular saxophone solo with Duke Ellington’s orchestra at the American Jazz Festival in Newport, Rhode Island, on July 7, 1956. Ellington, of course, was the undisputed giant of jazz who’d become enormously popular since first performing at Harlem’s Cotton Club in the Roaring Twenties.

  While immortal compositions like “Mood Indigo,” “Sophisticated Lady” and “Take the ‘A’ Train” sustained Ellington throughout the ’30s and ’40s, things had tapered off for Duke’s big band, and their appearance at Newport was intended to be a comeback of sorts. Ellington had even written the “Newport Jazz Festival Suite” expressly for the occasion.

  Paul Gonsalves was a journeyman musician who had played with Count Basie and Dizzy Gillespie before joining Ellington’s caravan. His extroverted saxophone style was solid, coming out of the Coleman Hawkins’s school of tenor players. While not nearly as famous as other tenor stars who had worked with the Duke (like the great Ben Webster), Gonsalves was still a well-seasoned jazzman.

  That night, Ellington’s introduction of “Diminuendo and Crescendo in Blue” was respectfully received by the Newport crowd but not identified as particularly noteworthy. Indeed, the song had been written nineteen years earlier and there was no indication that this performance would contain anything out of the ordinary.

  The piece starts out with a few minutes of classic Ellingtonia, that is, Duke setting the stage with four jumping choruses on piano before the ensemble rolls in to fortify the main theme. After two more choruses by the Duke, and with a rollicking beat laid down by bassist Jimmy Woode and drummer Sam Woodyard, Paul Gonsalves stepped forward to perform his most memorable solo.

  Gonsalves’s segment begins conventionally enough and any number of tenor players could have played his first few choruses. Traditionally, three or four choruses by a notable soloist would be plenty for an Ellington composition, but this was not the case at Newport.

  It was somewhere around Gonsalves’s sixth steaming chorus that the crowd began to sense something special was occurring: during his seventh go-round a sophisticated lady (a platinum blonde in a black evening dress) jumped up from her box seat and began dancing wildly to the rocking rhythm. Bear in mind that the festival was a somewhat elegant event and the commotion caused by Gonsalves’s tour de force had the Newport security police more than a little concerned.

  By this time, most of the crowd (seven thousand strong) was on their feet and cheering. Eight, twelve, fifteen muscular choruses and Gonsalves showed no signs of slowing down. At the very foot of the stage, Jo Jones (former Basie drummer appearing at Newport with Teddy Wilson) was pounding out his unbridled enthusiasm with a rolled-up copy of the Christian Science Monitor.

  Backed by just bass, drums, and an occasional piano fill by the Duke, Gonsalves reared back even harder and played on. Veteran Ellington bandmates like Johnny Hodges, Cat Anderson, and Harry Carney were shouting their own special encouragement as Gonsalves boldly blew through a grand total of twenty-seven straight, groovin’ choruses.

  After almost seven minutes worth of a saxophone solo that shook the world (would you believe Rhode Island?), the beep indicating it was time to leave Harlan a message brought me back from a most nostalgic reverie. I had forgotten what I was calling about, and although I tried valiantly to think of something clever to say, I was stumped.

  So instead, I sat right down and wrote myself this letter. Yes, Harlan wasn’t around to fix my computer, but Paul Gonsalves sure did help out Duke Ellington on that fine day in Newport.

  —For George Avakian

  WORLD’S BIGGEST GONG FAN

  I once interviewed musician Daevid Allen at a recording studio in San Francisco. He was an odd sort, with plenty of old stories to tell. Way back in the 1960s, Daevid was (briefly) a member of the wonderfully creative British band Soft Machine. But Daevid didn’t stay with the Soft Machine and he ended up forming another psychedelic rock group, called Gong.

  In his life, Daevid Allen has hung out with everybody from William Burroughs and Jimi Hendrix to Bud Powell, Paul McCartney, Syd Barrett, Keith Richards, Richard Branson, and a whole bunch of other famous people that he can’t remember.

  One famous person Daevid does recall spending time with is Sherman Hemsley aka George Jefferson of the ’70s sitcom The Jeffersons. Sherman had been a jazz keyboardist before portraying George Jefferson on television, and his progressive sensibilities led him to appreciate the offbeat sounds of Daevid Allen and (Planet) Gong. Apparently, cosmic Gong compositions like “Flying Teapot” and “Pot Head Pixies” resonated with the TV star’s psyche.

  Years after David’s encounter with Sherman Hemsley, the actor would go on to collaborate with Jon Anderson—lead singer of the famous prog-rock group Yes. The Hemsley/Anderson production was called “Festival of Dreams,” and supposedly described the spiritual qualities of the number 7.

  Anyway, here is Daevid Allen’s verbatim account of his sole meeting with certified Gong fanatic Sherman Hemsley:

  It was 1978 or 1979 and Sherman Hemsley kept ringing me up, I didn’t know him from a bar of soap because we didn’t have television in Spain. He called me from Hollywood saying, “I’m one of your biggest fans and I’m going to fly you here and put flying teapots all up and down the Sunset Strip.” I thought, “This guy is a lunatic.” He kept it up so I said, “Listen, can you get us tickets to L.A. via Jamaica? I want to go there to make a reggae track and have a honeymoon with my new girlfriend.” He said, “Sure! I’ll get you two tickets.”

  I thought, “Well, even if he’s a nut case at least he’s coming up with the goodies.” The tickets arrived and we had this great honeymoon in Jamaica. Then we caught the plane across to L.A. We had heard Sherman was a big star, but we didn’t know the details.

  Coming down the corridor from the plane, I see this black guy with a whole bunch of people running after him trying to get autographs. Anyway, we get into this stretch limousine with Sherman and immediately there’s a big joint being passed around. I say, “Sorry man, I don’t smoke.” Sherman says, “You don’t smoke and you’re from Gong?”

  Inside the front door of Sherman’s house was a sign saying, “Don’t answer the door because it might be the man.” There were two Puerto Ricans that had an LSD laboratory in his basement, so they were really paranoid. They also had little crack/freebase depots on every floor.

  Then Sherman says, “C’mon upstairs and I’ll show you the Flying Teapot room.” Sherman was very sweet, but was surrounded by these really crazy people.

  We went up to
the top floor and there was this big room with darkened windows and “Flying Teapot” is playing on a tape loop over and over again. There were also three really dumb looking, very voluptuous Southern gals stoned and wobbling around naked. They were obviously there for the guys to play around with.

  [My girlfriend] Maggie and I were really tired and went to our room to go to bed. The room had one mattress with an electric blanket and that was it. No bed covering, no pillow, nothing. The next day we came down and Sherman showed us a couple of [The Jeffersons] episodes.

  One of our fans came and rescued us, but not before Sherman took us to see these Hollywood PR people. They said, “Well, Mr. Hemsley wants us to get the information we need in order to do these Flying Teapot billboards on Sunset Strip.” I looked at them and thought they were the cheesiest, most nasty people that I had ever seen in my life and I gave them the runaround. I just wanted out of there.

  I liked Sherman a lot. He was a very personable, charming guy. I just had a lot of trouble with the people around him.

  After completing this essay, I ran the finished text through a computerized spell check. Upon encountering Daevid Allen’s first name, the “(Word Services) Apple Events Spellswell7” instructed me to replace Daevid with the word teapot.

  Somewhere in Silicone Valley, a very clever Gong fan is laughing.

  WHAT CAN YOU DO THAT’S FANTASTIC?

  Frank Zappa died on December 4, 1993. He was a relentless composer, guitarist, and bandleader and fashioned one of the most prolific musical careers of the twentieth century. Since his untimely passing, recognition of Zappa’s cultural contributions has increased exponentially. Besides numerous books, CDs, DVDs, and websites, there have been tribute bands, repertory groups, and entire festivals dedicated to Frank. Even his classical compositions are now performed the world over.

  In addition to music, Frank made political inroads, developing a rapport with the government of Czechoslovakia and reaching out to businesses in the Soviet Union. At home, his civic-minded commentaries on the First Amendment reached their apex during his notorious censorship battles with the Parents’ Music Resource Center (PMRC) and the “Washington Wives” (organized by Tipper Gore). He also promoted voter registration and considered a bid for the presidency in 1991.

  Until his final concert tour in 1988, which was cut short due to personnel problems, Frank was a certified road dog traveling the globe with different groups and sidemen. While Zappa created solo works using the Synclavier and even employed entire orchestras upon occasion, the bulk of his music was developed with and for his rock groups—in rehearsals, in the studio, and on the road.

  Zappa’s accomplishments as a composer and guitarist can’t be overemphasized, but his role as a bandleader distinguishes him from other pop artists and invites comparisons to veteran jazz conductors. Much like Miles Davis, Frank oversaw a constant changing of sidemen. Similar to Duke Ellington, he frequently composed ambitious works that showcased the individual strengths of his musicians.

  “Frank would pick guys that wouldn’t ever naturally work together,” recalled bassist Tom Fowler. “You might have a guitarist who’s a Hendrix freak and a keyboard player that loves Art Tatum; Frank figured out who should play when and orchestrated the band. He had the ability to figure out what they were good at and would utilize that in the shows. Even in the auditions, the question was ‘What can you do that’s fantastic?’ That meant anything, musically or otherwise.”

  Zappa was unyielding in his efforts to retain absolute creative freedom. He developed his own production company early in his career, which helped him remain autonomous. He was usually strapped for cash and because of his many legal battles within the recording industry, he was compelled to pour his earnings back into the creative process. Touring was Frank’s main source of income—a huge incentive to keep his band together.

  Each stage of Frank’s career was unique, but there was a bedrock consistency to his approach. Ranging from the satiric-rock-improvisations of the original Mothers of Invention to the passion-meets-precision of his later groups, Zappa composed, conducted, and performed music like no one else on the planet.

  In the late 1950s, Frank was a teenaged outsider with a brilliant, profane mind. When he first began making recordings in his hometown of Lancaster, California, he was already a rabid blues and R&B aficionado who loved doo-wop as well as serious composers, like Igor Stravinsky and Edgard Varèse.

  Frank started out playing drums, but switched to guitar and joined a Pomona bar band called the Soul Giants. By that time he’d already owned and operated a recording studio, written and conducted low-budget film scores, and appeared on the Steve Allen Show playing the spokes of a bicycle. It wouldn’t be long before Zappa remade the Soul Giants in his own image, that is, the outrageous image of the Mothers of Invention.

  Frank convinced the Soul Giants to abandon their Top 40 cover tunes in favor of his original material and rechristened the group “The Mothers” on Mother’s Day, 1964. “We began introducing the songs that we had learned from Frank,” said bassist Roy Estrada. “We were getting mixed reactions but we kept on playing them. Frank became more of a bandleader later on because only he knew how he wanted his music played.”

  Those early songs were satiric commentaries on the precarious social and political climate of the ’60s—breaking sexual taboos and sporting provocative humor akin to Lenny Bruce—but performed by coarse-looking long-haired men dressed in full hippie garb.

  In an effort to maximize the Mothers’ crude talents, Zappa instituted a schedule of rehearsals that became a template of discipline for all his future groups. Original drummer Jimmy Carl Black remembered the endless drill of the band’s formative days. “We sounded tight because we practiced all of the time,” Black said. “Frank was a hard bandleader and he demanded perfection whether he got it or not and he was never totally satisfied.”

  One early incarnation of the Mothers of Invention consisted of Zappa, singer Ray Collins, guitarist Elliot Ingber, and the Black/Estrada rhythm section. This is the band that recorded the Mothers’ debut, Freak Out! In the studio, Zappa augmented his quintet with two dozen session musicians including Les McCann, Mac Rebennack (Dr. John), and session pro Carol Kaye on 12-string guitar. Inside the double album’s surreal gatefold cover, the liner notes included a credit that read, ALL SELECTIONS ARRANGED, ORCHESTRATED AND CONDUCTED BY FRANK ZAPPA.

  Rock would never be the same. Devising radical tracks like “Who Are the Brain Police?” and the lengthy avant-garde performance of “The Return of the Son of Monster Magnet,” Zappa combined social commentary and psychedelic improvisation in the studio. “How many people do something that’s new and different?” Elliot Ingber remarked. “As a bandleader Frank was able to utilize our individual skills toward his vision.”

  Los Angeles rock denizen Kim Fowley was on hand for Freak Out!, reciting the composition “Help I’m a Rock.” He remembered Zappa as an enterprising musician who directed the sessions down to the smallest theatrical detail. “Frank was all over the studio,” Fowley said. “He was singing, playing, arranging; everybody was multitasking and Frank was conducting. There wasn’t one bystander and if there was, they were on the recording, too. Everybody got utilized somehow.”

  As the ’60s progressed, Frank and the Mothers became peripatetic. Looking for work, they moved from Los Angeles to Manhattan and back to L.A. again. In the course of their travels, Zappa pushed the group through a series of expansions and transformations, lending greater sophistication and more outrageous personalities into the mix. The band’s theatrical stage show at the Garrick Theater in New York City made them the talk of the hippie/boho underground, resulting in an extended run at the theater before returning to California.

  In concert, the band used makeshift props, destroyed household vegetables, and molested female fans onstage. They fused Frank’s biting social commentary with visceral humor, dynamic rock noise, neo-jazz squall, and spontaneous interactions with the audience. While
subsequent albums like Absolutely Free were poorly marketed and misunderstood by the record-buying public, the group’s reputation grew thanks to their provocative live shows.

  The Mothers of Invention were one of the first rock groups to use two drummers, a move driven by Zappa’s long-standing enthusiasm for percussion and odd time signatures. The additions of keyboardist Don Preston and saxophonist Bunk Gardner gave Zappa incentive to stretch his compositional approach. The new members were more familiar with progressive music: Preston had worked with jazzmen Charlie Haden and Elvin Jones while Gardner had performed with the Cleveland Philharmonic.

  Unleashed, Zappa began composing more complex material to suit his expanded group. “At first, Frank couldn’t do the far-out stuff because those guys [Roy and Jimmy] didn’t have a clue of what he wanted,” Don Preston remembered. “By 1967 we were playing things like ‘Little House I Used to Live In,’ which is a combination of 12/8 against 13/8. Nobody was doing that kind of stuff, especially in that kind of a context.”

  Putting a greater emphasis on Frank’s written scores, the Mothers of Invention entered another rigorous stage of development. “We enabled Frank to open up a lot, being able to read music,” Bunk Gardner said. “Everything was by rote for the rhythm section; that’s one reason why some of the rehearsals were ten, twelve hours long. But I hadn’t encountered that kind of musical challenge in my life and had to spend an awful lot of time practicing and memorizing—like twenty-four hours a day.”