I will always think fondly of that magical place, up in the woods between two lakes, where the wind whispers the promise of the future to tomorrow’s artists. But, hey, now it’s time for college.
photo : Fred Erskine
12. Indiana U.
Indiana University, Bloomington. First visited here in 1961 as a 7-year-old and am now back as a 17-year-old college freshman. This is the only college I applied to and the only place I was interested in going. I left Interlochen a hotshot in both the jazz band and symphony orchestra, but Gaber has other plans for me this year. I credit him for this insightful course of studies that he began to credit me in later years.
Fast forward: In 2006 I rented a car at some gig locale in Missouri and drove eight-plus hours on a rainy Sunday to my alma mater, IU, where there would be a celebration of my professor’s 90th birthday. George Gaber still meant the world to me. I spoke during dinner to the crowd of former students, ad-libbing as jazz musicians love to do.
I found myself talking about his sense of humanity and the love he taught for music, for being musical, and for being ethical. He returned the compliment during dessert by saying that I had “Gladstone hands,” and he reminded me that our two-year course of study during my university years centered around my wish for him to “work on my hands.” We approached the instrument — all percussion — from the point of view of TONE. It took quite a few years for his lessons to sink in and take root. My entire drumming approach was nurtured and shaped by the generous wisdom and wealth of experience of Professor George Gaber. The hands thing was his idea, by the way.
When I learned that my professor, mentor, and friend of more than 40 years had passed away at the age of 91, I was asked to sum up my feelings for the man in four short lines of text for the New York Times. I wrote:
GG taught his students well.
Professionalism, musicality,
compassion & laughter:
his calling, ethos & way of life.
He shall be missed.
The other teacher of note at Indiana was Professor David Baker, jazz trombonist extraordinaire, composer, arranger, and pedagogical pioneer. Our role model for what it meant to be hip, David was the outstanding leader of the jazz department at Indiana. He was always urging us to “free it up,” at the same time helping me understand the way a boogaloo beat was supposed to really feel.
My housemates at Indiana included pianist Alan Pasqua. We met at a jam session during the first week of class, took an instant liking to each other, and have been musical brothers in arms ever since.
Thanks to some touring/concertizing by the IU Jazz Band, including an appearance at the Elmhurst Jazz Festival, word was getting out to another old teacher about my drumming. That old teacher was Stan Kenton, and it turns out that he was looking for a drummer…
13. Summer of 1972
By the time I finished my first year of college, I’ve:
gotten drunk for the first time;
gotten laid for the first time;
gotten my first speeding ticket;
gotten drunk for the second time.
Listened to a lot of Miles, Weather Report, Larry Young, Tony Williams, the Mahavishnu Orchestra, Herbie Hancock, Woody Shaw, Elvin Jones, and so on — and I have not yet turned 18. Counting on going back to school in the fall, I take a summer job at the aforementioned Club Harlem in Atlantic City. Meanwhile, my father receives a telephone call from Stan Kenton, who asks, “Fred, is Peter ready?” My father answers, “Yes, he is, Stan,” and so an audition is set up. That audition will take place in Avery Fisher Hall at Lincoln Center during an afternoon rehearsal the Kenton band is going to have with singer June Christy, who will be appearing with the band as part of a reunion-themed concert that night. (Woody Herman’s band will also be appearing with three of the original “Four Brothers.”)
July 3, 1972. The band does not know that I am auditioning; as far as most of them are concerned, June Christy has some young, long-haired hippie drummer. Meanwhile, Stan is changing drummers in the band because long-time drummer Jerry Lestock McKenzie had made the ill-advised maneuver of giving Stan an ultimatum — something I learned you never do to bandleaders, because THEY have to lead the band; an ultimatum takes a bandleader’s leadership away, in effect — so Jerry was out and someone else would be in. (This according to bassist John Worster; Stan never discussed the firing/hiring scenario with me.) In any event, only Jerry, John, conga drummer Ramon Lopez, and Stan are aware of the audition process. Poor June Christy has no idea what is going on with this other drummer sitting down to sight-read her charts and play with the band. Stan counts off the first of her six charts we’ll run down, and I give it everything I’ve got, necessarily so because this drumset I’m sitting-in on has the biggest cymbals I’ve ever seen or played in my life, and this band is really loud — on top of which I’m trying to make a strong, if not good, impression!
I guess I did okay at the rehearsal/audition, because I’m advised of when the concert will begin that evening — my first gig with what will turn out to be June Christy’s final appearance with Stan — and, further, I’m told that I should pack my bags and meet the band a week or so later to become the drummer for the Stan Kenton Orchestra.
Joe LaBarbera is drumming for Woody Herman that night, and he is very kind and encouraging to me. Jerry McKenzie is, understandably, not so keen to be my pal at the moment but is friendly nonetheless. I’m pretty much bewildered and start trying to figure out the logistics of everything. My parents will once again drive me one-third of the way ’cross country in order for us to meet the band, this time in Ohio in order for me to hear the band in concert a couple of times before making my debut. So, less than a week after the Newport Jazz Festival gig, I’ve packed up my Ludwig kit and a suitcase and I’m ready to hit the road.
After I’d finished one year at IU, the bottom heads were off of my tom-toms and I had, as one U.K. jazz critic would later comment, “rocker written all over” me. My earlier influences, which were mostly jazz-oriented, had given sway to the burgeoning “fusion” trend in music. Stan wanted someone in the band that young people in the audience could relate to, I guess. I looked and sounded the part. And what better person to have sitting in the coveted drum chair than a student who was a product of the jazz education movement and who had gone to the summer band camps? As much as I’d like to think that talent alone got me there, it’s not unreasonable to assume that Stan had factored in extra-musical considerations as well. In fact, when I would cut my hair a few weeks later in order to look more like the other members of the band, Stan was upset. I let my hair grow back.
The guys in the band were accommodating in any event, and there was a general sense of excitement that seemed to follow the band around that summer. I was learning how to play a lot of this music while boldly and somewhat blindly forging ahead with my own pre- or mis-conceptions on how best to play the drums in Stan’s band while dealing with new talent requirements like how to fold up clothing, pack a suitcase, deal with long-distance romances, and be frugal. Oh yeah — about one week into touring with Stan, he and I were sharing an elevator alone up to our respective hotel room floors after a gig and he turned to me and said, “You know, Peter, we haven’t discussed money yet.” Whereupon I replied, “Okay, how much do you want?” That was good for a hearty laugh from the man as well as, I suspect, an additional $25 per week.
14. The Stan Kenton Orchestra
Characters: The Kenton band, just like any other road band, had plenty of them. Some great musicians, too, like the legendary Willie Maiden, who had played tenor sax with Maynard Ferguson’s band in the ’60s and had written some of Maynard’s best charts. Willie was playing one of the two baritone saxes in Stan’s sax section and held sway over the back-of-the-bus dominion otherwise known as the “Deep Six.” These fellows were, generally, some of the older and harder-living musicians on the band. Willie loved the color orange, hated the color green, and avoided any and all fruits and vegetables asi
de from tomatoes and carrots; and if it was “good for you,” then it was bad for you.
photo: Peter Erskine
Incredible arranger and Stan’s right-hand musical man in many respects, Willie didn't much care for the odd-time charts that Hank Levy wrote for the band, and he would rewrite his parts in 4/4 time as opposed to counting anything like five or seven beats to a bar; jazz had four beats to the bar, and that was that.
Conga drummer Ramon Lopez was another veteran and Deep Sixer, though young at heart and a terrific rhythm teammate. Stan and the “company guys” would sit up in the front of the bus, while most of the young members of the band sat somewhere in the middle. I inherited the seat in the exact middle of the bus, actually a pair of seats, the same space each musician was allotted. Stan had a new bus that was the envy of most other road bands. It even had its own destination signs with eye-grabbing destinations like BACK EAST, DOWN SOUTH, or NO WHERE (sic).
Most bands would lease a bus for a tour or series of tours, but Stan owned his bus outright. The rules were: no music allowed out loud on speakers; headphones were required for all listening. Each musician had his “area” above his seats, and heaven help the soul whose possessions strayed outside those bounds. Don’t be late. And no #2 in the toilet. Aside from the occasional flight or travels overseas, the band traveled on the bus week in and week out — 51 weeks during the first year I was on the band; we got seven days home for the Christmas holidays — spending many an overnight on what was called a “hit and run” where the band got into the bus following a concert and would ride to the next city or town, often arriving just in time to roll off the bus and present an educational workshop or “clinic” to a high school or college audience, to be followed by an evening concert. I’ll remind the reader: a pair of bus seats, no bunks or any sort of horizontal resting place. The same for Stan as for anyone else. We learned to sleep sitting upright, much like economy-class passengers on an airplane.
One thing for sure: I was getting to play a lot. And I was learning a lot, too, if not about music then about life and love and getting along well with others. Sometimes I tried to share where I was coming from with Stan or the other musicians, offering up my cassette-tape headphones for their enlightenment or approval, but unless it was another player of my generation, then I wouldn’t enjoy the benefit of either — the one exception being tenor saxophonist Richard Torres, who would prove to be my best friend and buddy on the band. Not everyone on the band was a fan of my drumming, and I would get the occasional earful from a disgruntled player. This practical reality was a concern to my parents, and my mother expressed as much when she flew out to see the band and me a few weeks after I had joined. It was the first night of a two-week engagement at Disneyland in Anaheim, California, and she was seated at a table along with Stan and perennial Kenton friend and fan Mort Sahl. Just as she was verbalizing her concerns to Stan, one of the trumpet players came over to Stan and complained, “Stan, Peter doesn't want to move the drums from where he’s got them positioned now, even though I told him if the drums are next to the trumpets then I won't be able to hear myself, and you know what he said? He said ‘You’re better off’ to me!” Stan started laughing and turned back to my Mom and said, “I think Peter’s going to be just fine…”
Meanwhile, it was a big kick to have started things off back at my alma mater, Interlochen. Dave Sporny had prepared me well for this moment: his singing of the figures to the various horn sections during rehearsals in high school always included some great sung drum fills, and we covered a lot of Kenton material as well. Dave had always wanted to play in Stan’s band. And Dave, like me, had been to the summer camps.
photo courtesy Interlochen Center for the Arts
15. On the Road
The road bands were the doorways to the professional music life for most of us. A lot of players would come and go, most of them settling down eventually to a life of teaching or playing somewhere. Stan didn’t have much regard for those players who left his band to settle down. And, so, he was not very encouraging when it came to a sideman’s love life; he’d seen enough romances and marriages go south that he was at best a cynic and at worst a protective bandleader who didn't want to lose a good player to a woman of all things.
At one point during our travels I became quite smitten with a young Italian lady, and Stan didn't like the faraway look I got in my eyes as I sat on the bus daydreaming about her. When he stated some objection about my planning to go see her or invite her out to travel with the band, and he stated that he didn't understand why I was so taken with her, the only thing I could think of to say in terms of her main attribute was, “But Stan…she’s ITALIAN!” to which he replied, “Oh yeah? Well, so is Vido Musso.”
In addition to getting to meet a lot of girls, I got to meet a lot of jazz heroes, too.
Elvin Jones at the Monterey Jazz Festival: Conga drummer Ramon Lopez offers up his bottle of 151 proof Bacardi Rum for Elvin to sip at, whereupon Emperor Jones puts the bottle to his lips upside down while the rum glug-glug-glugs down his open throat. We stand in our circle of admiration, impressed but horrified at the sheer amount of liquor Elvin is consuming. When he pulls the bottle from his lips, he smiles and says, “I like that!” He proceeds to go out on stage and kill it.
Charles Mingus in an elevator at the Eastgate Hotel in Chicago: I board the elevator to ride down to the ground floor and am greeted by an overly-excited Ramon Lopez, which is like saying an overly-excited bottle of carbonated jet fuel, and he says “HEY PETE! LOOK WHO’S ON THE ELEVATOR!” and I glance upward from Ramon to the majestic visage of Charles Mingus. “MR. MINGUS!” I proclaim in total sincerity and gratitude, “THANK YOU for all of the music! What are you doing here?” He smiled and answered that he was in Chicago to get his bass fixed. And the elevator car reached the lobby and we said goodbye.
Louie Bellson at various clubs and festivals: always the consummate gentleman and benevolent musician.
Mel Lewis: He gave me a hard time about my single-headed toms, and even took me to task about it in a DownBeat magazine interview, but was ultimately very encouraging.
Nat Pierce: played piano with the band for a while when Stan was ill. Nat was a veteran of the Woody Herman band, and he didn’t much care for Stan’s band or the music. Scene: late-night bus ride, we’re stuck on this thing until morning, and I’m cornered by a menacingly smiling Nat Pierce, who tells me more than once, “You’re a nice kid, but you can’t swing for shit,” and so on. This is all good training, I guess…
Buddy Rich at several double-bills and festivals: always polite, always insanely great. Buddy sat in for Stan at the last moment at this same Monterey Jazz Festival where Elvin amazed us backstage. Stan had fallen ill near the end of the Disneyland gig at the end of that summer of 1972. (We would go on touring without him until the end of the year; he rejoined the band for a New Year’s gig in the Bay Area.) Anyway, Buddy comes out after we play a few numbers on our own and he sits down at my drumset with the single-headed toms and the cymbals as big as gongs, and he makes it all sound like him, as if those are his drums.
Witnessing this is one of the great drum and music lessons in my life. We are the instrument; the sound is in us. But it’s also nice to have a good relationship with the instrument manufacturers, and the drum company people love Stan. And Stan loves his band. Good things come out of this, and I’m still enjoying the practical benefits and lifelong friendships of the music industry relationships cultivated by my association with the Kenton band. Let’s take a minute and look at some of the company I keep…
Buddy had just played one of his all-time impossible drum solos, like he did every night, this evening in the ballroom at Idora Park in Youngstown, Ohio. I was playing with Maynard’s band at the time. Buddy was seated, so I wasn’t going to make the man look up to me. Since there was no chair there, I went down on bended knee; it was simply a sign of respect. He liked that, I think, and he was always very gracious to me. I’m glad that someone captu
red the moment.
16. Music Companies - Interlude
Fast-forwarding to Weather Report: By this point in time I am playing Yamaha Drums, and the people at Yamaha have organized a small show for some of their dealers in the Nagoya area. This happens to be in the basement of the hotel where Weather Report stayed the night in Nagoya, and we are invited to preview these Yamaha instruments — and Joe and I are asked to play on these instruments — before the small dealer show opens in the morning. Yamaha has a drumset there and one of the new, rare digital keyboards, the GS-1. This was one of the first digital FM keyboards, and the only musicians who had one were Bob James, Stevie Wonder, and Steve Porcaro. It looks as much like a beautiful piece of furniture as it does a musical instrument.
Joe obligingly agrees to venture downstairs ahead of the band’s departure time in order to try out the keyboard and perform for the Yamaha staff — something he would rarely consent to. Naturally, he is expecting that Yamaha will present the keyboard to him as a gift but, as the demo session awkwardly drags on, nothing happens. Joe would play it for a while and then comment, “This is a very nice instrument.” The Japanese would nod and say nothing, and then Joe would play it a bit more and then stage whisper to me, “So, when are they going to give it to me?” and I would reply, “Patience, Joe. Give it time.” More playing. More “This really is a very nice instrument.” More nodding. Finally Joe gives a final, “This is a beautiful instrument,” and with a twinkle in his eye he begins to rub the exquisite wood top of the keyboard while saying, “Please be very careful not to scratch it when you pack it up.” He then gives me a “let’s get the fuck out of here” look, and we shrug and bop out of the Yamaha dealer showroom and catch the train to our next gig.
No Beethoven: An Autobiography & Chronicle of Weather Report Page 5