Homestretch

 

I’m in the homestretch before beginning to format the eBook. I only have two more readers remaining. The esteemed Brian Priestley just sent me about forty corrections regarding my second half of the bio. Although most are typos, a few are very astute historical corrections, such as the date Birdland stopped promoting jazz and identifying Kenton’s “Intermission Riff.” I'm awaiting one more critique, then I pass it on to my penultimate reader. Once done with any corrections, it’s passed to my final reader to double-check I didn’t screw up anything.

Priestley mentioned that my reverse chronology was a little hard to follow in Ch. 5. I’ve since reconfigured the chapter, subdividing it into two, and moving some of the text to another chapter. 

My webmaster is building a 450-tune directory for the final eBook. Half the tunes have never been heard; some amazing music. That’s hundreds of new Pepper Adams, mostly from audience recordings. About this, see: https://www.pepperadams.com/Reflectory/index.html

 

The Homestretch

© Gary Carner. Copyright Protected. All rights reserved.

I’m only a few weeks away from finishing Chapter Ten of the Pepper Adams
biography. It’s the last one that I still have to complete, Chapter Eleven, already
written, is my summation of his life and accomplishments. Ten includes my lengthy
discussion of the Byrd–Adams Quintet, plus a section about Adams's post-West
Coast work in late 1957. I've recently updated subchapters on Monk, Mingus,
Bobby Timmons, critics, heroin use, and living with Elvin Jones, among other
topics. All that's left is to polish what’s written, discuss Pepper's only known original
poem, write about his time on the West Coast and with Stan Kenton, and then
finish up my concluding comments about Adams’s first months in NYC. I have tons
of notes, so it should move quickly. I hope in a month’s time I can report to you that
the book is finished.

Considering all of the anxiety and anguish that’s being experienced all over the
world, here’s an excerpt from Chapter Eight regarding Pepper’s sense of humor:

Although Pepper Adams at root was a very private person, his friends knew him
as a funny guy with an extremely wry sense of humor. “That cat had one of the
keenest and quickest wits,” said the bassist Ray Drummond. The first time that
Adams met the young baritone saxophonist Howard Johnson was in Boston in
1962, when he and the drummer Tony Williams asked Adams to sit in at his gig
at Connolly’s. At the time, Howard Johnson’s was a well-known U.S. restaurant
chain, noted for its ice cream that was widely sold in supermarkets throughout
the country. When it came time for Johnson to step up to the bandstand and play
a number, Adams ad-libbed his brief introduction: “Here’s Howard Johnson,
who is responsible for the ice cream flavor mint clam.” 

Kenny Burrell felt that Pepper’s sense of humor was indicative of his “keen
intellect and a great awareness of current events. “He was a funny guy,” said
Burrell, “but it wasn’t just funny in terms of old wisecracks. He was right up to
date on what was happening.” Bob Wilber agreed that Adams was an amusing
guy. “He had a marvelous sense of humor,” said Wilber. “He could see the funny
things, the ironic things.” One such example took place at a saxophone clinic,
when a student asked members of the Thad Jones/Mel Lewis reed section who
they suggested aspiring players like himself should copy. When it was Pepper’s
turn to respond, he broke up everyone in attendance by responding, “If you copy
from one person, it’s plagiarism. If you copy from everybody, it’s research.”

The saxophonist Bob Mover remembered a hilarious moment in Cambridge,
Massachusetts at Adams’s early April, 1982 gig at the Hasty Pudding Club.
When he, Pepper, and the guitarist Joe Cohn were trying to decide what tune
to play, Pepper said, “Let’s do one everybody knows, like Death and
Transfiguration.” Another time, before a concert in New York and very ill
with cancer, the photographer Mitchell Seidel asked Adams if he felt good
enough to play. “It beats staying at home pondering the term ‘life expectancy,’”
was his mordant response. 

Adams liked using puns and one-liners. On the birth of Bess Bonnier’s child,
Adams called her with congratulations, leaving on her answering machine the
concluding quip, “We all knew you had it in you.” Occasionally, rather than
use profanity, Pepper enjoyed using silly euphemisms a la the comedian W.C.
Fields, such as “mother of pearl” or “Godfrey Daniels.” When he told an
amusing story, he would wait a few seconds, with a deadpan expression or a
half-smile on his face, before breaking into laughter.

“He always had me in stitches,” said Frank Foster. “I saw him as a great
American humorist.” Foster spent a lot of time laughing at Pepper’s comments
while they were members of the Thad Jones/Mel Lewis reed section. He felt
that Adams, much like the Danish pianist and comedian Victor Borge, could
have very successfully combined music and humor if he had chosen that route. 

In the right setting, Adams enjoyed doing physical comedy bits on stage. In 1960,
at Montreal’s Little Vienna, the guitarist and harmonica player Toots Thielemans
dropped by to sit in with Pepper. Thielemans was in town, working with the singer
and actor Yves Montand. “Toots was playing harmonica,” wrote Keith White,
“and Pepper was doing some bits with his cigarette. He would put it in his mouth
by manipulating his lips, as if to swallow it, and then he would pop it out again.
During one of these episodes, he inhaled deeply, the cigarette was flipped back into
his mouth by his lips maneuvering it, and then he just looked at the audience for a
moment, who didn’t know what exactly to expect, when, suddenly, smoke seemed
to shoot out of both of his ears! Everybody started to break up. Toots even had to
stop playing for a moment.” 

Sometimes he would try to amuse himself. “He was a very warm, outgoing person,”
remembered Ron Kolber, “misunderstood because some people did not appreciate
his sense of humor. They didn’t know what to make of it. They always thought he
was putting them on. If a friend of his would say, ‘I’ll see you later, Pepper,’ he
would say, ‘Thanks for the warning’ or ‘Don’t threaten me,’” and then utter his
customary, idiosyncratic chortle. Adams had a great smile, recalled Ray Mosca, and
Pepper’s ears would stick up like an elf. 

Plenty of musicians admired the droll wit that Adams exuded in his saxophone
solos. One time, the Thad Jones/Mel Lewis Orchestra was playing for a large group
of jazz fans in Belgium, who rented space for their get-togethers above a police
station. “Pepper’s right in the middle of “Once Around,” remembered John Mosca,
“which is a fast, minor solo for him. He’s burning away, really tearing it up, and a
police car comes with a siren on, and he goes right into “I Don’t Want to Set the
World on Fire.” I swear, right in the middle of this solo, and it broke everybody up.
It was very funny!” Another time, when Jones/Lewis was performing a concert at
an amphitheater in Italy, the venue had also been presenting Verdi’s Aida. “Most of
the stage had been cleared,” wrote Lucinda Chodan, “but the props for the opera –
Egyptian-style artifacts – cluttered one side, in full view of the audience. When it
came to Adams’s first solo, his big baritone blasted out a couple of bars of Celeste
Aida, one of the opera’s arias. The crowd was impassive. Thad Jones was laughing
so hard he had to stop playing.”

The

Progress with the Biography

{SEE BELOW]

Much of my free time in November was consumed by proofreading

and polishing the galleys of Chapters 1-3 of my Pepper Adams

biography. Chapter 1 is currently being reviewed by two readers, after

having been read by another. Chapters 2-3 are following the same

process. Obviously, the more feedback I get, the stronger the book

becomes. The Prologue has already been put to bed.

Each chapter has an epigraph, which helps me underscore why I chose

each chapter title. The book’s central epigraph, essentially my lead

argument, is this:

How many musicians out

there are really different?

- RAN BLAKE

I’ve begun hunting for an ebook publisher. Nothing tangible yet, but

I’ve made progress nonetheless.

As for the second half of the biography, to be published in 2021,

Chapters 4-6, 8 and 10 are done. Chapter 7 is in progress, about a

third finished. 9 remains as a major task, though I have a ton of notes. 

Chapters 7-10 will follow this basic format:

Chapter 7:

1. Solos with Thad/Mel
2. Solos as a single, 1963-1977
3. Solos as a sideman, 1963-1977

Chapter 8:

1.  Marriage proposal; Girlfriend #1
2. Girlfriend #2
3. New York loft scene
4. Girlfriend #3

Chapter 9:

1. Racial relations

       2.   Journeyman, original poem

       3.   Drugs/Bobby Timmons/Elvin Jones

       4.   Interlude: Bohemian New York in the Fifties

5. Byrd/Adams
6. Goodman, Monk, Mingus
7. Kenton, West Coast Scene, early New York experiences

Chapter 10:

1. Accolades
2. Six reasons why Adams didn’t gain popularity
3. Conclusion

The process of working through all of my taped interviews was very

well worth it. I was able to add some really great excerpts to the book:

Lew Tabackin, for example, discussing the bleak 1960s, the difference

between Thad and Duke Pearson as bandleaders, and why Thad and

Mel were crazy to put their band in the hands of Keiko Jones for the ill-

fated 1968 trip to Japan that almost finished off the orchestra. 

My Mel Lewis interview was equally good. What a rich trove of information

about the intricacies of Thad/Mel and the Stan Kenton band. Some very

important information also came from the two physicians who owned

Uptown Records, Pepper’s last record label. They had much to say about

his final illness, and the role they played when advising him about his

health. Many other quotes were added from other interviewees; subtle but

important comments that added depth to my existing text.

My biggest discovery, however, wasn’t testimony from an interview, as

valuable as they are to the project. The most startling find was the Norma

Desmond-like letter (remember the film Sunset Boulevard?) that Pepper’s

mother wrote to her son when he moved out of her house in late 1955. It

really put her character into perspective. Previously, I had all these friends

of Pepper’s commenting about her, but nothing at all from her in her voice.

This is the only letter that exists written by her, and it’s quite telling that

Pepper would save it. 

Next to that, my interview with Bob Cornfoot was very important. It made me

completely revise when Pepper moved back to Detroit in 1947, and when he

began working at Al’s Record Mart. It necessitated a complete revision of

Pepper’s chronology from late 1953 to the end of 1955, plus changing some

language in my text.

One of the enormous benefits of working through all the interviews yet again

is correcting errors, and discovering so many new facts about where and what

Adams did during his lifetime. Accordingly, many changes have been made

to Pepper Adams’ chronology:

https://www.pepperadams.com/Compositions/compList/index.html 

I expect the updates to be posted soon.

I’ve organized all of my remaining Pepper materials for donation to William

Paterson University. Pepper’s recordings and other materials that belong to

the estate are still in my possession. It looks like it will be 2020 before I

deliver the first batch of goods. Then, it's up to the university to make room

for the rest of it.

I’ve corresponded with Chick Corea, asking him to consider writing a foreword
to the book. I was pleased that he bought a copy of Joy Road. Any suggestions
about who else I should contact for a foreword?

Return of the Pepper Bio

© Gary Carner. Copyright Protected. All rights reserved.





I've begun writing Part II of Pepper Adams' biography (1930-1986). In the last two weeks I've written about forty pages, starting with Pepper's death at home on September 10, 1986 and working my way back in time. My plan is to write in reverse chronological order until I reach the end of Part I, when Pepper packed his bags and moved to New York. Then, having come full circle, I'll conclude by assessing whether what he set out to do in music was actually achieved.

I've finished listening again to the interview I did with Tommy and Diana Flanagan. They had a lot to say about how Pepper approached death, how and why his marriage collapsed, and what really took place versus what the New York jazz community thought was going on. I quote a few very poignant letters to give a sense of what Pepper was enduring at that time. The one below was written as a kind of confessional and published in the July, 1986 issue of JazzTimes. By the time of its publication, he would only have about six more weeks before he passed away:


I’d like to thank you for the kind words in the current JazzTimes, and thank you particularly for stressing the fact that I’m continuing to work. People have been exceedingly kind, and their contributions have been quite helpful, but opposed to the cost of the treatments that are, to put it bluntly, keeping me alive, private charity can only go so far. The bulk of the costs have been offset by my own efforts in being able to work, and work effectively. And, if I may say so myself, I’ve done remarkably well for fourteen months, and the next three months appear quite secure.

And this despite the efforts of a few unscrupulous agents, who have used my name to secure work and then, when the job was secure, informed the purchaser that I was too ill to perform and substituted someone else. I’ve learned about these incidents when the purchaser (club owner, festival executive, etc.) would call to commiserate about my health when I was sitting home, feeling fine but out of work. I wonder if these agents considered that by eroding my reputation for reliability they were diminishing my chances for survival; if they did think about it, they were obviously not deterred. Which is why I consider it important that people be reminded occasionally that I’m still a credible working musician. . . .

I must report, though, that my string of playing every job I had contracted for has finally come to an end. It happened on my last trip to Europe, in April, which ended in near-disaster. It started at the Dublin Festival, where they drove me into the ground like a tent peg. I had five concerts with five different bands (four of them requiring lengthy rehearsals), a 2 1/2 hour master class, and a live television show, all within three days. I was already in a lot of pain when I arrived in Paris to work seven straight nights at Le Petit Opportun; after five nights the pain became so overwhelming that I had to sit out the last two nights.

When I got home it was discovered that I had a severe case of pleurisy, which was raging out of control since it had been there, untreated, for ten days or so. My oncologist held off the chemotherapy while I was in such rotten shape, but finally the point was reached when it had to be administered, ready or not. I could tell that the doctor was worried and, frankly, so was I, but it’s worked out well. I’m recovering nicely. I’ve felt nearly myself for several days, and still have a couple of weeks to recoup my strength before I resume work. My itinerary through the middle of September is sprinkled with nice paydays, and at no point so burdensome as to tempt a return bout of the pleurisy, nor of the pneumonia I went through twice last winter. Things are definitely looking up.



Since I'm donating my large book and periodical collection to Georgia State University, I have in front of me access to this huge jazz library that for fourteen years was packed up in boxes in my basement. I've spent this month skimming through many articles from Wire, Cadence, JazzTimes, Down Beat, Jazz Journal and many others to locate interesting tidbits I can use for color in the narrative. So far, I've found these:

ABOUT KENTON:
“He was terrified when the band started to swing, he didn’t understand it,” said the bassist Red Kelly.

ABOUT ELVIN JONES:
“If Elvin was anything drum-wise, it’s about fullness of sound . . . the absolute fullness of the tonal palette,” said the saxophonist Dave Liebman.

ON THE ROAD WITH WOODY HERMAN:
“It was very grueling," said Joe Temperley. "There used to be some awful bus journeys. It was a hard life, you know: ten-hour bus ride and you’d get to the job twenty minutes before you had to hit, then change your clothes in the toilet downstairs and play all night. And then, maybe sleep that night and then the next night you would hit and run; but you play the gig. You sleep all night and travel all day to the gig, and play the gig -- this is the second night -- play the gig and then travel all night to save a night’s rent. Those were the days. That happened all the time.”

ABOUT NEW YORK AROUND 1965:
“New York was vibrant then," said Joe Temperley. "You could go and hear Al and Zoot; go one night and Phil would be sitting in with them and another night Richie Kamuca would be sitting in with them. You could go hear John Coltrane and sit all night -- buy a bottle of beer, two bottles of beer -- and sit all night and listen to the music.”

 ABOUT NEW YORK IN 1968:
“When I left in ‘68," said Art Farmer, "the United States was in a very bad situation. There were assassinations, social unrest, people afraid to go out at night, and with so many jazz clubs in the so-called ‘ghetto areas,’ people felt that they were taking their lives in their hands if they went out to hear jazz. That had a bad effect on a person who tried to play for a live public.”

ABOUT MEL LEWIS:
Mel Lewis’ greatest influence was the drummer Tiny Kahn, said the bassist Red Kelly.

ABOUT PEPPER AND THAD:
“I heard Pepper say a couple of things that made me know that he and Thad had been very close in their lives," said Seldon Powell. "And I think they were still close, but there maybe was a rub or two here and there. Pepper told Thad one time, when he figured that he wasn’t getting his share of solos and whatnot. But I remember Pepper saying one time -- somebody said something about that to Pepper, and he turned and said to him, ‘When I was in the army and they sent me to Japan during the Korean War,’ he said, ‘I received two letters the entire time I was over there. One of them was from Thad Jones.’ And the inflection that was in his voice told me something about how he felt about [Thad]. They might have had a conflict here or there but I’m sure they felt very close to each other as human beings and as musicians, and they were the giants of their time.”

See you next month,
GC