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George Benson

Photo: Tabatha Fireman/Redferns

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George Benson Talks Tribute Album To Chuck Berry & Fats Domino: "The Songs are Still Ripe"

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The guitar great discusses his latest project honoring two of rock ‘n roll’s founding fathers by digging into their deep cuts
Morgan Enos
GRAMMYs
Apr 23, 2019 - 5:10 pm

When Provogue Records asked GRAMMY winner George Benson to record a covers album of Chuck Berry and Fats Domino, he enthusiastically jumped into what could have been a tired set of oldies -- and recorded a fresh romp through the origins of rock ‘n roll.

Not that the singer, songwriter and guitarist hadn’t tackled standards before. His body of work is filled with renditions of the Beatles, Miles Davis, Sam Cooke, and dozens more; his last album, 2013’s Inspiration, paid tribute to Nat King Cole.

Berry and Domino are a heady pair to pay tribute to, but Benson’s masterful touch makes it look like a breeze. Their outsized personalities made them early rock icons -- and much like Benson himself, they transcended musical lines of race, color and genre. And to him, the songs still have “poetic value” in 2019.

“They’re talking about the basics of life,” Benson says with a hint of awe. “Things that people come in contact with every day. And they put those lyrics together in a genius way.”

Berry and Domino are Rock ‘n Roll 101 at this point -- but as he dug deep, Benson found plenty of surprises. Producer Kevin Shirley suggested Berry’s “Havana Moon”; Benson had never previously heard the song. “It sounded very strange to me,” he admitted. “Like something Harry Belafonte would sing.” He let out an irresistible laugh. “But every woman who heard that song loved it!”

His covers of Domino, too, display an affection for the foundations of rock. When the record company asked him to tackle his “Walking to New Orleans,” his ears pricked up; he knew that would be the title.

“It gives them a little hint of what they’re going to be listening to,” he says. “It’s going to have a blues tint.” If you want a fun, breezy crash-course on how that blues sound shaped early rock, Walking to New Orleans is your trusty guide.

Here Benson talks more about about his musical roots, the challenges of covering Berry and Domino and how he balances his music career with being a family man of faith.

What made you want to honor Chuck Berry and Fats Domino in 2019?

The record company are the ones who inspired this record. They’re the ones who made the request for me to do this music. I thought it was strange at first, but after a while, I said, “You know, what a great idea!”

Because these were two icons who crossed over in a day when that was almost impossible. They crossed over in a big way, because they were two very, very strong personalities and their music was highly unique.

These two composers and musicians already had their hands on the vibe. Just to bring that forward is already a big reason why the record is successful so far. I think that’s the main thing. That people think you meant to play this record. You lose that vibe, I think you’ve lost them.

The lyrics to the songs were ripe for the time, and they’re still ripe. Because they’re talking about the basics of life. Things that people come in contact with every day. Their trials and tribulations. And in a genius way, they put those lyrics together. These guys were poets, you know? The stories have a poetic value, and they translate and communicate very well.

Recording Academy Remembers Fats Domino

What inspired you to cut this music in Nashville?

In Nashville, they wouldn’t question what you were doing. You wouldn’t have to make up things like you would in L.A. They know me too well. They know what I can do. And they would want to be on something different in L.A. In Nashville, they never ask one question, except “What are we playing next? What key is it in?” That’s about it.

There’s a crackly energy between you and the players. Were you trying to let your hair down and play some rock ‘n roll this time?

No, that was another decision on the record company’s part. They had heard me in that context. I couldn’t until it came back to me, because I used to play a lot of that type of music way back in the day, in the late ‘50s and early ‘60s.

We had to play a little bit of everything and listen to a little bit of everything, because that was what was on the radio and on the jukebox. I kind of filed that into a bag that I had gone through. I thought that was the end of it!

Do you remember the first time you heard Fats and Chuck? Did you ever come in contact with those guys?

Only once. I came into contact with Chuck Berry at a music store in L.A. I was doing a video interview and he was in there buying some strings or guitar picks or something like that. I went over and I said, “Mr. Berry, my name is George Benson.”  He turned around and shook my hand. “Yeah. Hi.” And then he went right back to what he was doing.

I had to quickly think of something to say. I asked, “Mr. Berry, in my show, I do the duck walk. Do you mind that I do the duck walk in my show?” And he turned around very quickly and said, “Can you?” And then he went right back to buying his guitar picks and his strings. That was the end of that.

Fats Domino, I had the offer to join his band many years ago. I think I was about 16, 17 years old, maybe. One of the guys who was working with him saw me playing somewhere and said, “Man, how’d you like to go on the road?” I never liked that idea, because I never saw anyone on the road who had anything. They all looked like they were tattered and broken-down.

So I said, “No, I never thought about going on the road.” And then he said, “Well, how would you like to gig with Fats Domino?” And I said, “Wow, that’s too heavy for me. I’m not that good a player. No, I couldn’t.” So I didn’t take the gig.

You picked some deeper Chuck Berry cuts, like “Nadine” and “Havana Moon.” Were you trying to honor his more lyrical side?

That might have been the conscious choice by the producer and the record company executive. I think they made a good choice of tunes. I had never heard “Havana Moon” before. It sounded very strange to me. Like a song that maybe Harry Belafonte would do. I didn’t think it particularly meant that much, but every woman who heard that song loved it. So they made good choices!

The title track is a poignant version of Fats’ “Walking to New Orleans.” What struck you about that song?

They had a name for the album. I can’t remember what it was. But when it came around to me, I said, “No, the obvious to me is Walking to New Orleans.” It gives them a little hint about what they’re going to be listening to. It’s going to have a blues tint to it and some very basic ideas. I thought that worked better. And they loved the idea. So that’s what we named it.

You’re a family man and a longtime member of Jehovah’s Witnesses. Is music still a big part of your daily life in both respects?

Keeping the balance was, is, difficult. Trying to get to the meetings when I was home. We put in our time every month. In forty years, I missed maybe one or two months, because I was out on the road. But yeah, music in my house every day. I practice almost every day, because it’s been the best way for me to keep abreast of things.

I learn something from every project. But music moves around a lot. You can’t depend on something you did 40 years ago. You’ve gotta keep coming up with something. They’ve already got those albums on their shelves. To try to keep new ideas going forward has been the challenge. We’ve been very successful at that.

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Jon Batiste

Jon Batiste

Photo courtesy of Verve

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Jon Batiste Talks New Album 'We Are,' His Brain-Breaking Itinerary & Achieving "Freedom" From Genre

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Stay Human bandleader and Stephen Colbert foil Jon Batiste is a respected pillar of the jazz community. But as his new album 'WE ARE' and his litany of other projects attests, he's something much more significant: A fully-formed American artist
Morgan Enos
GRAMMYs
Jun 10, 2021 - 12:05 pm

What has Jon Batiste been up to since his last album, 2018's Hollywood Africans? That's like asking an entire town, "What have you been up to for three years?"

For Batiste, even summing up three days is rather impossible. In that timespan, he's had an incalculable number of irons in the fire—his symphonic premiere at Carnegie Hall, leading his band Stay Human on "The Late Show With Stephen Colbert," a collaborative song with Diane Warren, and scores of other things. Still, he's found a 15-minute window for a Zoom call. Therein, the 34-year-old dynamo lovingly deems his life "a madhouse."

"It's hard to even encapsulate in one presentation of a thought," the three-time GRAMMY nominee admits to GRAMMY.com. "I'm also in the process of, while doing these things, developing other things."

This Möbius strip of a life—projects and projects and projects, blurring on a continuum—speaks to Batiste's boundless drive and work ethic. In a pandemic year, when so many lost motivation and momentum, he sped up. Not only that, he's showing the uncategorizable nature of his artistry. 

Just as he can't be summed up as a bandleader, music consultant or TV personality, on his new album WE ARE, which was released March 29, Batiste combines half a dozen styles in fresh, unhackneyed ways.

"I don't even think genre exists," he declares later in the interview. "Self-curation and the free exchange of information and content creates a lack of genre adherence. That kind of diversity and access changes listening habits and changes the way people perceive music."

This paradigm, he says, exposes and deconstructs notions of genre, which, Batiste asserts, stems from race-centric marketing prevalent in the early music business. Read on as he holds forth on that subject, his Oscar-winning work on the 2020 Pixar flick Soul and what he has in store as live performances return.

This interview has been lightly edited and condensed for clarity.

What's been going on in your life since Hollywood Africans, up to and including the daily grind of TV and working on Soul?

I'm involved in so many different types of things that so much of my life is balancing the amount of things I have going on and maintaining artistic integrity and keeping my values intact. It's hard to even encapsulate in one presentation of a thought.

Looking at my day-to-day: I just finished working on a score last night. The day before, when I was working on that score, I did a symphonic composition for an NBA Playoffs ad, which is their official ad that's out now. We did that in a matter of three days and recorded an entire symphony orchestra. Then, before that, I was working on a song in collaboration with Diane Warren. Today, I was hosting "CBS This Morning," and I wasn't even playing music. I was the host [with] Gayle King.

Today, I'm doing "The Late Show." And then tonight, after that, I'm going to work on some things for a foundation I'm part of. This is just in the last three days, which is a microcosm of the type of madhouse that my life is and the variety and range of different things I'm part of, that I care about deeply.

This is [about] focusing on a few things that are offered to me that I care about the most in a moment. That's maybe five out of 500 opportunities to do things or be part of things. It really becomes a question of what matters most to me and what I want to put on everybody's plate at this time, and how much time I have to do it.

I'm also in the process of, while doing these things, developing other things. Developing shows and developing a symphony that I'm premiering at Carnegie Hall in May of next year that's called American Symphony. It will be my largest work to date. It's a 40-minute, four-movement symphony, and it has not only the orchestra, but a choir and marching band and guest musicians. It's a very expansive work.

I've got to mention Soul, because I really got the impression that It wasn't a writer's room guessing what that world is like. It seemed like jazz musicians were deeply involved with the film.

Oh, absolutely. You've got one of the greatest living jazz musicians being a consultant on the film—Herbie Hancock—a consultation that was from the beginning of the film. And you have Terri Lyne Carrington, one of the greatest musicians living, who also consulted on the film. I consulted on the film as well as working on the score with Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross.

You have real jazz musicians at the helm of this thing. Roy Haynes played the drums with me on the score. I put together another multigenerational band there with real jazz musicians. Roy Haynes and Harvey Mason, Sr. on the drums, and Marcus Gilmore as well, who is Roy's grandson. Then, you have Linda Oh and Tia Fuller on the bass and saxophone, respectively.

I think it's really amazing when they have these opportunities—for whatever it is—to have a big studio use their megaphone to speak to something that is more countercultural and less mainstream. This is a great example of the power of a big studio—one of the biggest studios in the world, Disney-Pixar—to use their megaphone and speak to something. It can have a lasting impact.

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That was a big win for the jazz community. 

Yeah. Anyone who says otherwise, I think, missed the big picture. I think it's hard to look at that and not see it as a win for jazz and for culture. In particular, when I'm thinking about culture, I'm thinking about the ways that American identity and Black culture have been at odds in cinema. This movie was allowed to come through the cracks of a very marginalized history, when it comes to jazz in film.

As a journalist, I have to reckon with the word "jazz" and the periodic need to obliterate it. WE ARE has many of those elements, but when I listen to it, the word never crosses my mind. Do you even consider genre when you write?

I don't even think genre exists. I think it's a construct. The construct of genre was really created in order to help sell and organize music and to train the public to think about music in that way, in order to market it easier. 

I think that's what it was from the beginning, and then, even earlier than our modern era of genre organization, what it was was all those things and race, which created these different forms of segregation. Segregated radio stations even had colored records versus non-colored records, and all kinds of crazy shenanigans. People would have songs that were done, and there would be a white version and a Black version. As you know, the history of all the stuff we've dealt with.

Then, you'd have R&B records and rock 'n' roll, and that became a way of segregating music. You have Chuck Berry and Little Richard, and then you have Elvis and the Stones, and all these different blues musicians. Blues and R&B were really the origin of what had become known as rock 'n' roll, but because it was Black people doing it, they didn't want to call it rock 'n' roll.

It's very interesting to see the evolution of that. That's a whole other story. But it's always been a construct. We've just always accepted it. And I think the more that we look at the way things have unfolded with streaming in the early 2000s, we see how the genie popped out of the bottle when people started to pirate, stream and download music and curate it for themselves, even though that's not even what it was called back then. 

Self-curation and the free exchange of information and content creates a lack of genre adherence. That kind of diversity and access changes listening habits and changes the way people perceive music. It changes the taste of what they want from artists. We're just [now] starting to see the impact of that as the generation who grew up with streaming.

You know, my generation was the last generation in that when we were 11 and 12 years old, we didn't have it. By the time we were 13 and 14, it was taken over. It's the generation after us that grew up where that was the only thing they had. That's how they understood music consumption. There are pros and cons to it all, but it definitely was part of what is more and more exposed about genre, which is rooted in marketing and race.

When you crash together hip-hop, jazz, blues, R&B and soul, it exposes that they're all made of the same DNA.

What's totally interesting is that the more time that the construct of genre has persisted, it's created different approaches to these genres that are identifiable. You have artists that have created music to fit into a system that is a construct. And even with that being the case, the music is still not able to be separated.

I'll give you the perfect example. If you listen to what's known as smooth jazz and then listen to something from the '70s, like Grover Washington or Stanley Turrentine or post-bop music like Horace Silver or Bobby Timmons or something like that, the only thing that separates that music—besides the actual musicians—stylistically is the production concept.

Some beats, where you hear something Art Blakey might play, that could be a hip-hop beat if it was an 808 or it was sampled. It could be jazz—vice versa—if it was played on two-inch tape and recorded at Van Gelder Studios. A lot of stuff that separates genre now is largely sonic production approaches. 

I feel like that's the new innovation in music. I see a lot of people trying to break genres in how they blend sonic and production approaches.

Julian Lage Talks His Blue Note Debut 'Squint,' Eyeing Tradition From A New Vantage Point

Grammys Newsletter

Gerry Gibbs

Gerry Gibbs

Photo: Joan Carroll

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Gerry Gibbs Assembled Jazz Legends To Honor His Father's Music. The Result Contained Chick Corea's Final Recordings.

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Jazz drummer Gerry Gibbs drove 15,000 miles around America to make 'Songs From My Father,' a homage to his dad Terry Gibbs’ music. One of the greats who contributed was Chick Corea—and unbeknownst to everyone, these were the last recordings he’d ever make
Morgan Enos
GRAMMYs
Aug 13, 2021 - 10:58 am

North, south, east and west on the interstates of a pandemic-gripped America, Gerry Gibbs drove 15,000 miles to make some music. In the evenings, he and his wife, Kyeshie, camped out in the car and dozed off to DVDs of Kojak, Starsky and Hutch and The Mod Squad. They were too apprehensive about COVID-19 to board a flight or sleep in a hotel. So, with his record label's financial assistance, they drove and drove and drove.

"I'm not touring. I'm not working. I just sit at home every day wondering what's going to happen," Gibbs told GRAMMY.com back in 2020 while driving through the middle of the desert. "Everything I ever had doesn't exist anymore." So he hurtled between New York, California, Texas and Florida throughout the first wave. "All to make this stupid record," Gibbs says in 2021, cheekily and modestly. Because what he and his associates made is a doozy.

He was driving all over creation to make Songs From My Father (released August 6), a homage to the songbook of his dad, the pioneering vibraphonist and bebop luminary Terry Gibbs. It features four permutations of his Thrasher Dream Trio, drawing from a Rolodex of cream-of-the-crop musicians: bassists Ron Carter, Christian McBride and Buster Williams, and pianists Chick Corea, Kenny Barron, Patrice Rushen, Geoff Keezer and Larry Goldings.

By now, in music, the anecdotes about recording in lockdown are starting to bleed together. Plus, jazz is a Möbius strip of lineages, so a son paying tribute to his father is as natural as can be. That said, Songs From My Father stands out for multiple reasons. 

First, it sheds light on Terry, an underappreciated architect of America's music. Second, it’s a testament to Gerry's indefatigable creativity. And—perhaps most enticingly—it contains the final recordings of the late pianistic legend and 25-time GRAMMY winner Chick Corea.

Terry Gibbs

Terry Gibbs with bassist Eddie Safranski and the 1953 Metronome All-Stars. Photo: PoPsie Randolph/Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images​.

The Swinging Mastery Of Terry Gibbs

At almost 97, Terry is a hilarious fount of stories, and his 2003 memoir, Good Vibes: A Life in Jazz, is a treasure trove of Brooklynite musings. The man born Julius Gubenko in 1924 had a front-row seat to bebop and big band at their peaks, playing with Benny Goodman, Buddy Rich, Ella Fitzgerald, Charlie Parker, Bud Powell, Dizzy Gillespie and scores of other household names.

Gerry was born in 1964, and his father didn’t steer him toward becoming a musician at all. "He's had his own mind since he was a kid," Terry tells GRAMMY.com. "I never told him what to like. He went from liking Buddy Rich to liking Elvin Jones, and that's a big jump going from straight-ahead to a guy who was playing pretty far out. But he liked it. That's where his head was."

Gerry Gibbs & Terry Gibbs

Terry and Gerry Gibbs. Photo courtesy of Gerry Gibbs.

Read More: 10 Essential Cuts From Jazz Piano Great McCoy Tyner

Gerry became a music obsessive by his own volition. "You remember those blue-jean-colored folders you put all your manilla folders in when you were in class?" Gerry asks GRAMMY.com. "On the front, I would just put 'Chick Corea. Ron Carter. Freddie Hubbard. Miles Davis. John Coltrane. Kenny Barron.' And I would just stare at the names on the books and say, 'These are my heroes. These are the people I want to play with one day.'"

Terry didn't just play with the titans of bebop; he provided a platform for brilliant Black female pianists. One, Alice Coltrane (née McLeod), is experiencing an overdue reappraisal. Another, Terry Pollard—an equal talent on vibraphone who performed alongside him in swinging mallet contests—remains bizarrely obscure given her considerable skills.

About Alice Coltrane, "Before everything she had done with John, she was a swinging bebopper, playing in all these Detroit bands and in Terry Gibbs' band," saxophonist Jeff Lederer told GRAMMY.com in 2020. "She was a great, great bebopper." As for Pollard, "I feel like it's really important to acknowledge her when talking about this music," Geoff Keezer tells GRAMMY.com.

Terry Gibbs & Terry Pollard

Terry Gibbs and Terry Pollard. Photo courtesy of Gerry Gibbs.

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Terry played from age 12 until his retirement at 92. In that time, he made more than 90 solo recordings and was the musical director on "The Steve Allen Show" for more than 20 years. However, he's mysteriously still not an NEA Jazz Master, despite many musicians far younger than him—and with fewer bona fides—receiving the honor.

Plus, his infectious compositions, like "Kick Those Feet," "Bopstacle Course" and "Pretty Blue Eyes," aren't as widely known as they should be in the 21st century. That is, unless Gerry has something to say about it.

The Creative Whirlwind Of Gerry Gibbs

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree: Gerry Gibbs is as loquacious and driven as his father. Moreover, time is elastic on Planet Gibbs: What would typically be a half-hour conversation might stretch to more than three times that length.

"When he's explaining stuff, his mind is going 20,000 miles an hour," Patrice Rushen tells GRAMMY.com. "He might skip a lot of information that it would be of value for you to try to keep up with where he's going." For example: "'There's no bass player in this session.' [Pauses.] OK. 'Well, you'll be playing with [pianist] Larry Goldings.' [Pauses even longer.] OK? 'Larry's going to play the organ.' OK, got it. Now I'm piecing it together."

Put a man like this in pandemic house arrest, and he'll do something like write and record an entire song every day in an 18-day spree while playing all the instruments. And that's what Gerry did. He sent the resulting album, Emotional Pandemic, to 500 people on his email list. One of them happened to be Corea, who he'd been friendly with before but never worked with.

Corea took to Gerry immediately and emailed him, eager to learn about his creative process. "I was pretty freaked out," Gerry admits. "Friends of mine hadn't had time to listen to it, and here's Chick, who's so busy, and he listened to it numerous times." Gerry sent Corea his phone number; they talked for two hours and became fast friends.

"One time, at almost 3:00 in the morning, the phone rang, and it was Chick," Gerry says. "My wife sees the phone and I say, 'He must have butt-dialed me.' I answer the phone, and he says [loudly] 'Guess whooo!' I don't care. Chick could have woken me up every night, and it would be fine. It's Chick."

After Corea listened to Journey to Parts Unknown, another album Gerry made during lockdown—this one comprised of solo piano compositions—he inquired about adapting the tunes to include bass and drums.

"Then I realized, 'My label can't afford him,'" Gerry says. He offered to put his people in touch with Corea's people; Corea waved it away. "He was just like, 'No, no, no. Don't worry about that. I don't care about that. Let's just do it.'"

There was another potential wrinkle: Gerry's compositions are incredibly elaborate, so much so that Corea requested advance time with the charts. Plus, with COVID as a factor, lengthy rehearsals weren't possible. So rather than composing streamlined, improv-friendly music, Gerry decided to play his father's music instead.

"It's a tribute to my dad, but it's not a tribute because he's my dad," he says. "His music was some of the most important music for me growing up. It was my way to put my take on something that I grew up with that had a huge influence on me." While on a stroll through his neighborhood, he called everyone who ultimately would be involved with the record. They were in.

Gibbs told Corea he was going to change direction and play his father's music instead. Corea took to the idea enthusiastically, even asking to write an original song for the record: "Tango for Terry."

"All of us had so much faith in his judgment and his ability to work out the situations that were beyond everyone's expectations and experience."    —Ron Carter

When it came time to track the music in various locations, none of the musicians were rusty after being housebound for months. "I was a little apprehensive about going into the studio, but I needed to play," Keezer says. "I was very happy that he called me for the project, especially with Christian on bass." 

Gerry's curatorial and leaderly acumen struck all the musicians involved. "All of us had so much faith in his judgment and his ability to work out the situations that were beyond everyone's expectations and experience," Ron Carter tells GRAMMY.com. Barron adds, "Gerry is very creative in terms of coming up with different kinds of projects. It's not always the same thing, which I love about him."

For "Chick's Tune," a spin on Terry's "Hey Jim" with nine out of 10 of the musicians taking a solo, Gerry matched the tempo to a 1961 recording of his father and spliced his vibraphone solo to the music. "Gerry's very good at [working with] pre-recorded elements to play to, as far as the production side," Larry Goldings tells GRAMMY.com. "Gerry's very clever at editing."

Notably absent from his namesake song, however, was Corea.

The Final Musical Fires Of Chick Corea

By all accounts, Corea was strong and upbeat during the sessions. However, when it came time to tackle "Hey Jim," "Chick called me and said, 'I can't play on it because I'm not feeling good. I've got a pain in my ribs. Can we postpone this for three or four weeks?'" Gerry recalls. "I said, 'Of course, Chick.'"

"And then I spoke to his management," he says. "Chick was gone."

In a massive shock to the global jazz community, Corea passed away on February 9, 2021, from a rare form of cancer. He embodied energetic creativity for a musician in his autumn years; the internet was full of his recent videos and masterclasses. With about a month left, Corea got his affairs in order and wrote a statement to the world.

"I want to thank all of those along my journey who have helped keep the music fires burning bright," he said. "It is my hope that those who have an inkling to play, write, perform or otherwise, do so. If not for yourself then for the rest of us. It's not only that the world needs more artists, it's also just a lot of fun."

"My dad always said, 'People remember the very beginning, and they always remember the end. They don't always remember everything in the middle'... That's what I try to remember: What are the bookends? Are they really memorable?" —Gerry Gibbs

"I was so hurt and disappointed that, finally, I got to hook up with Chick and that we were going to get together and play after COVID," Gerry says. "It's a little eerie. When you're a little kid, you don't think, 'One day I'll play with Chick and when it happens, it'll be the last thing he'll ever do.'" 

Gerry suggested they repurpose the track to be a tribute to their fallen friend. Terry agreed and proposed a new title—"Hey Chick." The music sounds as radiant, eager and playful as its namesake.

"My dad always said, 'People remember the very beginning, and they always remember the end. They don't always remember everything in the middle,'" Gerry says. "That always struck me as very important with a lot of music that I love. That's what I try to remember: What are the bookends? Are they really memorable?"

Terry Gibbs & Gerry Gibbs

Terry and Gerry Gibbs. Photo courtesy of Gerry Gibbs.

A Father's Verdict

One critical question remains: What did Terry think of the final product?

"There's nothing greater than to hear someone play a song you wrote and interpret it their own way," he marvels. "You're talking about the heavyweights of heavyweights. Everyone is a bandleader."

"When he told me about all these guys he tried to get, I thought the COVID got to him or he was completely out of his bird!" he exclaims. "How did he get those guys, especially with this disease going around?"

Buster Williams has an answer: Despite the extraordinary circumstances, there was a "business as usual" vibe among the musicians. "We do record dates all the time, you know? You never know what's going to be the result of a record date," he tells GRAMMY.com. "You're sort of like, 'This is what I do.' But I was very pleased when I heard the complete record that they put together."

"When he told me about all these guys he tried to get, I thought the COVID got to him or he was completely out of his bird!" —Terry Gibbs

In a period of frustration over the perceived NEA Jazz Master snub, Songs From My Father proved to be a balm for the family. "[My father] said 'This is better than getting an award,'" Gerry says proudly. "He was really excited." 

And while this ultimate act of paternal respect touches Terry deeply as he approaches a century on this planet, he's not going to let his son off that easily.

"I used to be a boxer," he clarifies. "I can still beat the heck out of him if I want to."

In Remembrance: Chick Corea Played In More Ways Than One

Grammys Newsletter

Alice Coltrane

Alice Coltrane in 1987

Photo: Frans Schellekens

News

Alice Coltrane's 'Kirtan: Turiya Sings': Inside The Unearthly Beauty Of Her Long-Lost Devotional Album

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Alice Coltrane only made a few hundred copies of 1982’s 'Turiya Sings,' but it has the ability to change your life. 'Kirtan: Turiya Sings," an unadorned variation of the record, draws you even deeper into its transformative power
Morgan Enos
GRAMMYs
Jul 14, 2021 - 10:05 am

Even if you don't know Alice Coltrane's music or feel compelled to check out a "jazz" artist, there's an ambient tape floating around YouTube that will break your heart. 

Turiya Sings, a droning 1982 cassette of chanted Sanskrit vocals, organ, synthesizer and orchestra, is not only a sad, haunted jewel but one of the most convincing available arguments for a higher power. But for Coltrane's son, Ravi, what sounds like a transmission from beyond was just a fact of life around the house.

"That's the sound I grew up hearing. That is the sound," the now-55-year-old saxophonist tells GRAMMY.com over Zoom. "I'd come home from school and she'd be at the organ, playing these songs, singing quietly to herself." This also extended to when he went to church—a.k.a. services at her Agoura Hills ashram—every Sunday, and Coltrane led the congregation in original devotionals like "Jagadishwar," "Krishna Krishna" and "Govinda Hari."

In both scenarios, Coltrane didn't have a rack of synthesizers nor an orchestra at her disposal, but a simple Wurlitzer. And that's the version of Turiya Sings that is finally getting a wide release, offering an alternative to the spectral tape rip hanging out on the internet. Kirtan: Turiya Sings, a fresh "reduction"—Ravi's word—of the original album, arrives July 16 on Impulse Records/UMe. Now, listeners worldwide—Hindu, Christian, agnostic, or atheist—can access the album's boundless spiritual riches.

Alice Coltrane is often discussed in the shadow of her towering husband, John. But the truth is, her marriage to the groundbreaking saxophonist only spanned a few years; her life and career stretched for years before and after him. When she and John met, the pianist was already a known quantity as a Detroit bebopper in vibraphonist Terry Gibbs' band. And by the time she replaced McCoy Tyner in his group in the final year of his life, she was a downright veteran.

Read More: 10 Essential Cuts From Jazz Piano Great McCoy Tyner

After John's 1967 death from liver cancer, she recorded a succession of albums for Impulse!, then Warner Bros. In the '70s, she moved out of the Long Island home she shared with John and headed out to California, establishing the Vedantic Center northwest of Los Angeles and adopting the name Turiyasangitananda. By the dawn of the '80s, she was through with the rat race of commercial music.

"By '81, she was just done with record contracts," Ravi says. "She felt that she had done everything she wanted to do in music and wanted to shift directions to a more spiritual life, so that's what she did."

Turiya Sings was her first functional rather than commercial work, serving as an offering for congregants rather than something meant for a wide release. Every Sunday, the group would sit on the floor, clad in white, for a kirtan service, shaking tambourines and bells as Coltrane sang and played. ("Kirtan" means "narrating, reciting, telling" in Sanskrit.)

"My mother, who we would call 'swami'—I still called her 'mom'—would sit behind the Wurlitzer," Ravi recalls. "The very same Wurlitzer you hear on the recording."

Coltrane recorded the album in 1981—mostly in first takes—at a studio near the ashram. Then, she overdubbed synthesizers and a self-conducted orchestra, pressed a few hundred copies under the Avatar Book Institute imprint, and sold it in the ashram's bookstore. "This is celebratory music of the highest order," the rear sleeve attested, calling it the product of "a soul that has already traversed far."

Of this sumptuous sound-world, only various secondhand versions were available for years—at press time, even eBay doesn't turn up an original cassette copy. But when Ravi finally heard a stripped-down, Wurlitzer-and-voice mix in 2004, he felt the embellishment-free version was the most gripping and immediate. The only problem was that he couldn't find a 24-track master—until recently when he found it sitting in a closet for decades.

Kirtan: Turiya Sings

Photo: Courtesy of Impulse Records/UMe.

While the original subsumed listeners into its undertow, this bare-bones version bends the ear to its lyrics and melodies. And without the overdubbed atmosphere, you can hear more clearly the gospel-ish angles in the chords and click and clack of the Wurlitzer's pedals.

"As dynamic and bold as the original version is, hearing my mother sing and play in this stripped-down, intimate setting revealed the true heart and soul of these songs," Ravi wrote in a producer’s note. "In this form, I could hear every nuance and inflection in her vocal performance and feel the weight of her rock-solid pulse and timing and (dare I say it) groove on the Wurlitzer. And, most importantly, in this setting, I felt the greatest sense of her passion, devotion, and exaltation in singing these songs in praise of the Supreme."

"It's powerful in a different way," Ken Druker, the Vice President of Jazz Development at Verve Label Group, tells GRAMMY.com. "You can hear what she's doing on the organ. You can hear the gospel influence. As Ravi said, you can hear the Motown in her voice—things that weren't as apparent on the cassette where there were all these other layers going on."

Druker is quick to call Kirtan: Turiya Sings a "variation" of the album, not meant to supplant it. To that end, Ravi says the decision to release this unadorned music wasn't to insert his own agenda but to get at the essence of the work. "That's the primary motivation," he says. "It wasn't me trying to tinker with Alice's creative works. I'm a custodian of my mother's music, my father's music, and a guardian of this music."

As for the lyrics, you don't have to learn a foreign language to feel them—even as a Sanskrit-to-English translation in the booklet helps bridge that gap. "They're just praising the Supreme—the Highest," Ravi says. "They're songs to elevate the spirit, and I don't see this as religious music. I see this as devotional music. Music that is for everyone, from any religious background—or no religious background."

Indeed, Vedic Hinduism wasn't the end for Coltrane, but the means. Even as Kirtan: Turiya Sings is firmly hooked to that tradition, it's meant as a vehicle for universal God-consciousness. 

"People have heard this music and not heard the translations nor the Sanskrit, but they can feel it," Ravi continues. "There's something compelling about these chants and these songs in a way that's not pushing one specific religion's doctrine, but promotes the universal in all divine music."

Despite being just one stop on the long continuum of Coltrane's music, nothing else in her discography quite sounds like it—and now that it's out for real, its influence and impact have the potential to be as borderless as its spirituality. Will Sheff, the GRAMMY-nominated leader of the long-running rock band Okkervil River, found himself bewitched by the original version of Turiya Sings years ago.

"I feel like she's going down to this depth, and the depth is heavy. You're sinking down and down and down and down into the darkness, but I don't think of that necessarily as bad," he tells GRAMMY.com. "That's where everything comes from and where everything goes, or something like that."

For Sheff, the quality of the music—coupled with the fact Coltrane didn't make it as a capitalist object—makes Turiya Sings an incredibly rare bird. "I don't want to get into some kind of weird, purist state of mind, but I guess I just feel like there's something so beautiful about hearing a musician do something where their soul is reaching out to God and they put it out to people who share the same faith as they do as a prayer aid," he says. 

"At no point in that process does 'I want to be rich' or 'I want to be famous' or 'I want to be well-thought-of' come into that," Sheff adds. "That's very refreshing because those are the biggest prizes of our culture right now." This might hold true for the foreseeable future, as far as music is concerned. 

But we'll always have Turiyasangitananda, praising the Most High softly, solemnly, as if singing to herself.

'Ptah, The El Daoud' At 50: How Alice Coltrane Straddled Heaven And Earth

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James Brandon Lewis

James Brandon Lewis

Photo: Diane Allford

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James Brandon Lewis On Evoking George Washington Carver Through Sound, The Wisdom Of Nature & His New Album 'Jesup Wagon'

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The emotionally and intellectually gripping saxophonist James Brandon Lewis did his homework while conceptualizing 'Jesup Wagon,' an album that manifests George Washington Carver's essence into today's world
Morgan Enos
GRAMMYs
May 17, 2021 - 5:57 pm

Jazz history is full of musicians immortalizing people through sound. John Coltrane did it with "Cousin Mary" and "Syeeda's Song Flute." Miles Davis did it with "Back Seat Betty." Charles Mingus's "Goodbye Pork Pie Hat" is a eulogy for the tenor giant Lester Young. The problem is that if we couldn't flip over the LP and read about it, we might never know—and tenor saxophonist James Brandon Lewis is well aware of the gulf between music and PR copy.

While paying homage to agricultural scientist and inventor George Washington Carver on his new album, Jesup Wagon, Lewis conjured his essence and wrenched it from his horn. Even if you might need to read the bio to get who he's driving at, there are more profound forces at play. Even as he interpolated spoken word to illuminating effect, Lewis told a story in a way language never could. 

"I'm trying, I'm trying, I'm trying my best to evoke a deeper thing," he tells GRAMMY.com.

Getting on Carver's wavelength meant digging deeper than the aspects most people learn in public school, like his 300-plus uses for the peanut. Lewis more than did his due diligence, poring over Carver's correspondence letters and bulletins for farmers as well as a litany of biographies of the man. Want to read about Carver yourself? There's plenty of literature out there. But Jesup Wagon, which came out May 7 on the up-and-coming TAO Forms label, can help you feel his presence.

Far from dry history lessons, Lewis' wrenching compositions like "Lowlands of Sorrow," "Fallen Flowers" and "Experiment Station" may act as first steps to lifelong education on and communion with the historical figure. Most importantly, Lewis has a monstrous sound on the horn. Plus, he has simpatico accompanists in the Red Lily Quintet, which consists of cornetist Kirk Knuffke, bassist and gimbri player William Parker, cellist Chris Hoffman, and drummer and mbira player Chad Taylor.

GRAMMY.com caught up with Lewis over Zoom from Switzerland—where he's already plotting his next album—about his journey through a Black genius's universe and his place in the pantheon of the saxophone.

This interview has been lightly edited and condensed for clarity.

You clearly had such a vision for Jesup Wagon, and I can't think of a way you fell short of executing it. How did this idea germinate, and would you consider this album your breakthrough?

Definitely. All the parts kind of fell into place. I definitely didn't have any intention, initially, during this COVID period, to do anything to mark the time period. Just because of personal stuff. Losing family members and different things. Not feeling like creating work was necessarily the right thing to do just because people were losing their lives; people were losing work.

But then, eventually, I was like, "I can't sink my own ship. I've got to be strong for other people." So I just started creating music. This came about very organically. The label reached out—for Whit Dickey to have the courage to start TAO Forms during COVID is like, "OK, cool." [They asked me,] "James, do you have anything?" "Sure, I do."

I'm always creating and thinking about the next thing and the Carver project [and my interest in him] was something that had been on my mind for quite some time. So I thought, "Why not?" Maybe people will gain a little bit more insight into him other than, like, "He's the peanut guy." These kinds of watered-down notions of him. Which happens over time to people. I don't think it's done in a malicious kind of way.

And then, the cast. It's everyone that I've worked with over the years. I've only worked with Chris Hoffman once, but that was good enough. It's interesting because when you create, you don't know what the response is going to be. I thought, "This sounds like some pretty good music," and I put my best foot forward with every project, but you don't know which project is going to resonate with people the most.

I'm sure you've done innumerable interviews about George Washington Carver at this point. I'm interested in the tension between the music and the press kit—how you can evoke someone through sheer sound without necessitating that the listener read the one-sheet.

For me, it was a natural process. The older I get, the more I reflect on my past. Just growing up and being interested in many different things. Reading Emerson, being interested in science and jazz. I was just this kind of kid. Now, as an adult, the most authentic or original ideas I can pull from have to be from thinking about my own personal experiences.

In two years, I'll be 40. I think I have a little bit of life that I can talk about. So I think in choosing to do any project, I'm fully immersing myself in being in history. Checking out the bulletins he made for farmers. Checking out several different biographies as well as correspondence letters. Seeing clips of him on YouTube. Fully immersing myself gets me in tune with a little of his vibe.

The more I dig in, the more I feel like it may translate. How it resonates in my soul, I can map that and remember that feeling and then pick up my horn and proceed to play, remembering the feeling of a passage he said or his exchanges with Booker T. Washington at Tuskegee [Institute].

All of these different things and also the idea of him going against the grain in science when that's not necessarily the field [where] you're supposed to go against the grain. You're supposed to be all factual. He's presenting spirituality and telling people he's talking to the plants and they're letting him know what's going on.

It's always a challenge when you're playing music. To have a concept and then [wonder], "OK, well, it's instrumental music. Does it translate?" I think when you immerse yourself in a topic … It's no different than if I was writing a piece and I wanted to evoke, maybe, what love feels like. That's just knowing the characteristics of how to paint emotion with particular sounds.

That's up to the listener, but I feel like I'm in tune with his spirit, with his vibe. As you say, away from any PR or whatever. Any of the PR or any of the things that are out there is stuff that I've disseminated about him in the most truthful way. It's just like my dealings with Robin D. G. Kelly [who wrote a 2009 biography of [Thelonious Monk.] He's such an amazing writer. I've had a relationship with him since, like, 2016, when my No Filter project came out with my trio.

He was familiar with the process of me choosing titles and knowing that the titles were not just random. They kind of guide you. He was able to depict the titles in a really beautiful way that is truthful. They're based on me reading his correspondence letters and checking out his documents. A lot of real research. 

The music is one aspect, but to firmly immerse yourself in something is another thing. I could easily come up with a song and call it "The Peanut"; I don't know if that would be that interesting. I'm trying, I'm trying, I'm trying my best to evoke a deeper thing. The musicians help that, too. It's not a bad crew to work with!

James Brandon Lewis

James Brandon Lewis. Photo: Diane Allford

It's a co-creation. You've got the best minds on it! And I think I understand now. You don't need to be able to materialize a person, somehow. You're not writing a book. You're just manifesting Carver's essence in an emotional or spiritual way.

Right. Does it relate to someone on an emotional level? Even when I'm listening to it—which I rarely do after I record it—I go, "Yeah." If I hear "Experiment Station," just visualizing George Washington Carver with students, the newness, the childlike behavior of discovery [mimics exuberant melody] then it's like "Wow, this is about to take me somewhere." It's also just about the contour of the line and how you shape things. Descending, the overall arc of things. 

Hey, if it can also reach people emotionally—I'm at a place now where I'm like, "Let me play it for my family." If it resonates with them, then, cool. I think I'm OK. I'm on the right track. If Grandma's movin' and groovin', then that's a good sign.

How did Kelley come into your life? What a great asset.

I had released [No Filter] on a small label called BNS Sessions. He just reached out to me and said he enjoyed the album, and we sparked up a friendship. I also got involved with reading other books he was involved in, [like 2009's] Black, Brown & Beige, which was a surrealist anthology that he edited. That book specifically was influential on the UnRuly Manifesto project I did in 2019.

It's just been a healthy exchange. He's been to some of my gigs. We just sparked a real vibe. I'm thankful. He wrote some ace liner notes.

What tools were in your toolbox while making Jesup Wagon? Which artists were swimming through your mind?

I think I naturally draw from the canon of great saxophone players, just because I listen to them. But for this sound and vibe—I initially wanted to have a kora player on this project. That didn't quite work out, but then, I said, "OK, William Parker plays the gimbri. Chad Taylor plays the mbira. If I get a cello, then we have this earthy [quality]."

Me and Kirk [Knuffke], we definitely have similar interests in terms of all the great Ornette Coleman vibes and tunes. Just the way he plays and I play and we interact with each other, that's definitely a headspace in the ether. Strings, horns, no harmonic instrument, drums.

I definitely feel like I'm in the lineage of a lot of different players, but I don't know if I was thinking of that, necessarily, other than trying to convey the music in a way that felt connected to the tradition. The Coltranes, the Aylers. The Ornette Colemans. The Dewey Redmans. That vibe. Julius Hemphill. All these folks who have these different ensembles. The cello and bass.

My introduction to cello happened in 2009. I was at Banff [International Workshop in Jazz & Creative Music] and I met [cellist] Hank Roberts, who plays with Bill Frisell. And then, later on, I met [composer and cellist] Tomeka Reid when I got to New York. It was a natural progression of sounds.

And then, William Parker! He's also a huge influence [on my] sound. He's had a lot of different ensembles with a lot of different kinds of instruments and things. And Chad Taylor, who's worked with Pharoah Sanders and [tenor saxophonist] Fred Anderson. I think there is a sound universe. I definitely feel like I lean toward a lot of different influences.

James Brandon Lewis

James Brandon Lewis. Photo: Diane Allford

All in all, you may not be able to build a person out of sound, but you can push a hole in the universe and something might come out the other side. Who knows how Jesup Wagon will cause a ripple effect in global awareness of Carver and his contributions?

You know, it's interesting, because I've had different people from Alabama, from the South, who listened to the record, and they're like, "Wow. You really evoked this. We knew Carver when we were kids, growing up in this specific area. This is amazing." That's always a really cool thing. It's nice.

It also manifests itself, because I was just a kid who was curious about this individual, as I am with many other people. We'll see what happens, but I'm glad people dig the music. I don't think this is just a one-time [thing]. I don't know if I'm creating Carver, Part Two, but I will continue to study him. It's manifesting in my own life. He, as an individual, definitely got me thinking about nature. Maybe [making me] a little more concerned with nature as opposed to "This is over here and I'm separate from it and I'm so sophisticated." Caring about it, thinking about it. Contributing to it in a way that's healthy.

Maybe a seed is growing inside me to get some plants of my own and appreciate them. Especially during this time period, it seems like nature is the most calm and sophisticated and knows how to conduct itself.

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