Let me say, first of all, that what
follows is a personal record, rather than a comprehensive account. It
will relate to the development in Britain of what is generally termed
‘modern jazz’—although this music has been developing for well over 20
years now. Also I shall be dealing, mainly, with small group jazz —the
area in which I have been operating most of the time.
The fountainhead of the ‘modern’ movement
in this country is usually said to have been the Club Eleven, which existed
in the late ‘forties. Actually, though, things started happening a little
earlier at a club in Old Compton Street, known then as the Fullado Club,
where jazz was played non-stop from 3 p.m. until midnight. Most of the
musicians who were associated with the Club Eleven used to play there.
The difference being that, at the Fullado, we played only for kicks—not
for cash!
I spent most of my spare hours there.
I was working with Duncan Whyte’s Band at the Astoria, Charing Cross Road,
and at the end of the evening I used to go, with guitarist Stan Watson
and other friends, down to the Nut House, a night club in Regent Street.
Which was where, as a kid of 18, I counted myself extremely lucky to get
some chances to play with several great American musicians. This was
towards the end of the war—and Sam Donahue’s U.S. Navy Band was in town.
Hearing the whole band at the Queensberry All-Services Club was a thrill
that is still vivid in my mind, as I’m sure it is also with Jack Parnell,
who was sitting next to me that night.
The Donahue men, such as trombonist
Dick Le Fave and clarinettist Ralph La Pola, would go around the clubs
after the gig when they were in London. I can recall Kenny Baker and Johnny
Claes sitting in with excellent fellow-trumpeters like Johnny Best, Frankie
Beach, Don Jacoby and Conrad Gozzo. It seemed to me then that the Americans
had more fundamental ability to produce sound— probably through more college
training in the early stages of learning instruments. The sax players,
too, had more power than anyone I knew over here.
Another frequent sitter-in on trumpet
was Dennis Rose—who I would unhesitatingly name as the guv’nor during
that period (around 1945-’47, that is). He was always around, along with
Ronnie Scott, Tommy Whittle, Johnny Dank-worth, Hank Shaw, Terry Brown,
Dave Goldberg, Tommy Pollard, Lennie Bush, Laurie Morgan, Jack Parnell,
Tony Crom-bie and many others.
Undoubtedly, Dennis Rose was the most
progressive-thinking of all the jazz musicians that I met in those years.
He was practically living in Archer Street—as we all were. (In fact, just
prior to joining Duncan Whyte I had 13 weeks out of work, which was mainly
spent drinking tea all day in Archer Street cafes.) Dennis ran a rehearsal
band, which met downstairs at the Fullado Club. We did things like the
Gillespie arrangements of “That’s Earl, Brother” and “Cubano Be, Cubano
Bop”. Without having a particularly strong tone on trumpet, Dennis had
a very thorough understanding of Dizzy’s kind of music. And sometimes
he’d play songs like “You Go To My Head” and “Embraceable You”, which
require a very good ear to get the right chords all the way. I remember
him teaching Laurie Morgan, the drummer, simple ways of making tunes sound
nice on the piano. Laurie would plonk out, say, “All The Things You Are”,
with Dennis Rose’s voicing— just using about three fingers to get the
essential notes of those chords. In turn, I learned quite a lot from Laurie.
There was always some action going
on with Dennis. There were two clubs in Stepney where music just used
to happen. I never knew when it would happen, but, through being down
Archer Street with Ronnie Scott, Tony Crombie and Dennis—it seemed that
quite often we’d go off down to Stepney and play in these enormous school
halls. Afterwards we’d go round to someone’s house and continue. Dennis
would always be organising it all, by giving us the notes for riffs and
so on.
Ronnie Scott, too, was fast gaining
recognition and prestige, and was acknowledged by all the other musicians.
But, somehow, Dennis—being a little older, I think—was considered to be
the one who could really say what was what.
For a time he was regular with Johnny
Claes and his Clae-Pigeons, as was Ronnie. Then he joined the Tito Burns
Sextet, which broadcast every Saturday lunchtime on Accordion Club. This
became a very amazing band to listen to— with Ronnie, Dennis, Pete Chilver
on guitar, Ray Ellington on drums. I often wonder what the accordion authorities
used to think of having such an un-accordion-like sound on their programme.
After this, Dennis Rose held a job
with Jack Amlot’s Band at Hammersmith Palais, where he worked afternoons
and evenings six days a week. But he was still playing jazz—because there
were some very good reports of his music. Other musicians tell me that
he is only playing solo piano nowadays.
A more legendary trumpet player, perhaps,
even than Dennis, at that time, was a man called Derry Gascoigne. He never
became a ‘name’, and has since vanished into oblivion. But I knew him
pretty well, because we formed a band together and went into a night club
for a few months. He was one of these remarkably gifted people who—without
being able to read a note or know any of his chords or the keys we were
in— would just play—really brilliant jazz. His ears were of the un-cloth
variety.
Anyway, a lot of jazz activity was
consolidated by the formation of the Club Eleven—which was quite a milestone.
It was the first regular paid modern jazz gig for London musicians, who
ran it themselves. They used Mac’s Rehearsal Rooms in Great Windmill Street.
Two groups were featured. One was fronted by Johnny Dankworth, with Leon
Calvert on trumpet, Bernie Fenton on piano, Joe Muddell on bass and Laurie
Morgan on drums; the other was led by Ronnie Scott, with Hank Shaw on
trumpet and the rhythm of Tommy Pollard, Lennie Bush and Tony Crombie.
The eleventh man was a non-musician—the late Harry Morris, who, being
a good businessman, took care of the financial side. When Ronnie Scott
left to go on the boats to the States, I was asked to fill the vacancy
in the Eleven.
It was quite a closed circle that
we had at the Club Eleven. I have the feeling that not everyone was very
popular if they got up and tried to join in. Just those whose gig it
was did the playing—with very few exceptions.
But the people didn’t seem baffled
at all by the new music we were playing. It seemed to be so obviously
right. What we were hearing on record from Parker, Gillespie, the early
Miles Davis, tenor players like Wardell Gray, Dexter Gordon, Stan Getz
and Allan Eager—we just fell naturally into it. And the audiences just
lapped it up.
Through being there, of course, I
got to meet Johnny Dankworth. Actually, Johnny wanted Ronnie Scott to
be in the original Dankworth Seven, when he formed it in 1950. But evidently
Ronnie had other feelings, or some snag cropped up—so Johnny asked me.
In organising the group, he was greatly aided by pianist Bill Le Sage,
who took a hand in the administration of it.
The trumpet position was filled, briefly,
by Leon Calvert and Terry Brown, while we were waiting for Jimmy Deuchar
to get his RAF discharge. The remainder of the line-up was Eddie Harvey
(trombone), Joe Muddell, soon replaced by Eric Dawson (bass) and Tony
Kinsey (drums). In the three years of the Seven’s existence only two major
personnel changes were made—Eddie Blair for Jimmy Deuchar and Eddie Taylor
for Tony Kinsey. The group became very highly rated throughout Europe,
as well as being written about in America.
What made the Seven outstanding was,
basically, the musical content. Every man was a good jazz player and
Johnny himself, of course, is a fine arranger. But, after several months
of just playing jazz, he was on the point of packing it all in—because
the money we were making was really negligible. However, he decided instead
to try to widen the field of the Seven.
Already we had Marion Williams with
us—a tremendous singer. Her tone was beautiful; she sang with such sincerity,
and with great jazz feeling. In fact, it was some of the best singing
I’ve ever heard in this country. One session that stays firmly in the
memories of Joe Muddell and myself, particularly, we played somewhere
near Colchester. She sang “How Deep Is The Ocean”, and it was being recorded
privately. Really excellent.
As part of our expansion, we started
to take Sunday concerts, where we were playing to audiences which were
being entertained by variety bands. Then, to make it more commercial,
we added a comedy number. This was always absolutely hilarious, because—well,
the idea of doing comedy was completely foreign to some of us. Jimmy Deuchar
flatly refused to take part—he liked to keep jazz very pure. I felt very
much the same way.
Later on, we did have two superb comedians
in the band—Eddie Taylor and Eric Dawson. Eric did a kind of dumb Harpo
Marx act and Eddie had a very astute line of Lancashire wit. On a couple
of occasions we were booked by the West End Restaurant in Edinburgh. And
the week before we came the first time they’d had the Ray Ellington Quartet—and
you know what kind of a showman he is. So we more or less demanded from
Johnny that he put Eddie on as an act. He went on and did his impressions
and a few jokes—which really broke us up, and most of the customers, too.
It made the group much more of a wide
entertainment thing. Coupled with which we had to play dance music. There
was a certain promoter in Yorkshire who used to give a kind of a speech
half-way through the evening: “The dancers have come to dance. The jitter-buggers
must keep their acrobatics over in the corner”. Also he seemed to be regularly
announcing the appearance of “Freddy Randall at Ramsbottom on the 28th
. . .”Which always amused me.
Although the Seven had set out to
please dancers, we were still doing everything with a jazz feeling. We
made many straight jazz sides for Carlo Krahmer’s Esquire label, such
as “I Hear Music”, “The Slider”, “Webb City” and “Leon Bismarck” (a nice
original of Johnny’s). We also had some commercial things released—especially
when Cleo joined.
The funniest story about Cleo Laine
is a perfectly true one, though almost unbelievable. It was about the
time that the organ-type piano attachment— the clavioline—was invented.
And the poster billing at one place where we played up North announced
proudly, but erroneously: “The Johnny Dankworth Seven, featuring Frank
Holder and the cleolaine”!
When you’re spending all your life
on a coach—as we were in those days, doing tours of one-night stands all
over England, Ireland and on the Continent—you have a large amount of
time to do things. So we’d get up to all kinds of party games or band
jokes, in which everyone took part. We had a ‘band badge’, which was awarded
each week to whichever member of the Seven had performed the most amazing
feat. It didn’t matter what it was—just some out of the ordinary thing—usually
crazy. I think Eddie Blair had the actual control over this point. And
Johnny did everything in his power to win this badge. But you know how
unpopular a leader always is. He never won it—and he used to get mad about
this.
So, one day, the week was coming to
an end, and the badge hadn’t been awarded to anyone. Reminded of this,
Eddie organised a race—stopped the coach; we all got out in a country
lane. And we all raced down the road! Johnny—going flat out—won the race.
But Eddie decided he’d award it to the one who came last that day!
There were other positions that people
could win. Such as the ‘band bum’— that meant the one who looked the most
disreputable all the time. I seem to remember Frank Holder or Eddie Harvey
winning that more often than not. It was all very much in good humour.
Cleo Laine won it one time!
I’ve always regarded Johnny as a most
exceptionally talented musician. One night he stayed at my place, and
we had a commercial-type broadcast the following morning. He got up at
about 8 o’clock in the morning and scribbled down a vocal arrangement—first
chorus front-line and the backing for the vocalist —over tea and toast.
And we performed it on the broadcast. He’s that type of musician. He always
works that way— often leaving things to the very last minute. “A dressing
gown and fast car” was Eddie Harvey’s neat description of this trait in
Johnny.
Without doubt, his writing for the
group was responsible for its success. I was listening through the Dankworth
Seven recordings the other day—and they’re beautifully written. It’s also
interesting to note that there were ‘headed’ bridges and second themes,
as happens in “Webb City” and “The Slider”, for instance. Jimmy Deuchar,
Eddie Harvey, Bill Le Sage and myself—Eddie Blair, too, when he joined—all
had a hand in suggesting a different line, or an occasional modulation
to get from the first chorus into the second. On listening back, I think
there was possibly some influence from the Miles Davis Tentet, as on that
“Birth Of The Cool” LP. But, on the other hand, it was not just imitation—merely
a matter of liking that kind of music.
There were definite elements in his
writing then that you can follow through to the big band. I’ve done the
odd gig with the big band, filling in for Art Ellefson, Danny Moss, or
whoever it was. And it’s very noticeable to me— I can still feel the Seven
here and there all the way through the music.
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