After a few days, the percussionist came up to me. He figured I was the only other Hispanic-looking dude on the gig, and so he started talking to me in rapid Spanish. “Muy despacio, por favor. Solo un poquito Espanol,” I replied. We talked in English, and he started talking to me about clave. I told him I didn’t really know about clave.

“What!,” he exclaimed. “Your name is García, but you do not know about clave?!?!” “Hey,” I replied,” my mom is from Iowa, though my dad’s from Puerto Rico: I’m Iorican! We ate steak and mashed potatoes for dinner.” He then took me under his wing a bit and taught me a lot about clave.

He was Walfredo Reyes, Sr., who I much later realized was “one of the kings” (“de los reyes”) of Latin percussion. He is one of Cuba’s most influential drummers and one of the pioneers to play both percussion and drumset simultaneously. Back in the day he had hipped the West Coast drummers (including Louis Bellson) to a lot of authentic grooves in Latin music. I got schooled by the best!

Once I began my full-time university teaching career, I took the opportunity to co-host many Latin-music guest artists for my students so that I, as well, could learn first-hand from them, including Tito Puente, Eddie Palmieri, Danilo Perez, Paulinho García, Samuel Del Real, Rubén Alvarez, Fareed Haque, John Santos, Romero Lubambo, Nilson Matta, Rosa Avila, Mayra Casales, Duduka da Fonseca, Rei Alvarez, and Efrain Toro.

They Could March Themselves

After my first grad year at Eastman, I came home to New Orleans broke and in need of work. I gave myself a couple of weeks to assess my potential for picking up frequent music gigs before possibly considering whether to get a day job for the summer.

I was home just a couple of days when I visited my undergrad alma mater, Loyola, to say hi to my former teachers there. The director of bands, Dr. Joe Hebert, asked me what my plans were; so I told him my financial concerns.

“How’d you like a job playing trombone six days a week, seven hours a day, union scale?” He was referring musicians to fill out the official band for the 1984 World’s Fair, right there in New Orleans. It pays not to burn bridges with your former teachers!

Before long I was in a band with 30 or 40 other musicians. We were to wear white pants and short-sleeved shirts for most of the day (reasonable for a town with 98 degrees, 98 percent humidity), splitting up into a half-dozen street combos to play Dixieland to entertain folks waiting in line to get into attractions. A smaller percentage of the time we’d play in combos of contemporary jazz on stages scattered the length of the Fair. And several times a day we’d don blue coats and play festive music as a marching band during the official parade schedule. The deal was that we’d wash our own white clothes and that the Fair would dry-clean the jackets every week.

It was a great gig. I learned more about how to play hard and not hurt my chops than I had since my days with René Louapre. There were wonderful musicians in the band (including several college buddies, among them Victor Goines). We challenged ourselves to come up with new tunes, arrangements, and even locales in which to play. One day our combo played in a single car of the largest Ferris wheel in North America. We’d split into pairs and jump on the ski lifts that paralleled the river and play while enjoying great views of the city below.

And other gigs sprang from that one. I played a series of jazz combo performances at The Fair under the direction of pianist James Drew, who was a monster jazz pianist. Sometimes saxophonist Rick Margitza, who had followed me at Loyola by a few years, was on the gig as well.

James was also a contemporary classical composer who had taught at Yale, and so I also began playing some of his music at the New Orleans Contemporary Arts Center. It was brilliantly written—and unwritten—a lot of improvisation afforded to the players from the intricate scores, and great fun to play. I recall we performed some of his works live over local public radio.

But all good things must end; and after three months of fine music and great pay, it was time to go back to Rochester, NY to complete my study there. There was really only one nasty thing about the gig: those blue uniform coats had never been dry-cleaned by the World’s Fair! It was difficult to explain that reality to a sub on the rare occasion you had to miss work.

Most of the other members of the band were continuing on through the planned six-month run of the Fair, though there began almost daily rumors of early disbanding of the group and closure of the Fair due to financial problems. On the last day of the Fair, a couple of band buddies called me in New York from a phone they’d found in an abandoned Fair office in New Orleans. They had completed their last parade; and those uniform coats had never been cleaned. Not in six months of heat, humidity, and rain! Now that’s funky.

God’s Alarm Clock

OK, this one’s about a rehearsal, not a gig, but....

When I was at Eastman, I was frequently tired enough to warrant using seven alarms, all spread around the room at different times. Sometimes one or two would be enough; but other times, well, that’s what happens when you have to be awake for 40-70 hours at a time writing music.

Once, after completing a 50-hour stint on a chart, I set my seven alarms and went to bed for the six hours I had available to rest. I had to then be up for my first sectional with the Eastman Jazz Ensemble trombone section as bass trombonist. (I had been playing tenor with the band all year, but bass trombonist Jim Martin had defected to the Buddy Rich band the previous week. So I was the new guy on the bottom, with a concert, a tour, and a recording session all within the following two weeks—plus my own graduate recital on tenor trombone as originally planned.)

I slept through all seven alarms.

I didn’t hear a single one of them. It was the only time in my entire two years at Eastman that I failed to get up.

But I woke up, about a half-hour later than I’d planned, when God sent me his own personal alarm in the form of the world’s worst charley horse. It was unbelievably painful! I looked at the clock, realized that I’d missed the bus from the residence hall to the school, and that I’d have to trudge—rather, limp—pretty quickly in the snow over to the sectional, since I had the key to open up the practice room.

But it just goes to show you that if you face reality and deal with it often enough on your own, someone else might cut you a little slack and help you out when you fail.

A Call to Arms (or at least, to a Pencil)

This will be a much longer tale. If you’d like to listen to the relevant “New Orleans Brass Quintet Plays Jazz” recordings while reading this, simultaneously visit here; and roll the tracks. But you may want an undistracted re-listening later!

After I completed my Eastman grad studies in composition and arranging in May 1985, I needed a break from writing. I believe I’d penned nearly 100 projects in the two years at Eastman; and as absolutely wonderful as that experience had been, I needed to step back for a while. So when I moved back to New Orleans post-grad, I initially focused on rebuilding my freelance-performance connections and gigging.

That Fall I received a phone call from a trumpeter I’d gigged with at times and befriended, Bob Amato. He’d saved up some funds and had a dream of creating and recording a brass quintet that would play some intense jazz, then get the group out to perform and tour with its CD in hand. And he wanted to know if I’d arrange some charts, find and enlist several other arrangers, proof the charts, scout studios/staff with him, potentially recommend a player or two if folks he had in mind couldn’t do it, and then produce and edit the recording.

It was really an offer tailor-made to my interests and training: New Orleans, brass, music-writing/producing/editing, high aesthetics, with most of the work flex-time in between my performing gigs--and paid appropriately, courtesy of Bob. So I promptly said yes, and together he and I embarked on the wonderful project together.

He decided to call it the New Orleans Brass Quintet (NOBQ). He had one arranger in mind already (the late John Talarico) and offered me three titles to arrange, plus asked me to find more arrangers. I immediately contacted three of my most-accomplished Eastman peers--Todd Beaney, Tom Davis, Paul Ferguson--and we all got started writing, knowing that the NOBQ’s personnel was top-notch:

·      Bob Amato – Leader/Founder 1st Trumpet, Flugelhorn, Piccolo Trumpet

·      Sweet Willie Singleton – 2nd Trumpet, Flugelhorn

·      Jack Gardner – French Horn

·      Mike Genevay – Tenor Trombone, Bass Trombone

·      Neal Tidwell (now deceased) – Tuba

I’d known of Neal from his outstanding work with the New Orleans Philharmonic Symphony. Mike had been one of my first trombone teachers, could play alto, tenor, and bass trombone; and his many gigs included being a regular with Pete Fountain. I’d heard Jack regularly not only at the Symphony but via his work as a faculty member at Loyola’s College of Music, where I’d completed my undergraduate work. And I’d gigged many times with Willie and Bob.

Each musician had superb classical chops; several were improvisers; and all could swing as needed. So Bob gave the writers only these instructions: “Write from your own instinct, and leave your mark on the work!” And they did, on charts ranging from “St. James Infirmary” to “A Night In Tunisia,” from “On Green Dolphin Street” to “Donna Lee.”

I believe Bob had promptly put me in charge of tracking down the recording rights to each tune, as we didn’t want to be commissioning charts he couldn’t record. In one instance I was able to reach the composer directly: I was quite surprised when Eden Ahbez, the composer of “Nature Boy,” picked up my phone call. He was in his late 70s at the time and was eager to sing for me new, additional verses of the song--apparently composed long after the tune had become a hit. He wanted more people to know about these new verses; and though he was a little disappointed to learn that our brass album would not include vocals, he gladly granted the recording rights to the NOBQ. I was thrilled to have spent some time conversing with him.

Meantime, Bob and I started scouting studios. Most were clearly not a fit. I recall one studio, when asked by us to play a recording they’d done that might be relevant to a jazz project, delivered a MASSIVE bass drum out their speakers that as much as anything politely sent us out their door. But Bob then found a wonderful site, the lovely Longue Vue Gardens Playhouse in New Orleans, with superb acoustics. And we found an ideal engineer: David Farrell.

Proofing the charts was its own adventure. The writers each did outstanding work, but we were then using very new technology to generate parts from the handwritten scores. Computerized music-notation software had only recently emerged, and Bob had enlisted an out-of-state company as copyist to provide us the players’ parts.

On the plus side, the clarity of these parts was quite good. The challenge was that not everything the arrangers wanted notated had a translation in this software. So I accomplished some of the proofing-edits by communicating needs back to the notation-copyist for a revised update. Other edits I decided were more efficiently and cheaply done by my handwriting onto the printed parts. But I worked fast, as Bob paid me by the hour; and we were all pleased with the final results.

Bob then had to decide: did he want to pay his quintet for an appropriate number of rehearsals so as to nail the recording in limited takes (of which they were fully capable); or did he prefer to limit rehearsals and instead pay me for a lengthy amount of time to edit the takes into publishable tracks? Budgetarily, the latter made sense, with plans that as the group’s gigs might later ensue, rehearsals would pick up the slack. So the quintet rehearsed groupings of charts for a mere half-hour each tune in advance of the three scheduled recording sessions.

And so we (meaning the five performers, the engineer, and I--but not the other writers) gathered at Longue Vue on April 25, May 15, and June 4, 1986 to record the twelve arrangements that comprise the “New Orleans Brass Quintet Plays Jazz.” The venue was superb, the recording equipment and engineer ideal, and the musicians fantastic. The only thing we had not counted on was the occasional lawnmowing, which clearly intruded on the brass and thus caused us to take a break while Bob negotiated with the landscapers for an altered timeline of lawncare.

Along with monitoring the recorded performances, my job included ensuring that we had indeed digitally captured every measure of every piece performed correctly, as of course with limited rehearsals there was ample stop-and-go. I kept an entry log that was to serve me well when I later reviewed all the tracks by myself and made a list of the digital “splices” that would have to be done at a later date in order to compile an album.

I reviewed that list with Bob and arrived at an estimated length of time that it would take for me to accomplish those edits once in work-flow with the appropriate equipment. I’d need a few days to get it done; so Bob began searching for the best editing-locale to which to take the master 3/4”-inch VHS videocassettes filled with the “zeros and ones” of digital sound and convey the correct digital edits to a U-Matic interface that would coordinate two digital tape decks carrying the out-points and in-points of each edit at my command, resulting in a “non-invasive” digitally complete tune.

He identified a locale in Texas, I recall, and flew us both there with the masters. I would produce the edits while the engineer followed my instructions and Bob observed. But on arrival, the studio told us its equipment was down and that the work could not be done. So Bob flew us back to New Orleans ahead of schedule, and he looked further for the right studio.

That turned out to be Digital by Dickinson in Bloomfield, NJ. This time Bob flew me up but stayed home; and Frank Dickinson, the studio owner, had told us in advance that he would “simply” teach me how to operate the equipment so that I could do the edits myself, with him in the next room doing his own work but available for any questions.

And he did just that. It was indeed simple--at least for anyone used to the microseconds of proper edits, SMPTE time code, a precise task-log, a keen ear, and an appetite for the long hours of studio work. And that described me to a “t.” I’d always enjoyed my times in the studio, whether performing or producing; so I was ready. I nailed the edits on schedule and flew the masters, the resulting digital album, and some audio-cassette dubs of the final back to Bob in New Orleans.

Finally Bob could hear the result of his dream to create a brass quintet that would play some intense jazz. It really was superb, and the quintet members were just as pleased as he was.

Bob began mapping out ideas for the NOBQ CD-release and future appearances perhaps as soon as in 1987, and in the Fall of ‘87 I moved to Illinois to start my full-time teaching career (though also continuing there with performing and writing). Bob and I stayed in periodic touch, but life got in his way; and the Quintet would not be launching publicly soon.

As years passed, Bob’s intended financial savings for the project had to be reallocated to the ongoing needs of life; so the project never got pressed into a CD release. Adding further frustration, during his moves from one locale to another, he could no longer locate his own audio-cassette dub so could not even hear the recorded music he’d inspired and funded.

Fast-forward decades later.... After a long period out of touch, Bob and I reconnected in early 2018; and he mentioned that he’d not heard this music in decades. As I often do when someone approaches me regarding a project I’ve been involved with at some point long ago, I said: “My copy of that cassette is about three feet from me in my archival cabinet.” I made a digital dub of it and sent it his way, to his extreme delight. And in November 2018 I made a deep dive into my archives and sent him a copy of the intended liner notes and other critical information from the recording and editing processes.

From my archival finds he then created an online repository of the audio from that cassette tape. Keep in mind that these sounds are not generated directly from the digital masters but instead from an analog dub of the digital masters. Yet the added tape-hiss and limited frequency response can’t disguise the artistry of the performers and arrangers--including Amato’s own trumpet and piccolo trumpet virtuosity.

You can enjoy the twelve tracks of “New Orleans Brass Quintet Plays Jazz” here, with more background at the various tabs at the top of that web page. Also visit Willie Singleton’s web site (created by Bob Amato).

Tracks:

·      Sweet Georgia Brown, comp. Ben Bernie and Maceo Pinkard, with lyrics by Kenneth Casey, arr. John Talarico

·      Blue Rondo à la Turk, comp. Dave Brubeck, arr. Tom Davis

·      Boobis, comp. Willie Singleton, arr. Tom Davis

·      Straight, No Chaser, comp. Thelonious Monk, arr. Antonio García

·      St. James Infirmary, traditional, arr. Antonio García

·      Royal Garden Blues, comp. Clarence Williams and Spencer Williams, arr. Todd Beaney

·      On Green Dolphin Street, comp. Bronislaw Kaper, with lyrics by Ned Washington, arr. Todd Beaney

·      A Night In Tunisia, comp. Dizzy Gillespie, arr. John Talarico

·      Nature Boy, comp. Eden Ahbez, arr. Antonio García

·      Donna Lee, comp. Charlie Parker, arr. Paul Ferguson

·      Up Jumped Spring, comp. Freddie Hubbard, arr. Tom Davis

·      Daahoud, comp. Clifford Brown, arr. Tom Davis

Below are excerpts from my 1986 intended liner notes for the album:

*           *           *

            Bob Amato founded “The New Orleans Brass Quintet” in 1985, fielding a group eager to play music in the energetic, no-holds-barred manner he had sought for many years: “We enjoy taking musical risks, both in our choice of repertoire and in the dynamic manner we perform it....”

            That freshness and variety is evident right at the start with the opening cut, Sweet Georgia Brown. Talarico’s writing easily flows from chorale to medium swing and up to a brisk stream of cascading and ascending lines, the chart providing an opportunity for each player to introduce himself briefly to us before it drives to the finish.

            The seamless effect of Davis’ Blue Rondo à la Turk arrangement poses a challenge well met by the NOBQ. The sassy trumpet solo is that of “Sweet Willie Singleton.”

            Willie offers his own composition, Boobis, a lovely ballad captured in an attractive setting by Davis that serves as a solo vehicle for Singleton both in lush, gentle moods and breathtaking, double-time “breaks.”

            Straight, No Chaser gets turned upside down and around by García's pen as the Quintet enters the realms of bebop and funk with the soli teamwork of Genevay and Tidwell, solos by Singleton and Gardner, and a powerful ensemble push led by Amato, spurred on by an exchange of "fours" and a final, five-octave "BANG"!

            Genevay’s plunger-muted trombone takes center stage in St. James Infirmary, a García arrangement that calls for the growling trumpet of Singleton and the piccolo trumpet of Amato as Bach meets the minor blues in the streets and alleys of old New Orleans.

            And the honky-tonk and stride traditions are saluted in the toe-tapping tribute by arranger Beaney when Singleton’s plunger and Amato’s harmon lay into the tongue-in-cheek version of the traditional jazz favorite Royal Garden Blues. Amato gets the first solo break, followed by a side-stepping dance from Genevay and Tidwell; then Singleton tears into the up-tempo solo spot--the grooves feel so good, even the arrangement doesn’t want to stop!

            The flip side commences with Beaney’s contemporary treatment of On Green Dolphin Street, initially spotlighting Tidwell’s tuba amid rhythmic and harmonic surprises; Amato and Gardner navigate a sea of winding, interwoven lines that are so unique to this arrangement.

            Talarico charts course for an exotic journey with A Night In Tunisia, summoning Amato for the opening cadenza, ensuing solo, and a spate of screaming trumpet work that continues right up to the piece’s sensational conclusion. (Listen for Tidwell’s powerful tuba on the bridge following Bob’s solo!)

            Gardner’s introductory horn line provides the thematic palette for all the colors that follow in García’s ethereal arrangement of the work made so famous by Nat Cole, Nature Boy. Canonic exchanges, dramatic pauses, and converging, muted lines add to the somewhat disturbing mood of the piece, a mood sustained by the NOBQ’s unified approach to pacing the performance.

            One of bebop’s most demanding “heads,” Donna Lee, gets a thorough inspection as arranger Paul Ferguson toys with each phrase in turn before proceeding to the next. Individual players contribute essential lines to the contrapuntal plot, ringing down the curtain with a blistering finale!

            The jazz waltz Up Jumped Spring is charted uniquely in dual flugelhorn fashion by Davis (with Singleton leading, often shadowed by Amato). The unmistakably delightful swing-feel detours enjoyably into royal concert hall-style flourishes before returning to the gentle waltz and an ending that arrives only at the performer’s whim.

             The album closes with a contrasting Davis version of Daahoud featuring Tidwell beneath a fabric of muted ostinato patterns. Singleton solos on the way through a powerful performance that creates tension and excitement, releasing only with the explosive, biting clash in the final moments.

            The unique relationship that stems from the successful pairing of ensemble and arranger is aptly demonstrated in the hearing of this NOBQ debut. (Digital technology captures the Quintet with a representation so accurate that even the gentle flow of air in historic Longue Vue Gardens Playhouse cannot escape detection the more quiet passages!) Writers’ inspiration and performers’ enthusiasm are intensely focused toward the common goal of expression, benefitting the listener and creator alike....

*           *           *

Reflecting back on this project, I can clearly see how Bob Amato’s phone call to me in the Fall of 1985 proved to be just the kick-starter I’d needed to get back into the flow of writing and producing after the intensity of graduate studies at Eastman. It was such a joy to collaborate with Bob, the rest of the quintet, the writers, and the engineers; and I’m delighted with the resulting recording, even if its high-definition version is unavailable.

Showing His Roots

I had the pleasure of playing 24 gigs with pianist George Shearing. The opening tune was Moten Swing, during which he’d lightly tickle the ivories until the band in the dark exploded with a musical punch at the bridge of the tune. (The musicians would place bets as to which audience member’s drink we’d see spill in reaction to the surprise.)

The first 23 shows went as planned. But on the 24th show, the lead trumpeter chipped the punch-note a bit: nothing embarrassing, but enough for George and the band to notice. Shearing responded by playing the rest of the tune not as George Shearing but as Thelonious Monk—one of his deepest influences. We were amused, shocked, enthralled, and stunned by his transformation: the precise nuance, the extreme departure from the expected, his glee in being mischievously inspired by the momentary dissonance of the trumpet.

I doubt many in the audience noticed the trumpet-squib, much less the profound depth Shearing displayed in letting his bebop roots show clearly that evening. Our lead trumpeter had surreptitiously recorded the show, as he did most closing nights. But he refused to give me a dub of that marvelous rendition of Moten Swing, as he was concerned that if it got around, the chipped note might damage his reputation.

Cattle Call

I also played some 50 shows with The Mills Brothers, an act that truly has its spot in legend from its “band without a horn” debut many decades ago: the brothers were extraordinary in their ability to mimic horns with their voices.

The book “played itself,” as we liked to say: they didn’t even travel with a musical director. Our band’s pianist handled the cut-offs for the band; everything else was in tempo. But it had to swing hard because The Mills Brothers thrived on swing.

The charts sometimes had long stretches of rests, after which the band was to hit a loud note or two, then rest carefully for a long stretch, then hit on again. So maintaining concentration was a necessity—and sometimes difficult, as the run got into show #15 or so.

The regulars in the house band had a successful system to combat taking rest-counting for granted. As the “hit” would approach, various bandmembers would strongly stomp their feet on the carpeted stage floor in some random, arrhythmic timing approaching the note. The closer to the note you could stomp your foot without throwing off the perfect timing of your own musical delivery of the note, the more revered you were by your peers.

So a couple of measures out from the “hit,” you’d hear a stomp or two from someone playing it safe, then rapidly a few more, until in the two seconds nearest the note you heard what sounded like a herd of cattle coming down the stage, all leading up to a perfect, ensemble “BOP!” It did keep us focused, if laughing under our breaths; and apparently no one off-stage could hear the cattle coming.

First Lady

What can I say about the privilege of performing over 50 shows with Ella Fitzgerald? I’ve certainly said that doing so and being paid for it was the closest I’ve ever come to stealing. It was an unbelievable thrill and education every night, heightened by the musicianship of the brilliant pianist Paul Smith, the ever-swinging bassist Keter Betts, and the incredible drummers Mickey Roker and Bobby Durham—each very kind people as well as amazing musicians.

Even circa 1980, Ella could transform her voice in any way she wished. She could sing as a woman more of her age, if it told the story of the song well. Or she could sound like a 30 year-old. Or, on “Tisket,” she could sound age six. She improvised stunningly over any tune she chose and could deliver The Great American Songbook as no other. Ella was indeed “The First Lady of Song.”

Getting Frisky

I’ve had the pleasure of performing for several Presidents, among other dignitaries. In fact, the only time I’ve ever left my horn at the site of a gig overnight was when required to do so the night in advance of a performance for a President—so that the bomb-sniffing dogs could check out the band’s gear before we formally set up the morning of the event.

In those days, getting security clearance meant receiving a few unusual phone calls at home from the Secret Service prior to the gig, answering questions about your background and providing them data. But nothing compares to getting frisked on the gig by a G-Man who’s wearing major weapons clearly visible under his well-tailored suit. At that point, I am fully cooperative!

Stuff It

In a rehearsal with a singing artist of 1940s-‘50s fame, the trombone section had a passage in cup mutes. Even though I’d long before drilled a hole in the end of my bass trombone cup so as to get more muted notes out in the low range than most, this passage defied reality. Performing it was like having a major head cold. So I asked the music director if I could ditch the cup and play the passage burying my bell in the music stand instead.

The headliner had heard my question. “Keep the mute in: it looks better!” he barked. And so I did, unpleasantly, for 24 shows. And rarely do I insert a cup mute in my bass trombone today without thinking of him.

Underscoring

Another rehearsal tale...

On one occasion I subbed for my bass trombone teacher at a New Orleans Opera orchestra rehearsal. I did my best but played a wrong note that prompted me to let out a fairly loud “UUUNNGHH”!

The wrong note had been buried in the surrounding music. But my groan, a bad habit of mine for some time, was perfectly timed to fall in the orchestra’s grand pause. As if stung by a bee, it seemed as though everyone in the orchestra stopped and looked my way.

The orchestra director didn’t speak English. He didn’t need to. His eyes told me everything I needed to know. And thus I was cured of my groaning-reflex for the foreseeable future.

My Loudest Mistake

I'm occasionally asked what the biggest musical mistake was that I'd ever made in a performance. I can't really pick one out (either because there are too many to admit or because my mind as a survival skill has successfully blocked the memory of them). So I reply with a tale of my LOUDEST mistake—of which I am absolutely sure, without any doubt whatsoever.

I had enjoyed many runs playing Broadway shows as they toured through New Orleans: "Singing in the Rain," "The Tap Dance Kid," "Annie".... And one of my favorites was "Stop the World, I Want to Get Off." It was a revival of the musical of the same name from decades earlier, starring the original male lead, who had also co-written the songs: Anthony Newley.

Now, I don't know how many Anthony Newley fans there are still out there. He had always struck me as rather odd, rather extreme on TV, when I'd see him on The Tonight Show or in a movie (say, the original "Dr. Doolittle" movie) when I was a child.

But then I got the opportunity to play bass trombone for 24 shows of his nightclub act—for which he received 24 standing ovations. During it, I quickly realized that he had seemed larger than life on television because he was a clown—in the best theatrical sense. His mannerisms were in the extreme so as to communicate best from the stage to his audience; and TV simply didn't capture him well (though movies did better). He could transform a scene for his club audience with a mere gesture, and they appreciated him greatly.

As did I. And I had come upon a movie that he'd done, the original "Sweet November" (with the ever-quirky Sandy Dennis) that seemed a perfect match for him and had become one of my most favorite movies.

So when the call came to play "Stop the World," I was delighted. It was a several-week run, and I was again on bass trombone, with lots of juicy parts to play. And the female lead in the show had previously been in a recurring role as a Klingon on "Star Trek: The Next Generation"; so my delight was increased again!

One particularly dramatic bass-bone part came during a series of fermatas (held-out notes) under some especially dramatic stage dialogue. There were three successive moments where an actor on stage would call out a phrase. The timpani would hit a drum roll after each of the three phrases. I was to sit quietly for the first two timpani rolls but enter with a very loud, sustained, low "pedal" bass trombone note simultaneous with the third timpani roll. The orchestra director wanted me to "take paint off the wall" with the edge and volume of my note; and it was my pleasure to do so. I performed it meticulously, show after show, in exactly the right place.

Except for this one time.

This one time, for some lapse of focus, I entered not on the third drum roll but on the second one—and as always, VERY LOUDLY! And that was a problem, since the actor on stage needed me to be quiet a millesecond later so that he could announce to the audience the third phrase that I had been supposed to wait for, the one that was supposed to be my cue to enter.

My just aborting my loud and low note—suddenly dropping out—was not an option in my mind. It would sound to everyone in the theatre like the loudest, most awkward, most thoughtless error ever committed from an orchestra pit on Planet Earth (of which I was already fairly sure was the case). No, I needed to cover my tracks better than that.

So in a split-second, I decided to change the note from the usual sustained-loud-sonic-blast to a sforzando piano—a note that starts loud and accented but immediately drops to a sustained whisper. Mind you, no one else in the pit was playing at this moment but me (because no one was supposed to be playing at all!)

I held this long note quietly as the actor (by then no doubt in shock) uttered his third and final line, after which I gave my note the most massive CRESCENDO I could deliver, swelling with a musical rage into the moment when the percussionist hit his third, properly timed timpani roll, during which I heaved a breath and attacked the low note again loudly as the composer had originally planned.

I'm not sure of the details following that moment. I was pleased at my "Plan B" but certainly irritated about stepping into such a big sonic hole. I do know that not one orchestra member—not even the orchestra director—ever said a word to me about it. My guess was that they'd figured I'd done the best I could under the circumstances after having made the loudest musical error of my life!

Elephants I-VI

During one run that I played with Ringling Brothers' and Barnum and Bailey's Circus, the opening sequence of music was a suite of music titled Elephants I-VI. It was continuous playing for twenty minutes at full speed and often full volume. The lead trombonist sat in the middle seat, between the second trombonist on his right and me, the bass trombonist, on his left.

During those twenty minutes the lead trombonist, who had memorized the page-turn locales of his section-mates, would turn our pages for us as we played continuously. We only paused for the split-second it occasionally took to empty our water keys. In all my career, that’s the only gig I’ve ever played in which the music was so continuous that I didn’t even have time to turn my own pages for the first twenty minutes.

At the conclusion of that suite, a cue of pre-recorded music would take over for about five minutes, during which the band members could doff their tux jackets and regain their equilibrium. Though we were in the air-conditioned Superdome in New Orleans, by that point my glasses were fogged up; and all our shirts were dripping wet. But I had certainly learned how to breathe efficiently!

On another run with the circus I played tenor trombone, and that is where I learned the necessity of alternate positions. Playing a “gallop” in basic trombone slide-positions is pointless!

Driving Music

I was playing with Louie Bellson’s big band for a rehearsal and performance for a festival and had arrived at the site in plenty of time. But apparently the music books for the band, shipped by mail from the previous town, had not arrived at all.

So Louie, his contractor, and I hit the road in my car for an hour’s drive each way to Northern Illinois University, where I was teaching full-time. Louie had donated a good number of his charts to us at NIU over the years; so it made sense to go there, pick out some music, and drive back to the festival.

By the time we returned, rehearsal time was over; so the band sight-read the charts, played others from memory, and offered the festival crowd a great performance.

The next day I got a call from Louie: despite the festival-site’s manager’s firm protests the previous day that the music had never arrived, Louie found the entire shipment after the gig right there at the festival, where it had been the entire day of our performance.

But the band had swung hard, and Louie and I had enjoyed a nice drive together.

Short Set

Often when I am contracted to adjudicate and/or workshop a jazz festival that includes young and inexperienced jazz bands, the host of the festival will caution me to be sure to be kind and supportive to these more fragile ensembles—as some clinicians are occasionally nasty to them. “No problem,” I say. “I’m happy to assist them in any way I can. They’ll have a great time; I guarantee it.” But if the host doesn’t believe me, I’ll often share this story.

Jim Warrick founded a superb jazz festival at New Trier High School in Winnetka, Illinois. It’s entirely for second jazz bands or bands from small schools: no flagship ensembles. And it’s non-competitive. There are a number of rooms running simultaneously, and I’ve adjudicated there many times. He knew that he could place me in the concert hall with the most experienced groups or in the cafeteria with the least experienced: I’m happy to work with anyone who wants to learn something about jazz.

So one day Jim calls me and asks me if I’d be willing to phone a particular director who’s very nervous about bringing his band to Jim’s festival. Could I calm the director’s nerves in advance? No problem: I dial up the director.

He’s going on at some length about how little time his band has to rehearse, and that they’ve been together for only a month, and that they barely have a jazz music library. And I reassure him: “I’m there for you and your students. No matter what your group can and can’t play, we’ll learn and have a great time.” And he agrees to bring his band to the festival.

On festival day, all’s rolling well; and his band is next up. As the students take their seats, I do my usual ritual of pre-taping into the cassette recorder some welcoming greetings: “Hi, I’m Antonio García from so-and-so university; and I’m looking forward to hearing you and working with you today...” And I hear the band warming up with a blues scale.... “...if I can be of further assistance after this workshop, please do not hesitate to call me at the following number....” And I place the cassette recorder down and look up.

And I realize that everyone is looking at me: the band, the parents, the other attendees in the audience. Everyone is looking at me. The room is silent. The band and its director are unmoving. And then it hits me.

That was their performance. The blues scale. One time, up and then down. It didn’t last as long as my opening remarks on the recorder! And they were now ready for my workshop with them.

I blinked, recovered my balance, and went up to work with them. And we had a great time. They probably never knew I had been caught off-guard by the shortest jazz band performance I had ever heard in my life.

So when I say—“No matter what your group can and can’t play, we’ll learn and have a great time’—that’s exactly what I mean.

No Peeking

Phil Collins doesn’t read music. A TV special once followed his process of learning tunes for the big band—normally a very written-out experience. He’d hire others to play the charts, record a scratch track, listen, memorize, experiment, and grow. Then he’d bring in his own rhythm players and play the music with them, jotting a few comments on paper. And then he’d bring the big band in.

By the time the entire band rehearsed with him in Switzerland in 1998, he was playing the entire two-hour set of music off of a few pages of scratch paper. And that feat was not new for him: he’d played longer intricate sets with no notation when he was with Genesis or his pop band. But remembering all the right big-band setups and kicks is a memory task worthy of his big-band drumming idol, Buddy Rich.

The lead trumpeter in the band, Dan Fornero, is a terrific player and another nice guy as well. During the entire two-continent tour, I never saw him look at the music while playing. I’m not saying he didn’t ever look—but I definitely never spotted him doing it. Lead trumpet and drums are arguably the two most precarious chairs in a big band, and this set of music was very challenging. I never heard either of them step in any “holes.” As a matter of fact. I recall making a mental note about six days into our rehearsals that summer” “Finally heard Dan chip a note....” I’m not sure I heard another one after that.

For some reminiscences about the tour of the Phil Collins Big Band, visit the web pages I've set up for you to explore!

A Tale of Impact

One of the delights of being a performer, writer, author, and educator is hearing about the positive impact made on someone by your career of mentoring others. Because I’ve performed widely, attended numerous conferences, travelled to many schools, and given many lessons, I’m frequently in position to receive an unexpected, uplifting story from someone I encounter; and for that I am always grateful.

During a 2024 trip to Richmond from our home in New Orleans, the topic arose at such an unanticipated moment, however, that I thought I would share it with you here. My wife Mary and I wanted to visit briefly with our former neighbors, Ryan and Kate and their daughter Caroline. So we dropped in on Caroline’s post-soccer brunch to greet them. A lot of seven-year-olds were scurrying about; and their moms and dads were enjoying a relaxing, casual meal as we arrived.

Kate introduced us to one of the other moms, who said she was going to be attending a conference in New Orleans soon and asked if we had any recommendations for things to do and see. I offered to e-mail her a list that Mary and I keep updated for friends who might come to NOLA, and the mom said that would be great.

So I gave her my card; and she paused, then gasped, “OH MY GOD!” I wasn’t sure what was going on, especially when some tears formed in her eyes. She asked me: “About twenty years ago, did you come to Robinson Middle and Secondary Schools in Northern Virginia and teach and perform, playing trombone and scat-singing?” I assured her that I did. “Oh, my God! I was a middle school clarinetist, and your visit was so amazing that I took up the tenor saxophone to play in jazz band in high school the next four years and had such a great experience. You’re why our kids get lots of exposure to music. I tell my husband all the time about you.” Looking down the table, she called out: “Honey! You know how I’ve told you so often about the jazz musician who came to my middle school and inspired me? This is the guy! THIS IS THE GUY! Oh, I’m so sorry I’m crying.” I went over and met the husband as well.

Yes, in March of 2005 I had shared a two-day residency at Robinson Middle and Secondary Schools, joined also by Lake Braddock Secondary School. It was a wonderful opportunity for me to collaborate with them on their jazz explorations and to encourage their growth. After a day of workshops and rehearsals, I performed on trombone and vocals with both ensembles; and I also visited Oakton High School on the same trip.

I certainly never expected to hear, nineteen and a half years later, from a former middle-schooler who remembers that time so clearly, was inspired to pursue jazz in high school, and is so motivated to have her kids explore music. It was a wonderful moment to share.

But honestly, as far as an educator’s daily impact occurs, we have a word for such days: “Monday.” Or any other day. That’s why education is the greatest job in the world. Mary runs into the same reaction from a number of her alums. Thanks to the many former students who ensure that we feel it!

Non-Music Gigs

Most musicians who make a living in music diversify in music: they learn and apply skills towards a variety of career-angles within the music profession. The alternative is to diversify outside of music: the often-dreaded non-music "day job." I remember in high school I once took a job in a phone-bank calling citizens to ask them to donate to the very worthy charity I was phoning for. I was horrible at it and quit after a week. (I'm a much better fundraiser today!)

But for my initial two years following graduate school at Eastman, I needed to make money to repay college debt while rebuilding my freelance-performance business and applying for full-time university jobs. So I worked at an insurance/investment firm in my native New Orleans as a "desk jockey," answering phones and filing documents. But the gig had several great things going for it:

• Air conditioning (New Orleans!)

• No heavy lifting (as I surely gave up a promising career as a linebacker to play music).

• 8 a.m.-Noon hours (leaving all else free for music gigging, practicing, writing, and teaching).

• Obtaining health and car insurance at discount rates (a big deal even then).

Once I interviewed, I learned more:

• The boss was a big band fan and had more records than I did. He was thrilled that I'd be able to tell him gig-stories the day after a good gig in town. And I was backing up a lot of well-known artists passing through.

• Flex time: the GOLD in any non-music job. If I had a morning rehearsal for a two-week Broadway show run in town, I could simply make up the time another day.

• Creativity: Once they learned how creative I was, the job grew to be far more than filing and phone; and by the time I left two years later, I'd worked a couple of months extra time in flex-hours just because it mutually suited us towards our goals. And that included my running the logistics of hosting a national financial-planning conference in New Orleans, for which I wrote a planning-manual that became my first published book! Sold for $250 a pop (proceeds to the firm) to other financial planners! And creativity also included my drawing out the floor plans for the firm's new office space in a fresh Galleria complex, because the boss said I knew what he wanted. The blueprints then matched my drawings.

• When financial planners in the area wanted music for their social/business events, guess who got asked to perform with his musicians and was paid well for it?

• Oh, and I learned a bit about insurance and investments--no small thing for a musician.

By the time I left there in '87, I'd paid off all my college debt PLUS made good friends of the heads of the firm. When my parents died a decade later, they were at the funeral. When my wife and I celebrated our marriage in NOLA, they came to the reception.

Best damn non-music gig I ever had.

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