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Great Encounters
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Duke Ellington at Newport, 1956
As told by Newport Jazz Festival founder George Wein
Duke Ellington and George Wein, with Errol Garner, backstage at
Newport
Excerpted from
Myself Among Others: A Life in Music
by
George Wein
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Listen to Duke Ellington's orchestra play
Diminuendo in Blue and Crescendo in Blue  , with Paul Gonsalves on saxophone
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Nineteen fifty-six was the Newport debut of the Duke Ellington Orchestra.
I had struck an agreement with Irving Townsend, Columbia Records's
A&R man, earlier in the year. It would be good publicity to have some
recordings from Newport. Our arrangement seemed like a good deal: for each
artist recorded, the record company was to pay us an amount equal to that
artist's performance fee. As it turned out, it was a terrible deal, because
the record company got exclusive rights and all of the royalties.
Columbia recorded the equivalent of four LPs during the 1956 festival: Louis
Armstrong & Eddie Condon at Newport (CL 931); Dave Brubeck &
J. J. Johnson-Kai Winding at Newport (CL 932); Duke Ellington &
The Buck Clayton All-Stars at Newport, two vols. (CL 933); and Ellington
at Newport (CL 934).
History, aided by this last LP, has rendered Newport '56 practically synonymous
with Ellington. Like Miles Davis before him, Duke came to the festival in
the midst of a discouraging critical and commercial slump. The band had not
been faring well in recent years. Duke didn't even have a record deal at
the time; he and Irving Townsend casually discussed the terms of a contract
in a tent backstage. It was this festival appearance that launched the next
highly successful phase of Ellington's career. Duke's victory, however, was
uncalculated. He had not, as some reports have it, deliberately chosen Newport
as the platform for his comeback.
On the opening night of the festival, Thursday, after we had changed out
of our sopping clothes, everyone joined the Lorillards for a kickoff party
at Quartrel. Louis and Elaine once again served the traditional Newport dinner
party fare: scrambled eggs and champagne. At about two o'clock in the morning,
there was a phone call for me. It was Duke. He asked me how things were going
at the festival.
"Everything's fine," I replied. "What are you planning for your show on
Saturday?"
"Oh, nothing special," he said casually. "A medley, and a couple of other
things."
"Edward," I admonished gravely, "here I am, working my fingers to the bone
to perpetuate the genius that is Ellington-and I'm not getting any cooperation
from you whatsoever. You'd better come in here swinging."
Duke was comfortable enough with me to endure this sort of reprimand. I suspect
that he considered Newport as just another gig, and he was prepared to treat
it that way. But I was keenly aware of the need for new material and a strong
showing by the band. Duke assumed that people wanted to hear "Mood Indigo"
and "Sophisticated Lady" -- hence their place in the medley. And, while a
large portion of any audience probably would be happy with such a performance,
an important minority wanted to hear new material. This minority included
Duke's most loyal fans. It also included all of the critics who were poised
to tear up any artist who appeared to be performing by rote. It would be
disastrous if Duke and his men took the Newport stage and sleepwalked their
way through the old familiar book.
I had commissioned or requested new works from a number of groups that year.
The Charles Mingus Sextet had debuted two songs -- "Tonight at Noon" and
"Tourist in Manhattan" -- on Thursday night. J.J. Johnson had composed a
piece that would premiere on Friday night as "PT." Teddy Charles was to play
four new compositions on Saturday afternoon. Duke had promised something
as well. He and Billy Strayhorn delivered with a three-part suite so hastily
assembled that, as Duke announced: "We haven't even had time to type it yet."
The final concert of the 1956 festival began and ended with Ellington. The
band took the stage promptly at 8:30, christening the affair with "The
Star-Spangled Banner" before moving on to old favorites "Black and Tan Fantasy"
and "Tea for Two." The set was then cut short; the band would not again take
the stage until the last set. I had planned the evening in this fashion;
I would never have opened a show with Ellington, unless it was a brief
introduction. The first few songs were to be a taste of things to come, and
the band was to come back to close the evening. This was the way I had programmed
the show a few nights earlier, with Count Basie. And so the Ellington band
whetted the crowd's appetite, then surrendered the stage to the Bud Shank
Quartet, the Jo Jones Trio, Jimmy Giuffre, Anita O'Day, the Friedrich Gulda
Septet, and the Chico Hamilton band.
For more than forty years, the only public document of the Ellington set
was Columbia Records's Ellington at Newport (CL 934) -- Duke's all-time
best-selling album. And for all that time, overdubbed crowd noise and spliced-in
Newport ambience masked the fact that over half of the album was recorded
in the studio on July 9, the Monday after the festival. This included the
entirety of "The Newport Suite."
Fortunately, the LP did include the now legendary live performance of Ellington
at Newport in 1956: a medley of "Diminuendo in Blue" and "Crescendo in Blue,"
charts #107 and #108 in the Ellington book. More specifically, the climax
was a twenty-seven chorus tenor solo interlude by Paul Gonsalves, linking
the two tunes. This was the performance that put the Ellington band back
on the map.
Most accounts have it that "Diminuendo" was a surprise call by Duke. One
story has Duke assembling the band backstage and suggesting the number, and
the band looking around at each other in bewilderment. Then Paul Gonsalves
asks, "That's the one where I blow?" Duke answers, "Yes, and don't stop until
I tell you." If this scene is to be believed, we might also consider Gonsalves's
recollection, as reported by Phil Schaap, that he first played the "Diminuendo"
interlude to an empty house at Birdland in 1951. Paul claimed that Duke promised
to feature him on the tune again sometime, in front of a much larger crowd.
Whatever the case, the consensus has it that "Diminuendo and Crescendo in
Blue" was a surprise to the band as well as the fans. It was to be the
show-closer. Duke likely placed it in that spot in lieu of the Newport Suite,
which had been recorded the day before in New York, but was still rough around
the edges. I like to think that the decision could have been a direct response
to my earlier admonition.
Duke kicked off the tune with three confident piano choruses. I was standing
on the side of the stage during the performance, along with many of the musicians
who wanted a better view. Jo Jones was sitting back there, egging Sam Woodyard
on. The band barreled through the arrangement and the first movement reached
its climax. Then Gonsalves took center stage.
Paul Gonsalves had been with Duke's band since autumn of 1950. He had stepped
into the formidable shadow of his hero -- Ellington's last great tenor, Ben
Webster. Paul was in fact a devotee of Webster. But he had paid his own dues
as well, working with Basie and Gillespie in the 1940s. He was a moving ballad
player. In fact, it was for this talent that Paul was known -- before his
Newport appearance associated him with hard-blowing blues.
His ballad playing reflected a bit of his personality: He was a diffident
person, quite the introvert. He was also something of a lost soul. It was
possibly only within the structured, organic setting of Ellington's band
that Paul could achieve greatness.
At the proper moment, Gonsalves dug in with his tenor and started blowing.
Somewhere around the seventh chorus, it happened. A young blonde woman in
a stylish black dress sprung up out of her box seat and began to dance. She
had caught the spirit, and everyone took notice -- Duke included. In a few
moments, that exuberant feeling had spread throughout the crowd. People surged
forward, leaving their seats and jitterbugging wildly in the aisles. Hundreds
of them got up and stood on their chairs; others pressed forward toward the
stage. Sam Woodyard and Jimmy Woode kept driving the beat mercilessly. The
power of that beat, and the ferocity of Paul's solo, is what stirred the
crowd to those heights. Duke himself was totally caught up in the moment.
The audience was swelling up like a dangerous high tide.
By the time Cat Anderson hit the final blast of "Crescendo," the sea of bobbing
heads had whipped itself into a squall. The tune ended and the applause and
cheering was immense -- stronger, louder, and more massive than anything
ever heard at a jazz concert before. I was concerned with the crowd, as was
the festival security. Although several thousand fans had left the grounds
earlier in the evening, there were still 7,000 people screaming for more
music. Well aware of the situation, Duke wisely followed the powerhouse blues
with something more precious and low-key.
"I'm sure if you've heard of the saxophone," he declared, "you've heard of
Johnny Hodges." Hodges, who had rejoined the band in the fall of '55, was
still one of Duke's most beloved sidemen. Hodges played "I Got It Bad and
That Ain't Good," and the crowd relaxed. Then the band did "Jeep's Blues,"
once again with Hodges.
Seeing an opportunity to cut things short, I waved to Duke to stop the show
and to get off the stage. But to my chagrin, he grabbed the microphone and
reassured the crowd: "Oh, we've got a lot more, we've got a lot more, we've
got a lot more." They ate it up. He called "Tulip or Turnip," a vocal feature
for Ray Nance. Once Nance got on, there was no going back.
The years had wiped out my memory of the following sequence of events. The
reissued concert tapes bring it all back. As "Tulip or Turnip" drew to a
close, I ran out and seized the microphone.
"Duke Ellington, Ladies and Gentlemen! Duke Ellington!" The crowd was in
a state of uproar. The band was exultant, willing to play all night. Listening
to the recording, you can hear me telling Duke: "That's it!" End of story!
You can also hear Duke pleading with me: "One more. We can do one more."
"Nope!"
"One more, George. They want one more."
"No, Duke!"
The crowd was demanding more Ellington. Angry boos mixed with cheering. I
was without question the most unpopular person around at that moment. They
wanted another song.
"No! No! I mean it now, Duke."
His eyes were looking blankly in my direction, as if through me. I could
tell he was trying to think of the next tune.
"Let me tell them good night," he pleaded. "Can I tell them good night. .
. "
"No more music, Duke. . . "
But I let him approach the microphone for a final adieu, one last "We love
you madly" for the masses. They quieted as Duke stepped up and began to speak.
"Thank you very much, Ladies and Gentlemen." The roar began again. Duke continued
over the din. "We have a very heavy request -- for Sam Woodyard! And "Skin
Deep"!
Heedless of my fruitless commands, Duke had gone right ahead -- calling a
drum feature! I shouted again, in vain. It was out of control, out of my
hands. Woodyard drilled a barrage of syncopated eighth-notes and rolls. The
horns came in again, swinging. It's much easier for me to enjoy this now
than it was then. My heart was beating in my chest, keeping time with Woodyard's
double bass drums. When would it end? Well, after "Skin Deep," the band slipped
into something more comfortable: "Mood Indigo." And, over the dulcet sweep
of his saxophone section, Duke spoke the final words of Newport '56: "Ladies
and Gentlemen, we certainly want to thank you for the way you've inspired
us this evening.
You're very beautiful, very sweet, and we do love you madly. As we say good
night, we want to give you our best wishes, and hope we have this pleasure
again next year. Thank you very much."
What prompted Duke to play as much as he did that evening? It was not merely
the allure of playing to his most responsive audience -- although there's
no doubt that this was a major factor. Duke's marathon performance was a
masterful exhibition, not only of musicianship but also of his awareness
of the power of music. Had the band left the stage after "Diminuendo and
Crescendo," or even after "Jeep's Blues," it would have been wrong. The track
after "Tulip or Turnip," which contains my argument with Duke, has been listed
in the reissued CD as "Riot Prevention." This is a rather colorful exaggeration;
jazz fans do not riot. Nevertheless, this was a crowd to be reckoned with,
appeased. And so Duke Ellington gave them what they wanted. He gave them
more than they could ever hope to absorb. "Skin Deep" was the final of several
climaxes that evening, and he knew that eventually things would cool down.
Duke taught me a lesson that night, one of many I would learn by his example.
This particular lesson would come in handy on several occasions in the
unforeseeable future.
It was an historic occasion; it was perhaps one of the first musical "happenings"
of its kind. That sort of audience response would become more common in the
soon-to-come rock-and-roll era; they have happenings like that all the time.
But no one had ever witnessed anything like it in 1956, and no one could
have predicted or expected it. It was purely a result of the power of that
timeless, swinging music. In retrospect, the length of Gonsalves's tenor
solo and its commercial appeal might have had a future influence on the
willingness of producers to record lengthy solos by such giants as Sonny
Rollins and John Coltrane.
I can't remember what I said to Ellington after the performance. I do recall
that he was in a state of euphoria. He had just had the greatest performance
of his life, and he probably suspected as well as anyone the impact it would
have on his career. Columbia Records made a major record out of Ellington
at Newport. And although the album was in large part a studio fabrication,
the piece "Diminuendo and Crescendo in Blue" was the genuine article. It
would have been futile to attempt to recapture that once-in-a-lifetime
performance.
The success of the album was due to a simple fact: Duke at Newport was much
more than the music. It stood for everything that jazz had been and could
be. It was the story of Duke Ellington and the story of Paul Gonsalves. It
was the story of the blues, majestic and low-down and utterly real. Duke's
image soon graced the cover of Time magazine. Like Miles Davis the
year before, Ellington had not only ended a long dry spell; he had used the
stage at Newport to skyrocket to new heights. The slump was over.
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Myself Among Others: A Life in Music
by
George Wein
Excerpt from Myself Among Others: A Life in Music, by George Wein. Copyright © 2003 by George Wein. Used by permission of Da Capo Press.
CAUTION: Users are warned that this work is protected under copyright laws and downloading is strictly prohibited. The right to reproduce or transfer the work via any medium must be secured with Da Capo Press.
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