Levy Tales of a Road Dog

The Lowdown Along the Blues Highway
1. Auflage 2013
ISBN: 978-1-62675-270-2
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 220 Seiten

'Tales of a Road Dog - The Lowdown Along the Blues Highway' is a humorous, historical and compelling eye witness account of Ron Levy's musical journey of 40 plus years among the greatest legends in the Blues/Jazz/Soul worlds. It is an anthology of countless inside, behind the scene stories about those legendary greats, the 'tales' you'll never find anywhere else. Also included, is a download link to his newest critically acclaimed album 'Funky Fiesta!' Ron Levy has been a participant and contributor to an enormous body of music, from his earliest sideman work with Albert & B.B. King, Roomful of Blues, and as a solo artist, producer & record label owner. Levy is also one of the very few artists who made the transition from Blues to Soul-Jazz music and recorded with the likes of Freddie Hubbard, Melvin Sparks, David T. Walker, Idris Muhammad and other Soul-Jazz originators/inventors. All of these historical facts makes 'Tales Of A Road Dog' a must read for anyone who has followed innovative American roots music over the last five decades.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Levy, Ron

Leseproben

CHAPTER 1 - In the Beginning

Although I hardly realized it at the time, Boston, Massachusetts, in the middle 1960's was an incredible place to grow up; I was routinely exposed to some of the greatest musicians in the world! My friends and I were able to satisfy our hunger for music at every turn. On Sunday afternoons, after the NY Giants game on TV, for a mere $5 we would go downtown on the MTA's Greenline trolley car from Brookline for 25 cents each way. We'd then proceed to Signor Pizza to grab a slice and a Coke for $1. Next to Signor Pizza, Billy "Wilson" Jacobs -- a classmate and aspiring drummer -- and I would saunter downstairs to The Jazz Workshop's Sunday matinee. We'd sit as close as possible to the bandstand, order the required minimum order of a Coke, shyly admire the beautiful waitresses and soak up the likes of Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers, Lee Morgan, George Benson and Lonnie Smith, Horace Silver's Quintet, The John Coltrane Quartet with McCoy Tyner & Elvin Jones, Wes Montgomery, Les McCann, Jimmy Smith, Kenny Burrell, Lou Rawls, Miles Davis, Herbie Hancock, Buddy Rich's Big Band, Brother Jack McDuff, Dizzy Gillespie, Sonny Rollins and many others.

I remember sitting right in front of Coltrane one time and leaving there dizzy after a solo of his which lasted a good 45 minutes, exploring every possible conceivable and inconceivable rhythmic and harmonic possibility yet to be known to the mathematics of music. The blur of Wes Montgomery's thumb and that huge serene smile of his all while playing 200-mph and laughing most of the way, soundly resonates in my mind still. Art Blakey's drum solos sounded like ten drummers at once. Halfway through, he'd jump up from his drum set and start playing on the tables, the walls, the pipes hanging down from the ceiling, people's drink glasses, beer bottles, the chairs, the legs of chairs making a huge circle around the club and finally returning to his throne and producing sudden earthquakes of poly-rhythms, thunderstorms of meters and lightning-effect sizzling crash cymbals. Jimmy Smith would grunt ungodly noises while his greased, electric shockwaves of fast riffs and pulsing bass stirred every cell inside, cajoling that 400-pound B-3 beast into total submission. We never left the same as we came in.

Across the Charles River in Cambridge, next to the Harvard Co-op in Harvard Square, was another downstairs club called Club 47, a coffee house. Its seating capacity was maybe 50-60 when packed. This was during the so-called Folk Era, and Club 47 showcased all the great folk artists, but we went there for the Blues. We saw and got to hangout and meet all the greats from Chicago's tough South and West sides, all in a basement room the size of a large den. I think the cover charge was a few dollars, maybe $5 or $10 if it was a very popular act. We soon would meet and befriend the musicians and often get on their guest lists. Because it was a coffee house (no alcohol), as teenagers we could go there any night of the week, and many times we'd go every night when our favorites played. Who were our favorites in 1965-69? Buddy Guy, Howlin' Wolf, Muddy Waters, Otis Spann, Paul Butterfield (w/Mike Bloomfield) Band, Junior Wells, Sunnyland Slim, Hubert Sumlin, Freddie King, Earl Hooker, James Cotton, Magic Sam, Otis Rush, The Chambers Brothers, and Luther "Georgia Boy Snake" Johnson, to name a few. My best buddy at the time was Peter Malick a.k.a. Buddy Shea, a very talented guitar player. He and I made friends with Otis, Hubert & Luther, as well as many others. These friendships lasted for years and years and were truly close friendships where we all cared and loved each other as teachers and students often can, and were crushed when any of them took ill or passed away years later. We used to skip school or leave early and run errands for them during the day. They were all so nice to us and we all shared something very special.

At the same time back in Boston on Berkeley Street there was a new phenomenon developing: 'hippie houses'! We had the Boston Tea Party, while in San Francisco it was The Fillmore. We used to see Jeff Beck & Rod Stewart, B.B. King, Raven (an amazing group that never 'made it'), and many of the famous and not-so-famous bands of the day. Interestingly enough, the shows back then mixed many seemingly disparate musical genres together: Rock, Pop, R&B and Jazz. I remember The Quicksilver Messenger Service and Sun Ra opened for B.B. King once. I saw the Beach Boys on a show with Otis Redding! There's a Facebook page called Remember the Boston Tea Party. I contend that if you do, you didn't do it right.

The first 'real' concert I attended was Little Anthony and the Imperials of "Goin' Out of My Head" fame at a movie theater in Waltham in 1964. I was 13. Another neighbor and buddy of mine, Paul Snyder, was very influential in getting me interested in music. He played guitar and was pretty good. His parents had season tickets to a "theater in the round" in Framingham, where acts like Barbra Streisand, Steve & Edie, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., Frank Sinatra, Joey Bishop, Tom Jones, Engelbert Humperdinck and the like mostly performed. One Saturday night Ray Charles was appearing, and as it was considered too rock 'n' roll for them, Mr. & Mrs. Snyder gave the tickets to us boys and my dad schlepped us out there to see the show. I had no idea what I was in for. Ray's orchestra included the incredible Raelets, David 'Fathead' Newman on tenor sax, Billy Preston on organ, LeRoy 'Hawg' Cooper on baritone sax, Hank Crawford on alto and at the very top tier of his renowned genius. "Georgia" and "Hit the Road Jack" were Ray's hit records at the time. "What'd I Say" in person was a holy and sanctified revelation. I was stunned.

It changed my life! I was hooked on those sounds and impassioned feelings of what soon became known as soul music. I began playing piano in earnest the very next day after seeing Ray Charles. I took the radio from the kitchen, tuned it to WILD, our local black station, placed it on our parlor piano and pecked away, one finger at a time, adding fingers & chords as I grew more confident after hearing the songs repeated a few times. I began to notice that many of the British Invasion-type groups covered samples of these R&B songs I was beginning to discover, which led me to search out the original versions as much as I could and found I liked them much better. I figured if it worked for them, it'd work well for me, too.

Two wonderful people who influenced and encouraged me were employed by my parents. We had a 'colored' lady named Cora who lived with us and looked after me and my brother and who also was an amazing cook. For some reason, we'd always mind her and my Auntie Mimi better than anyone else. Neither one ever had to raise their voices. Whenever they lowered it, however, we knew they meant business. Cora would often smile her charming gold-toothed shiny smile while I was trying to 'pick out' tunes from the radio on our parlor piano. "That's good, Rown, maybe try to tickle those notes up high sometimes." I would and she'd exclaim, "Yeh, that's it! You're gonna be good someday, boy, just you wait and see. I'm gonna leave you be, let you learn some more, but I'll be listening. You listen to what they be playin', too." Cora loved Elmore James. "That man's guitar makes me just shiver in delight, but you still need that 'piana' to drive that beat!"

The sage-like Willie Douglas was from North Carolina. We worked side by side in the paint shop of American Electroplating Company, my family's business. He loved Jimmy Reed, Bobby Bland, Aretha Franklin and, of course, B.B. King, as well as the new music called Soul. Willie would point out the cool parts and clever lyrics to whatever tunes we were listening to. He wasn't a musician by any means, but he knew what was good and taught me well. While masking and cleaning pieces to prepare them for the spray booth manned by Sy, the Swede, Willie and I had the radio blasting. The two of them made quite the black and white comedy team. We had fun but worked hard and produced our quotas most of the time. Carefree Sy, a Floridian, would say, "I don't give a f*ck, but you two will when Ron's Uncle Phil and his daddy come in here seeing you two slacking off. Hurry up, dammit, and no f*ck ups!" Willie would tell Sy, "Keep breathing in those fumes, big man. You've still got a ways to go before cocktail hour." Another part of the Sy and Willie routine would start with Sy yelling at us, "Turn down that damn 'nigger' music and quit yapping. Get to work! Put on some good hillbilly music." Willie would coolly fire back, "I would, but that's impossible." Sy would then proceed to mimic one of the black singers, getting all the words wrong and way over-dramatic, not so much in tune, either: "I got a sweet little angel, she be knowin' how to spread her thighs." Followed quickly by some Grand Old Opry: "Oh my darlin', Oh my darlin', Oh my darlin' what's-her-name." We'd all laugh while trying to meet our endless quotas.

Sy had a tattoo on his large bicep with the name Rose with a corresponding flower to match. I'd say to Sy, "I thought your wife's name was Donna." He'd say, "It is, rose is my favorite flower." Willie told me about a time he was enjoying the company of a young gal in the back of his '47 Plymouth. His wife at the time was...