| Part 2
Percy Heath could play the hell out of that big contrabass.
Played it for more than half a century. With Bird and Miles and Diz and 'Trane and Brownie and the venerable Modern Jazz Quartet and on and on. And if you're reading this you know that already, probably. He played in dumps; he played R&B. Played for next to nothing. But he also played in tuxedos with his great friends John Lewis, Milt Jackson and Connie Kay in stunning concert halls all over the world. And held down the bottom with his brothers Tootie and Jimmy in the fun and classy band that bore their Heath Brothers name.
I didn't know him well, but I bet none of the above circumstances ever changed him. Percy Heath will be missed for his impeccable beat and his big, warm sound. But he'll be missed because he was as warm in soul and spirit as the tone the man summoned from the wood he caressed and the strings he thumped on stage. Big hearted and generous and gentle. And genuine. I can see him on stage, eyes closed, big grin. Doin' it! I can hear that solo on "Bags Groove" from The Modern Jazz Quartet: The Last Concert
I met Percy Heath at length on a cold afternoon in January 2004 at New York City's Blue Note nightclub, a few hours before the Heath Brothers were to take the stage, sharing a bill with the great Hank Jones and his trio. We spoke about music and his life as part of my story assignment. We spoke on the phone a couple times. That's all. It was enough to see what a gentleman he was. He might like to talk about fishing near his Long Island home as much as Mingus or Monk or his idols Oscar Pettiford and Ray Brown. Talk he could. A first-rate story teller, Ol' Perce (as he sometimes referred to himself) was, indeed. His first album as a leader had just come out after all these years and Percy was happy with it, but took it all in stride.
He even wrote a lyric to the song, but there was no vocal on the record. "You got a wife that sings, man?" he said with a slick grin and an exaggerated quizzical look. Informed that was not the case, but that my sister Maureen could sing, he retorted with laughter, "well, we'll get her to do it. Knock Norah Jones right off the charts!" Later, he gave me a copy of the lead sheet and words, which I still treasure. But not without more ribbing, suggesting I print the lyric in the article, " ...maybe Norah [Jones] or somebody will say, 'Oh! And record it. [laughter]. Get ol' Perce a bigger boat!"
The conversation was speckled with stories and asides from a man who's seen it all and still had fun looking back at it. Mimicking the gravely voice of Miles Davis or the slick and abrupt cadence that Mingus could use, Percy was exact about his remembrances, at the age of nearly 80, and as grounded as his Italian bass. He considered himself lucky to be where he was, despite hardships, having no ax to grind against anyone. "Pop, he never taught us to hate anybody," he said fondly of his father, whom he obviously cherished.
It was a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon and I had to beg off an invitation to dinner with himthat's how he wasfor a prior commitment. We exchanged a few laughs later that night. Genuine and warm. Eyes sparkling. Having a taste. There are people a lot more qualified to tell Percy stories. So let the rest be his story.
A great deal of our conversation that day never made print, as often happens. But what follows is most of it, with some editing. Percy Heath eschewed the limelight, therefore it might be hard to find a lot written about this important bassist and this honorable man. This is Ol' Perce in Percy's own words. Have a taste and enjoy.
And Perce? Maintain, my man. I know you're still laughing at some of those stories. If you're not fishing, that is. All About Jazz:
The new CD, how did that come about? Percy Heath:
That I became a leader? AAJ:
Yeah. After all these years, the first CD under your own name. PH:
Right. I'm on quite a few recording with other people. And of course the Modern Jazz Quartet records were not under anybody's name. I wasn't a musical director, but as far as it being: not so-and-so and his band, those 45 or 50 recordings are under a partnership arrangement. Of course, I was playing what I was told on those. Then the Heath Brothers records are all no-name. Some of Jimmy's [recordings] we did earlier. Tootie had a record date way back when. I think they re-released it in Japan and they call it "Oops" now, but before it was another name under Tootie's leadership.
Finally this guy out in Little Rock [Ark.], Andy Collins, who had a label called Daddy Jazz. He's really a realtor, but he loves jazz. He and a group of wealthy jazz lovers in Little Rock had the [Heath] Brothers out there in a concert a few years back. He had done a production with Tootie. Tootie has a CD out with drums, demonstrations of all types of drums. And that was on Andy Collins' label. We got to talking and he said, "You never recorded on your own, as a leader."
Being a leader is only good for choosing the people who play and the songs that you play. Otherwise, it's the same pressure to perform the best you can. On all the 300 records [previous 300+ recordings Percy is on], I can always find some stuff I would rather not ever hear again. [Laughter] Even on this, being the bandleader, I couldn't reject some of the takes. The rationale is: if the general overall feeling of a recording, if it does something as a whole, then the minor miscues are forgotten, or not so important.
Anyhow, there's a lot of stuff on this new one I wish I'd done better, and a few of the other players might have done better. But you're always restricted by time in the studio. It's not an endless budget and you got to get it done and take what you get.
I feel pretty good about most of it, overall. As far as being a leader, I was lucky to have three-quarters of the Heath Brothers quartet with me. And I added Peter Washington, a tremendous young bassist. The idea of some of those things with two bassists, I'm a little disappointed on how it came off, but it was an inkling, and indication, of what I thought up when I composed that suite to my father [the four-movement "Suite for Pops"]. AAJ:
Did you ever hear the band Ron Carter had years ago where he was out front with the piccolo bass and Buster Williams was on bass? PH:
Ray Brown did it with several bassists. It's been done before, but I had never done it. The way I composed that "Suite for Pop," part of it, was two linesone descending and one ascendingand they crossed harmonically. That was the idea behind that composition.
I've heard Ray Brown on several records with other bass players. It's not the first time it's been done. Years ago I was involved with Bill Lee in a bass choir. There were nine basses. I don't know if that ever got recorded and released, but there were some performances around. He wrote some things for that. A bass choir. AAJ:
All jazz guys? PH:
Oh yeah. All jazz bass players.
So the idea of duplicate bassists is not mine. I remember when Duke Ellington had two bassists with him, after Jimmy Blanton died. Junior Raglin was there, and Oscar Pettiford. I don't know if that was recorded. But I remember going to the Lincoln Theater in Philadelphia in 1940 or 41, right after Jimmy Blanton died. AAJ:
Do you ever feel overlooked, this being your first recording? PH:
No, man. I'm on enough records. My name's on enough records. That never bothered me at all. For 43 years with the [MJQ] Quartet, some with orchestras, some with string quartets. Lots of recordings with other formations, but the body of the work was just four people, and that's about as naked as you can get. The way the music was constructedcontrapuntal, four lines going along, as opposed to a rhythm section and a soloist. AAJ:
Seems like a lot of bass players don't ever get recordings. PH:
Charles [Mingus] had his name out there. Oscar Pettiford. Ron Carter is the perennial bandleader, when he left Miles and started to play his own stuff.
I'm not the first, but it's the first for me. AAJ:
Is the bass not sexy enough? For example, Lonnie Plaxico says he has trouble getting gigs for his band, in part because he plays the bass. It's sexier with a horn out front. PH:
It's not a matter of looking at you. I don't care. Jimmy's [Heath] standing in front of me most of the time. I don't care, as long as they hear me. [Laughs] I'm not that vain about being seen. The setup of the Quartet was that everything was visual, there was nobody out front playing an instrument. No soloist, trumpet and stuff like that. The formation we had with the piano, bass, drums and vibraharpit wasn't necessary for anybody to be out front. In fact, the focus should have been on the music, not on the person.
That's why they limited even the movement, jumping around, showing and entertaining, which is part of some musicians' presentation, like Dizzy out front beating that barrel, the conga. I don't want to disrespect the conga [Laughter]. It was an inside joke. We'd say, 'Ah, he's beatin' that barrel again. [Laughter] Him out in front dancing around and clowning and entertaining. That was all a part of his presentation. Dizzy Gillespie. He's dizzy and busy.
There's a little more humor going on with the Brothers, because we have a lot of jokes and camaraderie. It's in the music and in the presentation. So we get a little comedy going. It loosens up the audience too. The presentation. Like with these rap guys, the kids. There's always the dance and the movement to go along with the rhythm. No matter what they're saying, it's in time, it's rhythmic. Even if you can't understandsometimes they have to print out the words so you know what they're talking about. For me, anyway. The young kids seem to follow it pretty well. But that presentation is different.
In jazz, my earliest recollection of role models in the black community was 15-or 17-piece orchestras that used to come on the so-called 'chitlin circuit. Black theaters in about six different cities, Chicago, Baltimore had one, Detroit had one, the Apollo in New York and the Lincoln Theater in Philadelphia, where I was growing up. These guys would come out immaculately dressed, all in uniform. The bandleader would come out. Lucky Millander would come out and he would wave his stick. It was a big show. The band was a part of the show. It was a complete vaudeville act. They had chorus girls. They had comedians. Singers. The band backed everything. Sometimes when the comedy part would go on, Cab Calloway would go out and come back in a new set of tails. Then for the evening show he would change. So costumes were a part of that theatrical staging at that time.
The Quartet used to dress all alike, so there'd be no leader out there waving around. That was the whole concept of the Modern Jazz Quartet.
Those were the role models; those well-dressed, well-presented people. The music was serious. The band played a couple of numbers. I was at the Apollo with Lucky Millendar's band in about 1950, before I went with Dizzy. I was living up at Barry Harris' house in the Bronx. He got me the gig with Lucky Millander's band at the Apollo. The great production number was "Rhapsody in Blue." Fess [Millander] was up there. He couldn't read a note as big as a barn [chuckles] but he knew it and he waved his stick in time and gave everybody the cue, you know? He was so effective jumping up and down on a box there in front of the band, about two feet high. That was a leader.
Being a leader was never my ambition. But that role model before sports; before Joe Louis and Jesse Owens, Jackie Robinson. Before those role models, and the basketball guys. They are now role models for the kids. And rappers are now role models. At that time, we looked up to those [big band] guys. Not like the rock kids running around in jeans and t-shirts. These guys were dressed. I learned later, even if the collars were dirty, you could turn them inside out [laughter]. On the road, when you couldn't get to a laundry. You'd never know it from the third row.
We wore Brooks Brothers and other Ivy League clothes. We had them tailor made. We ended up, the Quartet, with very expensive uniforms. They'd last for 10 years, even though I'd sweat 'em up. They'd last for 10 years. AAJ:
On the new CD, the version of "Django" sounds like the Modern Jazz Quartet. PH:
It's the piece. It's the tune. However I did play the melody on the bass, in the beginning, which, for the whole 42 years I never did with the Quartet. It's a set bass part. The boogie woogie thing there, I had to quote that because it's really a part of the composition. It's really a different composition from most, structure-wise. It's not an eight-eight-bridge-eight type construction. It's different. Sometimes I quote I don't know if you're familiar with a score John Lewis wrote for the film "No Sun in Venice." It was filmed in Venice, and this gondola is going down the grand canal. A really regal barge going down. John wrote a piece called "Cortège," which, actually, is almost "Django" again. It has the same feeling and some of the same notes. When I do "Django" live, I may stick a little a little "Cortège" in the introduction, before I go into the melody.
I always say John wrote "Django" twice [laughter]. He got a lot of mileage out of that.
I'm glad I included it, because I got a chance to play the melody finally. AAJ:
You had never done that before. PH:
No. Never. It was always the way it was recorded so many times, by so many people. I never played the melody.
I did a duet at Lincoln Center with Jeb Paton and that's when it occurred to me... It's fun to do. AAJ:
He sounds, on that piece, like John. Was that on purpose? PH:
He's a student of Sir Roland Hanna. I don't really get too much John Lewis out of his playing because John was so economical with notes. That's why for a long time John Lewis was underrated as a pianist. He composed every chorus as it went. He was a composer, even when he was a player. He was able to influence Milt [Jackson]. With his perfect pitch, he could get something from what John did and do something else over there. That's why the Quartet was so individual in its concept.
Jeb, on the other hand, is a student of Sir Roland Hanna, who was a great accompanist for many singers. He absorbed that style of Roland's, which is more dynamic. He's 26 years old now. He's a baby, but he's so far advanced and he's having so much fun. He's very inventive and a real exciting player. That "Century Rag" which is on that CD. I like that. I like everything he did on it. That's why I got him. That's why the leader chose the right pianist. [Laughter] Jeb Paton is a really exceptional talent.
Jeb studied at Duke University and went through that jazz program. Then he went to Queens College and studied with Sir Roland in an advanced jazz course. My brother Jimmy was teaching a jazz ensemble class in which Jeb participated. So when Jeb graduated and Jimmy had his 10 years in as a professor and resigned, Jimmy grabbed Jeb up for our group, for the Heath Brothers. He's been with us about six years now. He joined when he was 21.
I had to use him on there [the new CD], and of course my brother, Tootie. I think he's one of the most underrated drummers in this business. He even pleased John Lewis for a year, which was difficult to do after Connie [MJQ drummer Connie Kay] died. He was so perfect for what we did. Tootie said 'I could fit in the group because I've been listening to it all my adult life.'
So I used Albert. I wanted a little more presence on the CD [in the mixing] on the drums, but it didn't turn out. But it was the best we could do on the mix.
A recording of a jazz composition is just an indication of what you hear when you go to hear people play live. There's an exception. Like Illinois Jacquet's solo on "Flying Home." If you didn't play that solo, you didn't play "Flying Home." The improvisation became the piece, and it had to be played every time or people would say, 'Oh man, that ain't "Flying Home."' [Laughter] Otherwise, jazz improvisation is spontaneous.
Like that "Century Rag" I just mentioned, what's on that recordJeb plays so much more than that. That's the inkling. But to hear him expound on that live. He's inspired by the moment. That "Century Rag" was Sir Roland's composition. Roland recorded it himself. This is Jeb's arrangement of "Century Rag." There's another thing on there that he wrote, "Hanna's Mood." It was written before Roland passed, but in retrospect, it sounds like something in memory of him. It just happened that way.
That's on the CD, giving Jeb his due. He's been with the Heath Brothers six years, for crying out loud. We have to say 'the invisible pianist is Jeb Paton.' [Laughter] We have the three brothers, of course, but we do have a fourth member of the quartet. An identifiable member too. Jeb is something. He's Tatum influenced too, so that's another aspect of his playing, as opposed to John Lewis' economic, structure-as-you-go approach. AAJ:
How much composing do you do? PH:
I ain't no composer, man. I think up a line for a piece every now and then. I think up a melody. I'm not a composer. I wrote those few tunes on there and I composed, if you want to use that word, but I'm not a composer. I don't feel of myself as a composer. I'm working on a tune now. All of a sudden it came to me, a little line.
Jimmy is a composer. He actually sits down and writes songs and compositions and arrangements. He's been doing it as far as I can remember. When I first came home from the Air Force (1946) and Lieutenant Heath decided to be a bebopper. I wore sandals, grew a beard and bought a beret and hung out with the cats. I had never heard any of that music down in the South where I was with the Tuskegee Airmen in Alabama. I ended up in Kentucky. When my roommate got killed, he was from Philadelphia, I had enough time in and I was sort of in between wars and I had proven that I could fly those machines that they say we couldn't. Momma was proud, but she was scared of me being in those airplanes. They were pretty dangerous machines, but what the hell. I was 21 years old. 'They'll do this?' 'Yeah. We'll do it..'.. Then when I got out, Jimmy quit his position with a dance band in the Midwest.
We called him "professor" then because we got an old upright piano, put it in the living room of my mother's house and there was music going on all day while Jimmy was composing and learning the new bebop harmonies, which he had heard on the road. He said, "You coming home, man, and get a bass? I'm coming home too, to see what's happening with this music."
Even at that time, Jimmy had a 16-piece band in Philadelphia. There were some great players around there. I didn't know enough at that time to play with the band. Nelson Boyd was the bassist with Jimmy's band. John Coltrane was in that band. Jimmy copied arrangements off the records. Jimmy's band was playing Billy Eckstein's arrangements and Dizzy Gillespie band arrangements. He'd sit down and copy the saxophone section, the brass section and everything else.
So he's the composer. A tune writer? Ok. I'll take that. [Laughter].
Actually most of Milt Jackson's compositions were like a line that he played on the vibraharp. The arranger, John Lewis, would take it and make it a piece, a composition. Jimmy did some too, for Milt. But Milt, for years, just couldn't put it down like he wanted.
So, I'm not a composer there, R.J. [Laughter]. Just a tune writer, baby. And not too many of those.
But this suite, the sad part, the Prelude, is just how I felt when Percy Heath Sr., my man, baby, passed. Nice guy, my father. He's the one that started all of us playing. He was a clarinetist in the Philadelphia Independent Elks band. My Mother, Alethea, was a choir singer in the 19th Street Baptist Church. And her mother, we called her Fat Momma, to differentiate between Momma and Fat Momma. When I was 11 or 12 I was singing on a kiddie hour at that time on Sunday morning, kids on the radio. Joe Wilder was there playing the trumpet with a plunger. He was 13. I was 12.
Then at that time I was singing with my grandmother and my mother and her cousin as the Family Four gospel quartet. We used to go to all these little gatherings. I was playing my little violin on occasion for these little teas to raise money for the church. Me and a guitarist. We used to call him Rev. Bennie, he was so religious. We'd play these little songs at these teas I couldn't really play the violin that much. I got out of junior high school, the seventh grade or something, that was the end of the violin.
That Lincoln Theater [in Philly], that kiddie hour was connected with that, so that's how I got to go backstage on opening show on Friday afternoon. By being on the show, you were able to go to this theater and meet these bands. That's why I was so impressed with these bands, like Claude Hart, Don Redman. Swing bands. Black swing bands. Lucky Millander. Fats Waller. Everybody. I could go backstage and say, "Oh yeah. I'm gonna be in show business." Then I lost my voice when I was 14. My voice changed and that was the end of that. [Laughter] AAJ:
You could have been singing on the new CD! [laughter] PH:
Oh, yeah. Right. [laughter].
That "Love Song" has lyrics. It's introduced in the beginning, just the cello alone. I say cello. It is a cello, a Kay legitimate cello, which is strung like a bass.
Ray Brown and another guy, I forget who it was, he collaborated with an engineer-type guy out in California to widen the finger board a little bit, beyond the neck, the Kay cello, and incorporate machines, like guitar machines, instead of the pegs. That's why it's called a jazz cello.
Oscar Pettiford had a cast on his wrist and he could move his fingers. He couldn't play the bass but he configured the tuning on a regular cellohe'd tune it up like a bass and just play the hell out of it, and made a four-sided recording of it. He just messed up everybody. O.P. had perfect pitch. Any place he'd put his finger, that's it.
And of course Ron Carter was a cello player, in the beginning, before he switched to bass. And there were some other cello players who played the cello in jazz.
Anyhow, it's not my innovation. When the Quartet took its time offMilt wanted to do something else. He wanted to be a bandleader again. He didn't want to play Bach and those things that we were playing that made us different from other jazz groups and got us into some places where jazz had never been played, actually. It was the Milt Jackson Quartet in the beginning anyhow, then it became the Modern Jazz Quartet. He always wanted to play blues and ballads.
He's the greatest vibraphonist I ever heard. I like Gates too, Lionel Hampton. And Terry Gibbs and Bobby Hutcherson, and that young man coming up, Stephon [Harris]. They're all good vibe players. And Gary Burton, who teaches at Berklee [school of music, Boston]. They all play excellent. Even Tyree Glen, the trombone player, he was a vibes player too. But Milt Jackson! [Laughter] Boy, he did more with those two mallets than anybody.
To be between him and John Lewis for 40 years, I shouldn't have got my salary, I was having so much fun up there with those guys.
The idea of that formation was different then. It was the Milt Jackson quartet and we were like a rhythm section for him in the beginning, until John started to change the approach and the format. Every now and then, Jackson would get itchy and want to do his thing. And he would get Mickey Roker and Ray Brown and John Clayton and a lot of other people, make records with them and go on the road when he could afford it, with Cedar [Walton] and do his bebop thing, which was marvelous.
But during that interim, the Heath Brothers got together, in the idle 70s. Jimmy was playing flute, Tootie was playing flute, drums and all kind of percussive instruments. Stanley Cowell was with us and he had a kalimba, tuned with so many notes. There were two scales, almost, on this African thumb piano. He doubled on that. Jimmy played all the saxophones and flute. Ol' Percy was just playing the bass. So I asked [Ray] Brown, I said "Hey, Ding..." I used to call him Ding-Dong [imitates a walking bass line, "ding-dong, ding-dong..."] He was the ding-dong daddy of us all, for that walking [bass line] that he did.
He showed me how to hold the bass. When I first bought a bass in 1946 he came down to the houseall the musicians came. Momma used to make a nice home-cooked meal for themJackson, Lewis, Brown and Klook [drummer Kenny Clarke] were part of Dizzy's band. They came down to the house with a couple of other members of the band to have a nice home-cooked meal. I met him [Ray Brown] there in 1946 and I just had bought a bass and said, "Hey man, I'm gonna be a bassist too." Then he showed me how to hold it. He said, "P, you got to get your spider together [forms left hand fingers in the shape of a large spider]. You can't just grab it like that." You know, around the neck with all the hand. He said, "You gotta stand up on your thumb and walk your fingers, like a spider."
So anyhow, that's how Jackson felt. I played with Milt Jackson with Howard McGhee. I'd been playing about a year, a little more. And I was playing at the bebop Mecca in Philadelphia, the Downbeat. I was in the rhythm section with Jimmy Golden [piano] and Charlie Rice [drums] and Jimmy Oliver, our saxophonist, who could play every lick Pres had ever played and couldn't read a note, but he could play. This was the house band. And they would bring in headliners to play with this local rhythm section. That's when I met Howard McGhee.
But I met Jackson down at the house. Back then we would go see Bird and Miles and everybody else and offer them to come down to the house and eat and whatnot. Dizzy. Of course his family was in Philly. That's how I got to play with Milt Jackson. I had a gig up there at the Downbeat and I got the band up there, cause I was the bassist and I got Milt and a trumpet player and Jimmy [Heath] to be a sextet up there; a trumpet player out of Dizzy's band, Bill Massey. Milt had been my friend since then.
Then Howard McGhee got his sextet together. Milt was in that. He was doubling on piano. Which they all did. They never hired a pianist, most of them at that time. Even with Dizzy's quintet, Jackson would play the piano, get up and play the vibes while Jimmy played the piano, or Dizzy would accompany. Eventually, Howard McGhee did hire a pianist. That was when Jackson left. Milt played with me in that formation, and Dizzy's formation. I played with him in his quartet. This is going back to 1947. I'd been playing a year. Then the whole length of the quartet.
So the [MJQ] hiatus came. Milt went and played with Woody Herman and a bunch of other things at the time.
That's when I asked Ray Brown, "Hey Ding, you got one of them things?" He said, "Yeah, I got one in the garage." Because all the bass players jumped on it [the jazz cello], and then gave it up. Ray made records on it. Ron Carter made records on the cello. Sam Jones played the hell out of it. That man was a real underrated bassist. He died too young. But a lot of bass players went and tried to do this thing.
None surpassed Oscar Pettiford. He was my mentor. I used to follow him around. He'd say, "Come on Percy," he'd take a cello after he made these records. He'd take it and we'd go on anybody's gig. He'd go over to the bandstand and say, "Come on Percy, play the bass" behind him. He'd play two songs on the cello, have a few drinks and go to another place. O.P.'s native ID would come out and he'd want to rumble. "I'd say, Come on O.P. Let's go home, man." It'd be 4 o'clock in the morning.
Anyhow, Brown called me from the airport a few months later because I had to find something else to do from the Heath Brothers. He called me from the airport and said, "Hey P, I sent that thing on for you." I said, "Hey Ding, thanks man." "He said, "You're going to have to use three." I said, "What do you mean?" He said, "You'll dig it," and hung up and split. So here comes this cello in this crate. I'm trying to play it. I sit down and try to play it like the bass. What he meant was: I had to use three fingers, because the thing is so small, if you try to put four fingers in there you're out of tune. It just didn't work mechanically. So that's why I play the thing with three fingers.
But anyhow, that's why I got it in the first place. I'm having a lot of fun with it now.
To preface this CD, I had written this "Love Song" which I haven't been able to get a vocalist to do it. But the lyrics are very nice too... It's a nice tune, but I played the melody mostly, because I could never...
It's weird. Like when Herbie Hancock first started Headhunters recordings with this modal repetitious bass line on and on. He'd say, "How you like it, P?" He gave me the recording. I'd say, "It's nice, Herbie, but you could have put the bass on a loop and sent [the bassist] home." He said, "Oh no, P, we build on that." I said "Well Herbie, you'd never build on me, because I couldn't play that same four notes for 20 minutes if you were gonna shoot me." [Laughter]. My head just doesn't work like that. I gotta be doing a melody of my own, indicating the harmonic structure of the piece. That's what John Lewis taught me. In the beginning, he wrote out these lines and this little space for improvisation on some chords.
How long have I been playing now? Whatever it is. 1947 on. Close to 57 years. People say, what about the arco? I never tried it much, except the finger exercises that Mingus gave me when John Lewis said, "Percy, you don't know enough to play the music I'm gonna write. You gotta get some lessons."
So I went to Charles and told him I want to take some lessons. He said [in dead-on, Mingus imitation, abrupt and gruff] "P, you're puttin' me on, man. If I could play the blues like you, I wouldn't want no lessons." I said, "No, Charles, I'm serious, man." So he gave me some exercises in which I used the bow, to concentrate on intonation.
That instrument is so demanding, intonation-wise and physically. I used to play pretty in tune, but there's a few things on this CD I wish I hadn't done. Which is on all of them anyhow. I'm really critical of that. But it's the best I could do at this age. You lose it, I guess. I'm glad I finally got to choose those pieces.
Continue: Part 2