Ronnell Bright, a jazz pianist and composer who accompanied many of the finest mid-century female jazz vocalists, including Sarah Vaughan, Carmen McRae, Nancy Wilson, Lena Horne, Lorez Alexandria and Anita O'Day and subbed for Count Basie on several albums and tours, died on August 12. Ronnell was 91. His wife, Dianne Bright, said the cause was dementia.
When I started this blog in 2007, part of my motive was to track down favorite jazz artists few people knew much about and interview them. High on my list was Ronnell Bright. I first fell in love with Ronnell's chord voicings and touch back in the 1970s, when I heard Sarah Vaughan sing Thanks for the Memory on a vinyl recording of After Hours at the London House (1959). What always struck me about that recording, in addition to Sassy's shock-proof cool after twice flubbing the lyrics, was how Ronnell managed to gently start the tune three different ways, using exquisite chords and fabulous runs. His chords behind Sassy on Detour Ahead on the same album still knock me out.
Here's Thanks for the Memory...
In 2008, Ronnell was living with his wife, Dianne, in relative obscurity in Denver. I didn't even think he was still around when I started to track him down him and left messages for people who knew him. So imagine my surprise when three weeks later, I answered my ringing cell phone and the voice at the other end said, “Marc? This is Ronnell Bright." There on the phone was my hero of that famous Sarah Vaughan session and one of the finest accompanists in jazz singing.
Here's Ronnell's R and R Groove...
After I posted my five-part interview, the shy and extremely humble Ronnell was able to go off to the library and show people there who he was by having them bring up the post. Little by little, groups of people circled around and were wowed. Ronnell was known locally and revered. He felt special. As Dianne told me yeseterday, “Bobby Troupe once told him, 'Ronnell, the world never knew how great you are and neither did you.'"
In the years following 2008, Ronnell and I spoke often and a friendship grew. Each year on my birthday, Ronnell and Dianne called to sing Happy Birthday. If I was out, the song would be on my voicmail. Ronnell was forever grateful I had cared. How could I not? How could anyone not realize he was a towering artist? And yet he was off the grid, a decision that came largely out of his desire for privacy and his upbringing to not honk your own horn.
So that the world doesn't forget, here's my full JazzWax interview with Ronnell Bright in 2008:
JazzWax: Where did you grow up?
Ronnell Bright: I was born in 1930 and grew up in the Chicago. My family was very supportive, and I went to a good school We lived on the South Side of Chicago, the Woodlawn area, which was a nice part of town. My father was a preacher, a straight-up guy and real nice. My mother was a former schoolteacher. I had three sisters and a brother. I was the baby in the family, and we had a beautiful time. We were a very musical family.
JW: Who did you listen to as a kid?
RB: Coleman Hawkins and Chu Berry with Fletcher Henderson’s Orchestra. My sister, Della Bright, was a singer in a vocal trio called the Rhythm Debs. They sang with Fletcher whenever he came to Chicago. Fletcher used to come over to our house and chart out the vocal arrangements and rehearse the trio on our piano. I was four years old, but they let me sit there because I was very quiet.
JW: Did you understand what was going on?
RB: Oh, my yes. The playing and singing were so great. That’s when I got the bug to be a musician and go into show business. Another guy who used to come to the house all the time was David Young, a saxophonist. And my older sister married a saxophonist. I heard so much saxophone in the house that I wanted to play tenor.
JW: But you wound up a pianist.
RB: That wasn't my choice. It was my parents’ decision. We had an old upright and before I could see the keys, I’d reach up and try to play notes. My parents started me on piano lessons when I was five years old. At first I didn’t like practicing, but later on I took to it. My teacher, Jeanne Fletcher, taught me classical—Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, Chopin and all of that. I had to practice at least an hour a day before I was allowed to go out to play.
JW: Audiences didn’t scare you?
RB: I was the kid who played classical music at all of the high school events. My memory was very good, and playing came naturally to me. When I was 8, I was called a child prodigy. I’d give recitals at theaters downtown, and teachers would bring their favorite students to hear me play. I always got nice mentions in the newspapers, and playing was a natural part of my background.
JW: Did you go to music school after graduation?
RB: I went for a year to a junior college and then decided to go my own way. In 1948, I enlisted in the Navy and played in the band on our aircraft carrier, which toured the Caribbean. On board was singer Julius LaRosa. We used to have music programs on board, what they used to call “smokers." I’d play piano and Julius sang. We became great friends. In 1949, I left the navy but had to remain in the reserves for four years. Just after I was discharged, I heard that Arthur Godfrey came aboard the carrier and discovered Julius.
JW: What happened after you left the Navy?
RB: Actually, that period was short-lived. When the Korean War broke out in 1950, I was called back into the Navy. They sent me to Washington, D.C., where they were going to ship me out. While there, I walked into the Navy School of Music based at the U.S. Naval Receiving Station, Anacostia Annex, as it was known then. Musicians were trained there for performances at the White House, Treasure Island in San Francisco, and other military facilities. I told them I was a pianist, but I wasn't immediately accepted because I was only in for a year. I asked if my orders could be changed to be a musician. So they auditioned me.
JW: How did you do?
RB: My classics were up to par. But then they asked me to play How High the Moon. I couldn’t because I wasn’t a jazz musician. I liked Nat King Cole—his smoothness, subtlety and creativity. But I was trained to be a classical pianist. They liked me and said they’d take me into the school if within six months I learned 25 popular songs and all the chord changes. It was the first time they had someone who was a proficient classical player but unfamiliar with the popular stuff.
JW: How did you pick up jazz so quickly?
RB: A few jazz musicians who were in the school there helped break me in.
JW: Who were the musicians?
RB: Julian Adderley, his brother Nat, and Eric Dolphy. The Army had sent their people to the Navy Music School, too. We were all together at that school for three months. Fake books had just started coming out, so I did a lot of playing and listening to get used to jazz. I think the first jazz song I played was I’m an Old Cowhand. Julian and I were in the barracks one day and he said his group needed a pianist for a gig that night. I said I didn’t know chord changes. But he said it didn’t matter, they needed a pianist. So it was me, Julian, Nat and Eric playing a gig in Washington, DC.
JW: But you didn't know how to play jazz. What happened?
RB: When we got there, Julian called for Blue Room. I said, “Blue Room? What is that, the blues?” They teased me about that for years. Once they started playing the song, though, my ear figured out the chord changes. I’m not saying what I played was correct, but I worked it out. I played two or three jobs with them. Washington, DC, back then was still the South. On breaks, we had to go sit in the kitchen because they didn’t allow Blacks to mingle with the audience then.
JW: So Cannonball, Nat and Dolphy got you started?
RB: Yes! What a group, right? Next I worked a gig with trumpeter Duke Garrette, who also was attending the Navy Music School. He had been with Lionel Hampton, and working with him let me learn some jazz songs. I had the technique. I just didn’t know how to weave and interweave chords. Swinging seemed to come natural to me, probably because of my love for Nat King Cole. One thing led to another, and the Navy sent me to Treasure Island in San Francisco Bay to perform in an 18-piece orchestra. There were good players in that band. On the weekends, I’d go into San Francisco with some of the guys and play officers’ parties, too. This was 1952-53.
JW: What did you do when you were discharged?
RB: I returned to Chicago and played piano as a solo. At this time, bassist Johnnie Pate was working with pianist Don Shirley as a duo. They were working at club called The Streamliner. Someone had heard Johnnie and Don, and tried to hire them to play The Embers in New York. Don went but Johnnie didn’t because he had a family. Johnnie recommended bassist Richard Davis instead. So Johnnie kept the job at The Streamliner. When I heard Johnnie needed a pianist, I contacted him and told him I was interested. He invited me over his house. I played piano for him but clearly didn’t have the mentality for jazz. Yet he liked my enthusiasm and was very patient with me. He showed me how to get through chord changes and worked with me on substitute chords and key changes. He hired drummer Charles Walton, and we worked The Streamliner for about a year. We also recorded in Chicago in 1955 as the Johnnie Pate Trio for Talisman Records. That was my first recording date, and the trio gave me a taste for how exciting jazz could be.
JW: What happened after your first recording in 1955 as pianist with the Johnnie Pate Trio?
RB: We became the house trio at several Chicago clubs. We worked The Streamliner on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights, and on Monday and Tuesday nights we worked the London House. We had the hot spots. Johnnie was an excellent musician and gave me a great sense of jazz. He taught me how to accompany and how to play.
JW: How did you wind up accompanying Carmen McRae so early?
RB: By early 1955, The Streamliner had become so popular that the owner started hiring out-of-town singers. One of them was Carmen McRae. By then, I was able to do some polished things on the piano to back up a singer. I had the technique, thanks to my classical training. When Carmen came in, she was singing all the pretty stuff. She was very sweet then, like a debutante. At the end of her run, she gave me a picture with an inscription that read, “To Ronnell—Thanks for playing for me. You’re a marvelous pianist.” The next time she came through Chicago, we played the Blue Note, an even bigger club. The Blue Note was like Birdland. Everyone worked there, from Oscar Peterson to George Shearing.
JW: Yet you decided to leave Chicago in 1956 for New York?
RB: New York was where all the major music was happening. I had to make the move if I wanted to break out on my own. When I first arrived in New York, I contacted bassist Richard Davis. He and his wife had just gotten an apartment. I asked Richard if he had a spare room, until I was able to find a place. Richard and his wife put me up for two weeks. This was July 1956.
JW: Where did you find work?
RB: Right after I moved in, I was walking near Birdland on Broadway and 52nd St. and bumped into Benny Powell. If you were looking for work back then, you hung out there hoping to get picked up for a gig. I had met Benny originally in Chicago, when Count Basie’s band played the Blue Note. In fact I met everyone while working there—Stan Kenton, Zoot Sims, Oscar Peterson, Conte Candoli and so many others.
JW: What happened when you ran into Benny?
RB: It was about 11 a.m. when I met him. He said, “Man, Hank Jones was supposed to do a date with us for Savoy and he can’t make it. I thought I’d find someone down here. It's supposed to be at 2 pm. Do you want to make this date?" I said, “Sure!" Benny got on the phone and hooked it up for me. When we got to the date at Rudy Van Gelder's house in New Jersey, I met producer Ozzie Cadena. Eddie Jones was on bass and Kenny Clarke was on drums. Frank Wess was walking around with pencil and paper putting together the arrangements for four trombones—Benny, Jimmy Cleveland, Henry Coker and Bill Hughes. Freddie Green was also there on guitar. Frank played flute. [The Savoy album was Trombones: Featuring Frank Wess, Flute.]
JW: That was a big break for you.
RB: I met some fast company that day. After the session, Ozzie came over and said, “You’re brand new huh? I’d like to record you. Can you get it together in two weeks?” I said, “Well sure, of course. What kind of instrumentation do you want?” Ozzie said, “Whatever you want. Just get it together." So I put together a trio.
JW: Who did you get?
RB: I cold-called Kenny Burrell and Leonard Gaskin. I didn’t know them but I knew they were among the busiest session musicians in town. So I got with Kenny. We had lunch, and I told him what I was going to do. He said he'd do it. Then I called Leonard, who also agreed to play the date. The result was Bright’s Spot, which we recorded for Savoy in the fall of 1956.
JW: What did you learn from the date?
RB: The session made me realize I needed to form my own trio for gigs and recordings. Kenny and Leonard were studio guys and did this as a one-time favor. I needed my own thing. So I went by The Embers and ran into Bill Clark, who was playing drums with George Shearing. George was going out on the road, and Bill said he didn't want to travel. So I asked Bill if he wanted to form a trio. He said yes. I also had heard that Joe Benjamin, Sarah Vaughan’s bassist, was leaving her. I asked Joe about joining, and he agreed, too.
JW: So now you had your own trio.
RB: We rehearsed for a time. Then I contacted John Hammond and told him I had a trio. I asked if he wanted to come hear us rehearse at Nola’s Studios. When John came by, he was with Rolf Kuhn, a German clarinetist. Rolf was like Benny Goodman, as fast as greased lightning. While we were playing for John, I could see Rolf was checking me out. When we finished, John said he was going to record Kuhn and needed a trio behind him. But, I told John, I really wanted to record with my trio. John said if I recorded behind Kuhn for him, he would do something for me later. So I talked it over with the guys.
JW: What did they say?
RB: The guys weren't crazy about it. Like me, they wanted their own thing. So I didn’t give John an answer right away. We soon got a gig at The Embers and I told John we were there. He came by and brought Kuhn again. After our set, John said he really wanted the four of us to record for Vanguard, which he was overseeing. So we did the Kuhn date in November 1956. It was very technical stuff, but I was able to pull it off. The album was Streamline: The Rolf Kuhn Quartet. When it was released, it was a pretty big success.
JW: What about your trio date?
RB: I still wanted my trio to record. But Rolf and the quartet caught on for a while thanks to the album, and we went into the Blue Note in Chicago. Bassist Johnnie Pate saw me there and ribbed me: “I thought you were going to get your own thing?” I said, “I know, I know.” Johnnie was just kidding. He was happy for me. But he and I both knew what I ultimately wanted to do.
JW: Did John Hammond come through on his promise?
RB: Oh, yes. When I got back to New York, he recorded me in March 1957 with Joe Benjamin on bass and Bill Clark on drums. The recording was Bright Flight. After that record, my trio was established, and we played regularly in New York. From then on, musicians and singers started to take notice of me, as did Willard Alexander, the famous band booker.
JW: Did you and producer John Hammond get along well?
RB: Yes. After the Rolf Kuhn recording and my trio date in late 1957, John encouraged Willard Alexander to come hear me play. At the time, Willard booked all the major bands and jazz artists. After Willard heard me, he signed me right away. One of the first jobs Willard booked my trio into was the Boom Boom Room at the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami Beach. We played there for a week.
JW: What was playing the Fontainebleau like?
RB: Oh, beautiful. It was quite thrilling. Frank Sinatra was upstairs. The audiences were great. And stars dropped by to hear us play every night. But back at that time, Blacks couldn’t stay on the beach side with whites. We could work in the hotel, but when we got through we had to take a cab over the bridge to the Sir John Hotel. Basie’s band had to stay there, too. Same with Sammy Davis, Jr. and Lena Horne.
JW: When did you meet Sarah Vaughan?
RB: Around this time in 1957, Willard booked my trio into Storyville in Boston. Working opposite me was Sarah with Jimmy Jones on piano, Richard Davis on bass and Roy Haynes on drums. Sarah was a good friend of Carmen McRae’s and she knew of me. When I went into Storyville, I used Ray Crawford on guitar and a bassist whose name I can't recall. During the gig, Ray leaned over and said, “Hey, man, Sarah is sitting at a table right behind you checking you out.” I didn’t really pay much attention to what Ray said. We played opposite her for about a week.
JW: How did you become her accompanist?
RB: At the end of 1957, Jimmy Jones decided he was going to stay in New York and become a composer and arranger rather than continue to tour with Sarah. He had been with her for 10 years and wanted a change. So George Treadwell, Sarah's husband and manager at the time, called me. I went down to see him at his office in the Brill Building. He said Sarah was deciding between me and Wynton Kelly and that it was down to money. I said it would be honor to play for Sarah and whatever she thought would be fair was fine with me. The next thing I knew, I got a call telling me to join her in Washington, D.C. Our first record date in January 1958 was for a few songs used on No Count Sarah. I played piano behind Sarah with Count Basie's band instead of Basie. I don’t know why Basie wasn’t on that date. I suppose I was there because I was Sarah's accompanist, and Basie honored me in that role by letting me play.
JW: You and Sarah were in Chicago in March 1958?
RB: Yes. We were playing Mister Kelly's. Late one night, around 2 a.m., after the third set, we rushed over from Mister Kelly's to the London House. We were going over there to record a live album for Mercury. If I recall, the same person owned both clubs. That was an amazing night. Everyone I knew was there: bassist Johnnie Pate, pianist Dick Katz, the guys who wrote Detour Ahead—guitarist Herb Ellis and bassist John Frigo. The place was packed. I think the session was the first time a record company recorded a live jazz date cold.
JW: Wasn't there any rehearsal?
RB: Not only were there no rehearsals, there were no charts. There was no time. Sarah went out and bought piano sheet music for each musician and passed it out on stage, at 2 a.m., just before we started recording. We had to transpose the sheet music to her keys. Everyone had to scuffle.
JW: How did four members of the Basie band wind up on the date?
RB: That's right—Frank Wess, Thad Jones, Wendell Culley and Henry Coker were there, along with me, Richard Davis and Roy Haynes. I believe Basie's band was in Chicago that week recording for Roulette.
JW: What happened on Thanks for the Memory? Sarah trips over the word “Parthenon," and she stops the song—twice.
RB: Sarah had sheet music for the song, like everyone else, and was reading the word “Parthenon," which was hyphenated. She was unfamiliar with the word or what the Parthenon was. So she couldn’t figure out where the emphasis was supposed to go. She stopped cold and calmly worked it out. That was Sarah, recording session or no recording session. No one on stage was prepared for that, as you can hear from the record. It was a live recording, and Sarah doing that was a little scary. But this is what made the session so exciting.
JW: Did you think she was going to abandon the song after the second stumble on the same word?
RB: I had no idea. I was about to say “Parth-ah-non” out loud to help her, but I caught myself, remembering we were recording live. So I stayed quiet. Sarah worked her way through it and kept the moment alive. That's what makes the recording so fresh today, the imperfection and the human quality of trying to fix a mistake. After the session, at around 4 a.m., we all went out to breakfast and had a blast.
JW: I always found it remarkable that you start Thanks for the Memory each with subtle differences.
RB: You had to, or Sarah would hear you trying to do what you already did, which to her would be lazy. Sarah rarely did anything the same way twice. She came up through the ranks with Charlie Parker. It was a badge of honor to do things differently each time. There was no other way.
JW: Was it tough to anticipate what Sarah was going to do with a song?
RB: Sometimes. Sarah would change keys in the middle of a song. She’d go somewhere else, and we’d have to find her. She taught all of her sidemen ear training. You had seconds to figure out what she was going to do. It became intuitive. But once we were comfortable with her, we'd do the same thing to her. She’d sing in one key and we’d change keys so she’d have to find us. She liked the challenge.
JW: You were with Sarah for about two years.
RB: That's right. After the London House recording, we left for Europe, starting with performances at the Brussels World’s Fair. Then we toured all over for about four months and recorded Vaughan and Violins in Paris in July 1958.
JW: Was Sarah all business?
RB: Yes, when it came to the music. But before and after a performance, she loved to have fun. And she was a mischief-maker, to throw you off your game. She’d hide our shoes just before the trio had to go out on stage. So we'd be out there with just our socks on. But we gave it back. She had this pink satin gown that she liked to wear night after night. We were tired of seeing it, so we buried it outside in a box.
JW: Did she know?
RB: She probably figured it out. She came out of her dressing room asking, “Where’s my gown? Who has my gown?” We never told her. Sarah was one of the guys, and she knew that fooling around was part of what made the music special. John Collins, Nat Cole's guitarist after Oscar Moore left, said that he was on a band bus with Sarah in the 1950s and fell asleep. When he woke up in the dead of night, Sarah was driving the bus. That's the kind of woman she was. Sarah called me her “backbone” and was very protective of me and all her musicians.
JW: While you were in Paris, you recorded an unusual trio date with Richard Davis on bass and Art Morgan on drums. It's unusual because instead of lush treatments, you're playing is heavy and bop-influenced. How did that come about?
RB: In late spring 1958, I went to the Mars Club. There were a few pianists there, including Hazel Scott, playing solo. So we had a jam session. Afterward, a guy approached me about recording for Polydor. I used Richard Davis and Art Morgan, an English drummer who was playing in town with Ted Heath's orchestra. I know what you mean, it was a different sound for me. I felt free and wanted to record faster, springy pieces I had written. After the tour, when we returned to the U.S. later in 1958, we played clubs and concerts with Sarah. Then we recorded the rest of No Count Sarah and another Mercury session arranged by Belford Hendricks.
JW: You left Sarah in 1960. Why?
RB: I needed to make more money. Roland Hanna replaced me on piano. I started another trio with Peck Morrison and Denzil Best, and we played mostly at the Cafe Bohemia and Birdland in New York. After my work with Sarah, I was very much in demand as an accompanist, so I found a lot of work with Lena Horne and other singers. One time I was with Al Hibbler, somewhere in the Midwest. He had a nice car but he'd have to get his accompanist to drive, of course, because he was blind. I remember it was just the two of us, sometime in 1960. We drove to Indiana or Michigan. It was a one-nighter. We drove there, and he got in an argument with management because the owner didn’t want to give him his money immediately. It was a banquet or something. So Al went back to get paid and I went with him. He knocked on the door. There were two rough guys in there. Al asked again for his money. As soon as they start making excuses, Al starts swinging. I said, “No, no, Al, no, no man." Al didn't care. He starts screaming, “I want my money now." Well, he got paid, like always, in dollar bills, so he'd know exactly how much he had.
JW: You returned to Sarah in 1963. Why?
RB: Sarah wrote me from Sweden telling me that the city had reminded her how much fun we had in 1958 and asked if I'd accompany her again. Kirk Stuart, her pianist, was going to leave upon their return. When she got back, she came over to my house and talked to me about returning. The timing was good, since a show that Lena Horne and her conductor and husband Lenny Hayton had put together was disbanding. So I went back with Sarah for a few months. Sarah recorded a few of my songs—Missing You and I've Got to Talk to My Heart.
JW: You left Sarah again in 1964 for good, this time for Nancy Wilson.
RB: Again, it was a money issue. Nancy Wilson's manager, John Levy, asked me to accompany Nancy and rehearse the band. By then, I had a wife and family to support, and John was offering me twice the money Sarah was paying me. More important, I was going to get paid whether we worked or not, which was key.
JW: How did Sarah take the news?
RB: I called Sarah on the phone and said that I got an offer I can't turn down. She said, “What do you mean?" I told her the financial terms I was being offered and said, “Sarah, look, there's no one I'd rather play for but you. You're the boss. But the offer is too good." So Sarah asks, “Who is it?" I said, “It's a young girl, Nancy Wilson." There was the big pause. Then Sarah quietly said, “Alright, Ronnell" and slammed the phone down so hard I could imagine pieces of it flying everywhere on her end. Bob James replaced me on piano with Sarah.
JW: Is it hard to be an accompanist?
RB: It’s tricky. If you’re an accompanist, you’re listening to find ways to enhance what the singer is trying to do. You're listening to the words. You're listening to hear when the singer breathes and the singer's phrasing. You learn when to fill in, to lead them to the next phrase if you sense what's coming up. Or you may need to get out of the way. It’s a delicate, delicate operation that takes place seconds before notes come out.
JW: Who taught you the most as an accompanist?
RB: Sarah. She taught me how to stay out of singer’s way and how to build before a singer opens up and emerges into something else. Playing behind a singer is strategic. I never played much piano music with people like Sarah and Carmen. I had the chord changes and that was about it. They were so busy phrasing or coming in when they wanted to come in. That forced you get into their heads and made you listen to what they were doing. The first thing you learn playing as an accompanist is how to listen. When you do, you’re taking that trip with them.
JW: How could you anticipate where Sarah was going on a song?
RB: Sarah had a way of telling you when she didn’t want you to fill in. She would tighten up the lyrics. For example, she’d phrase a line this way: “The evening breeze, caress the treeeees, tenderlyThe trembling trees, embraced the treees…” No gap between the first and second lines. She’d go right into the second line without a break. Now normally you would fill right in with notes after that first line, because that’s where most singers catch a breath. But Sarah might want to go on without that break to build toward something else she wanted to draw out. So she'd close the gap, which told you what to do. You’d have to be on your toes so you could anticipate what she was trying to tell you.
JW: That doesn't leave you much time to think.
RB: Tell me about it. Your mind is racing. You have to get there fast. You’re scuffling but you learn. Sarah always listened carefully to what I was playing or what the bass and drums were playing. You can hear on the records how she picked up on what we were doing, and how we did the same thing based on her phrasing.
JW: Was this true only of Sarah?
RB: No. Carmen did that, too. She had that level of confidence and skill. It’s like Miles Davis. Most of those people, when they get out there on that stage and they’re really into the moment, they’re not involved with anything that’s set. The fun of the game is spontaneity. It’s like walking on eggs, and the accompanist has to be very sensitive to this. It’s a fun game.
JW: Don't all singers listen to their trios and interact with them on some level?
RB: Oh, no. Most singers feel like they’re doing the whole thing. They feel like when they hire you, they’re the musicians and that you’re just working for them. They try to tie you up a little bit and direct you in your approach to accompanying them. But when they do that on the job, they don’t do anything but frustrate the people they play with. It stops you from opening up and stops you from enhancing what they’re trying to do.
JW: How was Nancy Wilson to work with?
RB: Beautiful. They called her “Sweet Nancy” because she had such a sweet disposition. She was a lot of fun. Even tempered, and she never lost her cool. We first recorded The Nancy Wilson Show! in 1964. It was live date at the Coconut Grove in Los Angeles. At this point, I was becoming more and more a part of the Capitol Records scene in L.A.
JW: Did that include meeting your boyhood hero?
RB: Nat? Nancy knew how much I loved Nat King Cole as a kid. So she went up to him out in Los Angeles and said, “Nat, my pianist is over there and would love to meet you." Nat came right up to me and put his face in mine and said, “Hi, Ronnell, I'm Nat Cole.” Just like that. I just shrunk. This is just before he got sick. He said he knew me from Sarah's records. For years, he was to me the epitome of class and artistry. I was speechless.
JW: When did you find the time to write songs?
RB: Sometimes on airplanes or while waiting in a line. I'd write the words first, like a story. Then I'd add the melody and chords. I've written about 120 songs.
JW: You wrote Tender Loving Care, the title of an album you recorded with Nancy, with Johnny Mercer.
RB: I wrote the melody and Johnny wrote the lyrics. Nancy loved my song so much she asked Johnny to write the words. She first sent him a cassette tape of me playing, and he loved the song. When he finished writing the lyrics, he called me on the phone. He said, “You know, Ronnell, when I finish the lyrics to songs, I always call the composer first and read them to him." After he read them, he asked me, “Is it alright? If anything is out of sync or cumbersome, you let me know." I told them they were perfect and it was such an honor.
JW: Did you and Johnny Mercer collaborate on any other songs?
RB: Yes, four in total. When I played Comet in the Sky for him at his house, he asked me to add notes in places so his lyrics would work.
JW: What kind of person was Mercer?
RB: All I know is my experience with him. He was a stand-up guy. I remember attending a big gala event with my sister, Lois, in the 1960s. It was like an awards dinner. When I arrived with Lois, they announced us over the speaker system, like royalty or something, and said we'd be at table No. 39. Johnny jumped up from across the room and waved my sister and me over and said we would be joining him, at table No. 1, with his wife Ginger and daughter Mandy. He made room for us. Then he introduced me to Paul Francis Webster, who had just written Shadow of Your Smile. I wrote a song with Paul as well.
JW: Did Johnny ever give you advice?
RB: Well, we met for lunch about three weeks after the gala, and he asked me what I wanted to do ultimately. I told him I wanted to write for the movies. He said, “Well, I don't know. I don't think the time is right." I have no idea what he meant by that comment, but it sure was disheartening.
JW: What did you do after Nancy Wilson.
RB: I played with Ray Anthony in 1970. Quincy Jones had recommended me because Ray needed a player and writer/arranger. We were at the Miami Hilton for about three months. Milt Hinton was at the Fontainebleau Hotel, and I'd go by to hear him, and he'd come over to the Hilton. We talked about everything, including bass players.
JW: Who were Milt Hinton's favorites?
RB: He liked Richard Davis, Red Callender and George Duvivier very much. All of those guys came through Miami, and I had a chance to work with all of them.
JW: Who was your favorite bassist?
RB: Ray Brown, because of those big, walking bass lines. When I play a single [solo], which I often did in the 1980s at New York's Essex House, I'd walk my left hand thinking of Ray Brown. I'd just turn my left hand loose and it knew what to do.
JW: Speaking of left hands, did you ever meet Erroll Garner?
RB: Oh sure. Erroll came by my house in California. He was playing at Donte's. We sat at my piano and he played and we talked about his approach. I said, “Erroll, how did you get your style?” He said, “Well, Ronnell, when I came along, pianists were all playing stride. Like Teddy [Wilson], Fatha Hines and Art [Tatum]. I never could do that with my left hand. But I could do it in one spot, in the same octave range. A lot of folks didn’t know I was left-handed. My right hand was weakest. I’d always have to play catch up with my right hand, which dragged a little bit.” That’s how Erroll’s style was born.
JW: Erroll must have been frightening to play with.
RB: He was. I talked to two bassists who backed him: Red Callender and Eddie Calhoun. They said you never knew what Erroll was going to do. He had no relationship to keys. He didn’t read music. He’d just play. They said sometimes they’d play Misty in B or F-sharp. The next night the song might be in E or A. Whatever Erroll heard at the moment. There were no difficult keys for Erroll. That's why Erroll always started songs by playing solo or vamping. It gave the bassist time to figure out the key.
JW: What did Erroll think of you and your playing?
RB: He liked me. I didn’t realize that he had known me from my days in Chicago. He said, “I remember you at the Blue Note, with a trio. I wondered at the time why you were there. I thought you should be in New York.” That was nice to hear.
JW: Did you ever play with Ella?
RB: Yes, on a Country album called Misty Blue. I remember getting the call to play, and when I showed up, my fingers were all set for a swinging session. Instead, it was Ella on a Country date! At the time, they were trying to follow Ray Charles' model by mixing up her repertoire.
JW: Did Ella ever record your songs?
RB: Almost.
JW: Almost? What happened?
RB: Back in 1981, when my wife, Dianne, and I were living in California, on the beach, I called up Ella and told her that I had written a song called Sea Mist. I tol her that I thought it would be perfect for her. I told her I wanted to play it for her with hopes she might like it.
JW: What did she say?
RB: Ella said come on over. She gave me her address in Beverly Hills, and I drove out there. Her home was stately and in the Spanish Mission style. When I arrived, she led me into a small room with a console piano. She asked if she could get me anything to eat or drink. I told her no thanks, that I couldn’t stay long and that I just wanted to play Sea Mist for her. And that if she didn’t like it, that would be OK, too. “You’re going to sing it, too, aren’t you Ronnell?” So I did.
JW: What did she think?
RB: Before I could finish the song, Ella was on the phone with Norman Granz asking him to come over. She said, “Ronnell Bright is over here and he's playing it now.” A half hour later Norman was there, and I was playing and singing the song again. She and Norman spoke on the side. Then Ella asked if I could come back the next day. “I want Nelson Riddle to come over to hear it.”
JW: Wow, did he show?
RB: Oh yes. The next day I played Sea Mist for Ella, Norman and Nelson Riddle. Before I played, Ella told Nelson that Norman had raved about it and that it reminded him of a certain hit song from the 1930s. So I played and sang it again. At the end, Nelson asked Ella, “How do you want to do this?” Ella says, “I want to do it with the big stuff, you know, with violins, cellos, harp, everything.” So Nelson said OK, and he asked me to come with him to his office on the Sunset Strip that day.
JW: What happened when you got there?
RB: I sat at the piano and played some of the substitution chords I was using that allowed me to go in different directions. Nelson said Ella was going to Europe for two weeks and that he was going to score it for her during that time. A few days later, my phone at home rang and my wife told me Nelson Riddle was on the phone. I said, “Nelson Riddle? What?” I picked up the phone and Nelson said, “Ronnell? I just wanted to tell you that I just finished the arrangement of Sea Mist. It’s a beautiful arrangement. Thank you for letting me write a decent piece of music for a change. I’ve been writing such crap lately. The score is already at Ella’s house. When she comes back from Europe, she’ll find it on her piano."
JW: What did you say?
RB: I said, “Wow, thank you very, very much." He said, “See ya.” Dianne and I celebrated with champagne on the beach. We couldn't believe it.
JW: Did Ella record it?
RB: Hang on. Two months go by. One day I’m at the musician’s union office in L.A. and I run into Al Aarons, the trumpet player who was with Basie. We were there picking up checks for studio gigs we'd done. Al told me he was on his way to do a recording session with Ella. I said really, what is it? He said it’s a Norman Granz-Nelson Riddle date. I said, “Oh man, I’m supposed to have a song on there. Ella didn’t call me, though.” Al said, “Hey, if you have a song on there, come ride with me.”
JW: Was it the right session?
RB: Oh, yes. When I walked onto the sound stage at the Universal lot, they were already rehearsing. Marshal Royal was there, Jimmy Rowles, Bob Cooper, Joe Pass, Shelly Manne and a full string section. I went into the booth and sat down next to a friend. I looked back at the controls and saw Norman. I waved, but he dropped his head. There I am, anticipating Sea Mist. So I’m waiting for it to come up but it never does. On a break, Ella came into the booth and asked if she could talk to me outside for a minute.
JW: What did she say?
RB: We went outside, and she said, “You know, Ronnell, we’re not going to be able to do your song.” She said that Oscar would be so mad at her if she recorded it. Oscar? I thought to myself. What does Oscar Peterson have to do with this? He has his own claim to fame. Maybe he wanted her to record something he wrote and she didn’t and that this would ruffle him. I don't know.
JW: Did she let it go at that?
RB: No, that was more of the set up. She continued that they were all ready to record the song but at the last minute, Norman decided he didn’t want any original material on the album, only standards people knew, to be sure the record sold. Ella said he substituted The Best Is Yet to Come because she hadn’t recorded it yet.
JW: What a blow that must have been.
RB: Tell me about it. When that album came out, I saw that the song they put in became the album title. I just sat there and just looked at the album. I was so sad.
JW: Hey, that score must be kicking around somewhere.
RB: Now hold on a minute. I’m not finished. So several years go by and I’m playing at the Essex House in New York and living on 56th St., on the 31st floor. During the years Ella and I had kept in touch, exchanging Christmas cards and such. One day I get a call from Nelson Riddle’s road manager. He says he’s in town and that Ella asked him to call me. He asks if I can meet him in the lobby of his hotel on Sixth Avenue.
JW: Ella wanted to record it?
RB: Hang on. So I went over, we met, and he handed me the Nelson Riddle score to Sea Mist. He said Ella always felt terrible about what had happened and wanted me to have it as a gift. It had Nelson Riddle’s name on it and Ella’s name.
JW: You're an arranger. When you look at how the parts are written, how does it sound in your head.
RB: It’s plush, man. It's Nelson Riddle plush.
JW: Did you ever hire an orchestra to hear how it sounds?
RB: The closest I ever came was having the University of Kansas orchestra play the brass part. I was doing a concert there. But I have never heard the strings and orchestra parts together. One day, hopefully, one day.
JW: Based on your stories, it sounds like the West Coast music scene in the 1960s was a lot tougher than it seemed to average listeners.
RB: Look, the West Coast has always been a place that attracts large numbers of incredibly talented people. Back then, you didn't come to California to work a few days a week in the music business. It was a seven-day operation, especially as rock music ate into record company budgets. The stakes were higher. If you slowed up, someone else would get the gig. So you learned to take on opportunities and pursue them whenever they came up, if only so you didn't later regret not doing so.
JW: For example?
RB: Sometime back in the early 1970s, my wife, Dianne, and I went to a restaurant in Los Angeles. Dianne noticed that Barbra Streisand and Jon Peters, who was her hairdresser at the time, were just a few tables away.
JW: What were they doing?
RB: Peters was saying something to her and it looked like Barbra was crying. Dianne said that we had to get Sea Mist to her. This is before I took it to Ella.
JW: How were you going to get Barbra to hear the song?
RB: Well there wasn't a piano in the place and we didn't have the music with us. Dianne came up with an idea. She told me to keep them busy and said she'drush back to our place to get a cassette of the song.
JW: How were you supposed to keep them busy?
RB: I have no idea. That's what I told Dianne. She told me to do what I could before she raced out the door. Eventually the waitress came over to their table. Peters got up but Barbra looked out the window, I guess to hide her tears. Peters reached into his pocket for his wallet and paid. A minute or two went by and they got up to leave. I had no idea what to do. What could I say? I didn't have the music or anything.
JW: What happened next?
RB: Just as they neared the door with me behind them, Dianne came through. She walked right up to Barbra and said, “Miss Streisand, my husband there wrote a beautiful song that’s just right for you. I have a cassette and the music here.”
JW: What did Barbra say?
RB: Oh, man, Barbra wasn’t in the mood. She snapped at Dianne, “What’s this? What do you do—you write your own songs and hand them out and keep them with you all the time?” I was dumbstruck. But before Dianne could answer, Barbra said, “Give it here,” and she took the manila envelope Dianne had for her. Then Barbra and Jon Peters left and got their car.
JW: Dianne sounds pretty amazing.
RB: Oh, she is. She's my No. 1 fan. I said to myself at the time, if Barbra Streisand hears Sea Mist in her car, it has to get to her. She has such a beautiful voice, I figured the song had to touch her.
JW: Did Barbra tell you she was going to record it?
RB: A day or so later, we got the envelope back in the mail. Dianne had managed to put our return address on the outside while racing back to the restaurant. The envelope hadn’t even been opened. Someone had just written “Return to Sender” on the outside.
JW: That must have been tough to take.
RB: It was, it was. But look, in those years in California, when you took big risks, the payoff was either huge or you were disappointed for days or weeks. That's why you had to take those kinds of shots. You never knew what could happen.
JW: Sometimes breaks disappear due to misunderstandings.
RB: That's right. Someone you know says they're going to speak to so-and-so on your behalf. If the opportunity doesn't work out, it could have been because it wasn't put the right way.
JW: For example?
RB: Back in 1967, I got a call from Sid Feller, the arranger. We had worked together with Nancy Wilson. Sid asked if I was available to do a date with Doris Day. I said, sure, absolutely. I had always loved Doris Day’s voice. I thought, and still think, her tone and interpretations are so pure and lovely. She is truly exceptional.
JW: Was it a big date?
RB: Oh yes. When I got to the studio, there were a lot of West Coast heavyweights there: Barney Kessel, Irv Cottler and others. We did the recording over several days. When released, the record was called The Love Album. On the final day of recording, Sid came over and said Doris wanted to know if I could stick around afterward.
JW: What did you think?
RB: I thought I had messed up or something. All the guys were packing up to leave, and they kept looking back thinking I had done something wrong.
JW: What was the problem?
RB: Hang on, hang on. After everyone cleared out, Sid came back and said Doris wanted to meet me. I asked if I had done something wrong. Sid said, “No, no, it’s a good thing.” When I walked over with Sid, Marty Melcher, Doris' husband was there, not Doris. Marty said that he and Doris were aware of my talents and that they enjoyed my recordings with Sarah and Nancy.
JW: What did he want?
RB: Marty says, “How would you like to write the theme song to Doris’ next picture?” I said, “You’ve got to be kidding.” Marty said, “No, seriously.” I said absolutely. I had just finished writing a song with Paul Francis Webster, who wrote The Shadow of Your Smile. I asked if they wanted me to call Paul. “No, no, Ronnell, we know Paul,” Marty said. “We want you to write the words and music yourself.”
JW: Did you take on the assignment?
RB: Oh yes. They delivered the script the next day. It was about the New York City blackout of 1966. It was called, Where Were You When the Lights Went Out? So I wrote and wrote and wrote the whole week. I figured that if Doris didn’t like one song, I could always show her another.
JW: So you scored the movie?
RB: About two days before I was to meet Doris at her office on Cannon Drive, Don Genson, her record producer, calls. He says, “Ronnell, I’m so sorry. Marty is unpredictable. He’s already made an agreement with someone else who’s going to do the score. We told him we already had someone to do the title song. But he complained that if he’s going to do the score, he also wanted to write the title song. So Marty made an agreement to let him do it.”
JW: What a lousy break. Who wound up writing the title song?
RB: That was the funny thing. When the movie came out in 1968, it didn’t have a title song.
JW: So they tied you up for weeks and that was it?
RB: No. Don Genson said, “Doris is very upset about this and wants to meet you at her office to make it up to you. She wants to do another project.” Man, my spirit was so down at that point. But I went anyway.
JW: What was Doris like?
RB: Doris was sweet, just like she is in the movies. You looked into her face saw that her eyes were soft and she smiled so easily. She was timid but pompous in a protective sort of way. She sat on a tall stool, and I sat at the piano playing. She said, “You know, Ronnell, how would you like to do an album with me—just the two of us?" I said I’d love to.
JW: Who else was in the room?
RB: Don Genson and her rehearsal pianist. Doris says, “I’ve got a book of sheet music from different Broadway shows. I'd like you to pick a selection of songs from these shows and arrange them in my keys." Doris is a beautiful singer, and I was honored. She said, “If you can come back in a week’s time, we’ll meet and try them out.”
JW: What did you think?
RB: I had just finished staying up night and day writing music for the movie job that was taken away. Now I had to do more homework. But that was fine. I arranged about half the music in her key by the time we met the next time.
JW: How did it go?
RB: Back at her office, her rehearsal pianist was there again. He was throwing me dirty looks the entire time. He didn’t appreciate my being there, and I could understand completely how he felt. And I felt bad for him. Doris and I worked for about an hour. Then I took a break in the hall. I felt awful and couldn't really concentrate with the guy hovering around me.
JW: Did Genson get the picture?
RB: When Don Genson came out, I said, “Don, I appreciate this opportunity. But why is her pianist here? He’s shooting me dirty looks and coming up to the piano and checking out my hands. I can’t work like that. I have to be free. Is there any way to tell Doris not to bring him next time? I want to check out her singing and phrasing on these songs. I also want to communicate with her musically. But this guy is making me nervous.”
JW: So Don took care of it with Doris?
RB: About 15 minutes later, Doris came out with a powder puff, took it out and started powdering her face. “Alright Ronnell, you played for Sarah and Carmen but you don’t want to play for me?” Just as I opened my mouth to explain, she turned and left with Don.
JW: What do you think happened?
RB: I have no idea what Genson said to her. He must have gone inside and said “Well, Ronnell's all steamed up and doesn’t want to play with you under these conditions” or something like that. Whatever he said must have hurt her feelings to produce that kind of reaction.
JW: Why didn't Doris ask you directly for an explanation?
RB: In those days, I think Doris was insulated by the people around her. Maybe there was an insecurity. I have no idea why she didn't jump in and find out the truth for herself.
JW: If you could tell Doris Day something right now, what would it be?
RB: I'd tell her what I didn't have a chance to say that day. To me, Doris was on the same level as Sarah, Carmen, Ella and Nancy. When she sang, she had the love coming right through her. I so enjoyed her singing, and it was a joy to play behind her on The Love Album. I think had we been able to record an album with just the two of us, it would still be considered a jazz and pop classic. But you know how things go—they often happen or don't happen for a reason.
JW: How did you handle disappointments like that?
RB: Louis Armstrong once sat next to me on the piano bench. I said to Louis, “Do you have a line of advice for a young feller trying to come up in the business?” He said, “Just remember this, Fingers: Your health comes first.” That has always remained with me and has helped me shrug off many tough breaks.
When I started this blog in 2007, part of my motive was to track down favorite jazz artists few people knew much about and interview them. High on my list was Ronnell Bright. I first fell in love with Ronnell's chord voicings and touch back in the 1970s, when I heard Sarah Vaughan sing Thanks for the Memory on a vinyl recording of After Hours at the London House (1959). What always struck me about that recording, in addition to Sassy's shock-proof cool after twice flubbing the lyrics, was how Ronnell managed to gently start the tune three different ways, using exquisite chords and fabulous runs. His chords behind Sassy on Detour Ahead on the same album still knock me out.
Here's Thanks for the Memory...
In 2008, Ronnell was living with his wife, Dianne, in relative obscurity in Denver. I didn't even think he was still around when I started to track him down him and left messages for people who knew him. So imagine my surprise when three weeks later, I answered my ringing cell phone and the voice at the other end said, “Marc? This is Ronnell Bright." There on the phone was my hero of that famous Sarah Vaughan session and one of the finest accompanists in jazz singing.
Here's Ronnell's R and R Groove...
After I posted my five-part interview, the shy and extremely humble Ronnell was able to go off to the library and show people there who he was by having them bring up the post. Little by little, groups of people circled around and were wowed. Ronnell was known locally and revered. He felt special. As Dianne told me yeseterday, “Bobby Troupe once told him, 'Ronnell, the world never knew how great you are and neither did you.'"
In the years following 2008, Ronnell and I spoke often and a friendship grew. Each year on my birthday, Ronnell and Dianne called to sing Happy Birthday. If I was out, the song would be on my voicmail. Ronnell was forever grateful I had cared. How could I not? How could anyone not realize he was a towering artist? And yet he was off the grid, a decision that came largely out of his desire for privacy and his upbringing to not honk your own horn.
So that the world doesn't forget, here's my full JazzWax interview with Ronnell Bright in 2008:
JazzWax: Where did you grow up?
Ronnell Bright: I was born in 1930 and grew up in the Chicago. My family was very supportive, and I went to a good school We lived on the South Side of Chicago, the Woodlawn area, which was a nice part of town. My father was a preacher, a straight-up guy and real nice. My mother was a former schoolteacher. I had three sisters and a brother. I was the baby in the family, and we had a beautiful time. We were a very musical family.
JW: Who did you listen to as a kid?
RB: Coleman Hawkins and Chu Berry with Fletcher Henderson’s Orchestra. My sister, Della Bright, was a singer in a vocal trio called the Rhythm Debs. They sang with Fletcher whenever he came to Chicago. Fletcher used to come over to our house and chart out the vocal arrangements and rehearse the trio on our piano. I was four years old, but they let me sit there because I was very quiet.
JW: Did you understand what was going on?
RB: Oh, my yes. The playing and singing were so great. That’s when I got the bug to be a musician and go into show business. Another guy who used to come to the house all the time was David Young, a saxophonist. And my older sister married a saxophonist. I heard so much saxophone in the house that I wanted to play tenor.
JW: But you wound up a pianist.
RB: That wasn't my choice. It was my parents’ decision. We had an old upright and before I could see the keys, I’d reach up and try to play notes. My parents started me on piano lessons when I was five years old. At first I didn’t like practicing, but later on I took to it. My teacher, Jeanne Fletcher, taught me classical—Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, Chopin and all of that. I had to practice at least an hour a day before I was allowed to go out to play.
JW: Audiences didn’t scare you?
RB: I was the kid who played classical music at all of the high school events. My memory was very good, and playing came naturally to me. When I was 8, I was called a child prodigy. I’d give recitals at theaters downtown, and teachers would bring their favorite students to hear me play. I always got nice mentions in the newspapers, and playing was a natural part of my background.
JW: Did you go to music school after graduation?
RB: I went for a year to a junior college and then decided to go my own way. In 1948, I enlisted in the Navy and played in the band on our aircraft carrier, which toured the Caribbean. On board was singer Julius LaRosa. We used to have music programs on board, what they used to call “smokers." I’d play piano and Julius sang. We became great friends. In 1949, I left the navy but had to remain in the reserves for four years. Just after I was discharged, I heard that Arthur Godfrey came aboard the carrier and discovered Julius.
JW: What happened after you left the Navy?
RB: Actually, that period was short-lived. When the Korean War broke out in 1950, I was called back into the Navy. They sent me to Washington, D.C., where they were going to ship me out. While there, I walked into the Navy School of Music based at the U.S. Naval Receiving Station, Anacostia Annex, as it was known then. Musicians were trained there for performances at the White House, Treasure Island in San Francisco, and other military facilities. I told them I was a pianist, but I wasn't immediately accepted because I was only in for a year. I asked if my orders could be changed to be a musician. So they auditioned me.
JW: How did you do?
RB: My classics were up to par. But then they asked me to play How High the Moon. I couldn’t because I wasn’t a jazz musician. I liked Nat King Cole—his smoothness, subtlety and creativity. But I was trained to be a classical pianist. They liked me and said they’d take me into the school if within six months I learned 25 popular songs and all the chord changes. It was the first time they had someone who was a proficient classical player but unfamiliar with the popular stuff.
JW: How did you pick up jazz so quickly?
RB: A few jazz musicians who were in the school there helped break me in.
JW: Who were the musicians?
RB: Julian Adderley, his brother Nat, and Eric Dolphy. The Army had sent their people to the Navy Music School, too. We were all together at that school for three months. Fake books had just started coming out, so I did a lot of playing and listening to get used to jazz. I think the first jazz song I played was I’m an Old Cowhand. Julian and I were in the barracks one day and he said his group needed a pianist for a gig that night. I said I didn’t know chord changes. But he said it didn’t matter, they needed a pianist. So it was me, Julian, Nat and Eric playing a gig in Washington, DC.
JW: But you didn't know how to play jazz. What happened?
RB: When we got there, Julian called for Blue Room. I said, “Blue Room? What is that, the blues?” They teased me about that for years. Once they started playing the song, though, my ear figured out the chord changes. I’m not saying what I played was correct, but I worked it out. I played two or three jobs with them. Washington, DC, back then was still the South. On breaks, we had to go sit in the kitchen because they didn’t allow Blacks to mingle with the audience then.
JW: So Cannonball, Nat and Dolphy got you started?
RB: Yes! What a group, right? Next I worked a gig with trumpeter Duke Garrette, who also was attending the Navy Music School. He had been with Lionel Hampton, and working with him let me learn some jazz songs. I had the technique. I just didn’t know how to weave and interweave chords. Swinging seemed to come natural to me, probably because of my love for Nat King Cole. One thing led to another, and the Navy sent me to Treasure Island in San Francisco Bay to perform in an 18-piece orchestra. There were good players in that band. On the weekends, I’d go into San Francisco with some of the guys and play officers’ parties, too. This was 1952-53.
JW: What did you do when you were discharged?
RB: I returned to Chicago and played piano as a solo. At this time, bassist Johnnie Pate was working with pianist Don Shirley as a duo. They were working at club called The Streamliner. Someone had heard Johnnie and Don, and tried to hire them to play The Embers in New York. Don went but Johnnie didn’t because he had a family. Johnnie recommended bassist Richard Davis instead. So Johnnie kept the job at The Streamliner. When I heard Johnnie needed a pianist, I contacted him and told him I was interested. He invited me over his house. I played piano for him but clearly didn’t have the mentality for jazz. Yet he liked my enthusiasm and was very patient with me. He showed me how to get through chord changes and worked with me on substitute chords and key changes. He hired drummer Charles Walton, and we worked The Streamliner for about a year. We also recorded in Chicago in 1955 as the Johnnie Pate Trio for Talisman Records. That was my first recording date, and the trio gave me a taste for how exciting jazz could be.
JW: What happened after your first recording in 1955 as pianist with the Johnnie Pate Trio?
RB: We became the house trio at several Chicago clubs. We worked The Streamliner on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights, and on Monday and Tuesday nights we worked the London House. We had the hot spots. Johnnie was an excellent musician and gave me a great sense of jazz. He taught me how to accompany and how to play.
JW: How did you wind up accompanying Carmen McRae so early?
RB: By early 1955, The Streamliner had become so popular that the owner started hiring out-of-town singers. One of them was Carmen McRae. By then, I was able to do some polished things on the piano to back up a singer. I had the technique, thanks to my classical training. When Carmen came in, she was singing all the pretty stuff. She was very sweet then, like a debutante. At the end of her run, she gave me a picture with an inscription that read, “To Ronnell—Thanks for playing for me. You’re a marvelous pianist.” The next time she came through Chicago, we played the Blue Note, an even bigger club. The Blue Note was like Birdland. Everyone worked there, from Oscar Peterson to George Shearing.
JW: Yet you decided to leave Chicago in 1956 for New York?
RB: New York was where all the major music was happening. I had to make the move if I wanted to break out on my own. When I first arrived in New York, I contacted bassist Richard Davis. He and his wife had just gotten an apartment. I asked Richard if he had a spare room, until I was able to find a place. Richard and his wife put me up for two weeks. This was July 1956.
JW: Where did you find work?
RB: Right after I moved in, I was walking near Birdland on Broadway and 52nd St. and bumped into Benny Powell. If you were looking for work back then, you hung out there hoping to get picked up for a gig. I had met Benny originally in Chicago, when Count Basie’s band played the Blue Note. In fact I met everyone while working there—Stan Kenton, Zoot Sims, Oscar Peterson, Conte Candoli and so many others.
JW: What happened when you ran into Benny?
RB: It was about 11 a.m. when I met him. He said, “Man, Hank Jones was supposed to do a date with us for Savoy and he can’t make it. I thought I’d find someone down here. It's supposed to be at 2 pm. Do you want to make this date?" I said, “Sure!" Benny got on the phone and hooked it up for me. When we got to the date at Rudy Van Gelder's house in New Jersey, I met producer Ozzie Cadena. Eddie Jones was on bass and Kenny Clarke was on drums. Frank Wess was walking around with pencil and paper putting together the arrangements for four trombones—Benny, Jimmy Cleveland, Henry Coker and Bill Hughes. Freddie Green was also there on guitar. Frank played flute. [The Savoy album was Trombones: Featuring Frank Wess, Flute.]
JW: That was a big break for you.
RB: I met some fast company that day. After the session, Ozzie came over and said, “You’re brand new huh? I’d like to record you. Can you get it together in two weeks?” I said, “Well sure, of course. What kind of instrumentation do you want?” Ozzie said, “Whatever you want. Just get it together." So I put together a trio.
JW: Who did you get?
RB: I cold-called Kenny Burrell and Leonard Gaskin. I didn’t know them but I knew they were among the busiest session musicians in town. So I got with Kenny. We had lunch, and I told him what I was going to do. He said he'd do it. Then I called Leonard, who also agreed to play the date. The result was Bright’s Spot, which we recorded for Savoy in the fall of 1956.
JW: What did you learn from the date?
RB: The session made me realize I needed to form my own trio for gigs and recordings. Kenny and Leonard were studio guys and did this as a one-time favor. I needed my own thing. So I went by The Embers and ran into Bill Clark, who was playing drums with George Shearing. George was going out on the road, and Bill said he didn't want to travel. So I asked Bill if he wanted to form a trio. He said yes. I also had heard that Joe Benjamin, Sarah Vaughan’s bassist, was leaving her. I asked Joe about joining, and he agreed, too.
JW: So now you had your own trio.
RB: We rehearsed for a time. Then I contacted John Hammond and told him I had a trio. I asked if he wanted to come hear us rehearse at Nola’s Studios. When John came by, he was with Rolf Kuhn, a German clarinetist. Rolf was like Benny Goodman, as fast as greased lightning. While we were playing for John, I could see Rolf was checking me out. When we finished, John said he was going to record Kuhn and needed a trio behind him. But, I told John, I really wanted to record with my trio. John said if I recorded behind Kuhn for him, he would do something for me later. So I talked it over with the guys.
JW: What did they say?
RB: The guys weren't crazy about it. Like me, they wanted their own thing. So I didn’t give John an answer right away. We soon got a gig at The Embers and I told John we were there. He came by and brought Kuhn again. After our set, John said he really wanted the four of us to record for Vanguard, which he was overseeing. So we did the Kuhn date in November 1956. It was very technical stuff, but I was able to pull it off. The album was Streamline: The Rolf Kuhn Quartet. When it was released, it was a pretty big success.
JW: What about your trio date?
RB: I still wanted my trio to record. But Rolf and the quartet caught on for a while thanks to the album, and we went into the Blue Note in Chicago. Bassist Johnnie Pate saw me there and ribbed me: “I thought you were going to get your own thing?” I said, “I know, I know.” Johnnie was just kidding. He was happy for me. But he and I both knew what I ultimately wanted to do.
JW: Did John Hammond come through on his promise?
RB: Oh, yes. When I got back to New York, he recorded me in March 1957 with Joe Benjamin on bass and Bill Clark on drums. The recording was Bright Flight. After that record, my trio was established, and we played regularly in New York. From then on, musicians and singers started to take notice of me, as did Willard Alexander, the famous band booker.
JW: Did you and producer John Hammond get along well?
RB: Yes. After the Rolf Kuhn recording and my trio date in late 1957, John encouraged Willard Alexander to come hear me play. At the time, Willard booked all the major bands and jazz artists. After Willard heard me, he signed me right away. One of the first jobs Willard booked my trio into was the Boom Boom Room at the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami Beach. We played there for a week.
JW: What was playing the Fontainebleau like?
RB: Oh, beautiful. It was quite thrilling. Frank Sinatra was upstairs. The audiences were great. And stars dropped by to hear us play every night. But back at that time, Blacks couldn’t stay on the beach side with whites. We could work in the hotel, but when we got through we had to take a cab over the bridge to the Sir John Hotel. Basie’s band had to stay there, too. Same with Sammy Davis, Jr. and Lena Horne.
JW: When did you meet Sarah Vaughan?
RB: Around this time in 1957, Willard booked my trio into Storyville in Boston. Working opposite me was Sarah with Jimmy Jones on piano, Richard Davis on bass and Roy Haynes on drums. Sarah was a good friend of Carmen McRae’s and she knew of me. When I went into Storyville, I used Ray Crawford on guitar and a bassist whose name I can't recall. During the gig, Ray leaned over and said, “Hey, man, Sarah is sitting at a table right behind you checking you out.” I didn’t really pay much attention to what Ray said. We played opposite her for about a week.
JW: How did you become her accompanist?
RB: At the end of 1957, Jimmy Jones decided he was going to stay in New York and become a composer and arranger rather than continue to tour with Sarah. He had been with her for 10 years and wanted a change. So George Treadwell, Sarah's husband and manager at the time, called me. I went down to see him at his office in the Brill Building. He said Sarah was deciding between me and Wynton Kelly and that it was down to money. I said it would be honor to play for Sarah and whatever she thought would be fair was fine with me. The next thing I knew, I got a call telling me to join her in Washington, D.C. Our first record date in January 1958 was for a few songs used on No Count Sarah. I played piano behind Sarah with Count Basie's band instead of Basie. I don’t know why Basie wasn’t on that date. I suppose I was there because I was Sarah's accompanist, and Basie honored me in that role by letting me play.
JW: You and Sarah were in Chicago in March 1958?
RB: Yes. We were playing Mister Kelly's. Late one night, around 2 a.m., after the third set, we rushed over from Mister Kelly's to the London House. We were going over there to record a live album for Mercury. If I recall, the same person owned both clubs. That was an amazing night. Everyone I knew was there: bassist Johnnie Pate, pianist Dick Katz, the guys who wrote Detour Ahead—guitarist Herb Ellis and bassist John Frigo. The place was packed. I think the session was the first time a record company recorded a live jazz date cold.
JW: Wasn't there any rehearsal?
RB: Not only were there no rehearsals, there were no charts. There was no time. Sarah went out and bought piano sheet music for each musician and passed it out on stage, at 2 a.m., just before we started recording. We had to transpose the sheet music to her keys. Everyone had to scuffle.
JW: How did four members of the Basie band wind up on the date?
RB: That's right—Frank Wess, Thad Jones, Wendell Culley and Henry Coker were there, along with me, Richard Davis and Roy Haynes. I believe Basie's band was in Chicago that week recording for Roulette.
JW: What happened on Thanks for the Memory? Sarah trips over the word “Parthenon," and she stops the song—twice.
RB: Sarah had sheet music for the song, like everyone else, and was reading the word “Parthenon," which was hyphenated. She was unfamiliar with the word or what the Parthenon was. So she couldn’t figure out where the emphasis was supposed to go. She stopped cold and calmly worked it out. That was Sarah, recording session or no recording session. No one on stage was prepared for that, as you can hear from the record. It was a live recording, and Sarah doing that was a little scary. But this is what made the session so exciting.
JW: Did you think she was going to abandon the song after the second stumble on the same word?
RB: I had no idea. I was about to say “Parth-ah-non” out loud to help her, but I caught myself, remembering we were recording live. So I stayed quiet. Sarah worked her way through it and kept the moment alive. That's what makes the recording so fresh today, the imperfection and the human quality of trying to fix a mistake. After the session, at around 4 a.m., we all went out to breakfast and had a blast.
JW: I always found it remarkable that you start Thanks for the Memory each with subtle differences.
RB: You had to, or Sarah would hear you trying to do what you already did, which to her would be lazy. Sarah rarely did anything the same way twice. She came up through the ranks with Charlie Parker. It was a badge of honor to do things differently each time. There was no other way.
JW: Was it tough to anticipate what Sarah was going to do with a song?
RB: Sometimes. Sarah would change keys in the middle of a song. She’d go somewhere else, and we’d have to find her. She taught all of her sidemen ear training. You had seconds to figure out what she was going to do. It became intuitive. But once we were comfortable with her, we'd do the same thing to her. She’d sing in one key and we’d change keys so she’d have to find us. She liked the challenge.
JW: You were with Sarah for about two years.
RB: That's right. After the London House recording, we left for Europe, starting with performances at the Brussels World’s Fair. Then we toured all over for about four months and recorded Vaughan and Violins in Paris in July 1958.
JW: Was Sarah all business?
RB: Yes, when it came to the music. But before and after a performance, she loved to have fun. And she was a mischief-maker, to throw you off your game. She’d hide our shoes just before the trio had to go out on stage. So we'd be out there with just our socks on. But we gave it back. She had this pink satin gown that she liked to wear night after night. We were tired of seeing it, so we buried it outside in a box.
JW: Did she know?
RB: She probably figured it out. She came out of her dressing room asking, “Where’s my gown? Who has my gown?” We never told her. Sarah was one of the guys, and she knew that fooling around was part of what made the music special. John Collins, Nat Cole's guitarist after Oscar Moore left, said that he was on a band bus with Sarah in the 1950s and fell asleep. When he woke up in the dead of night, Sarah was driving the bus. That's the kind of woman she was. Sarah called me her “backbone” and was very protective of me and all her musicians.
JW: While you were in Paris, you recorded an unusual trio date with Richard Davis on bass and Art Morgan on drums. It's unusual because instead of lush treatments, you're playing is heavy and bop-influenced. How did that come about?
RB: In late spring 1958, I went to the Mars Club. There were a few pianists there, including Hazel Scott, playing solo. So we had a jam session. Afterward, a guy approached me about recording for Polydor. I used Richard Davis and Art Morgan, an English drummer who was playing in town with Ted Heath's orchestra. I know what you mean, it was a different sound for me. I felt free and wanted to record faster, springy pieces I had written. After the tour, when we returned to the U.S. later in 1958, we played clubs and concerts with Sarah. Then we recorded the rest of No Count Sarah and another Mercury session arranged by Belford Hendricks.
JW: You left Sarah in 1960. Why?
RB: I needed to make more money. Roland Hanna replaced me on piano. I started another trio with Peck Morrison and Denzil Best, and we played mostly at the Cafe Bohemia and Birdland in New York. After my work with Sarah, I was very much in demand as an accompanist, so I found a lot of work with Lena Horne and other singers. One time I was with Al Hibbler, somewhere in the Midwest. He had a nice car but he'd have to get his accompanist to drive, of course, because he was blind. I remember it was just the two of us, sometime in 1960. We drove to Indiana or Michigan. It was a one-nighter. We drove there, and he got in an argument with management because the owner didn’t want to give him his money immediately. It was a banquet or something. So Al went back to get paid and I went with him. He knocked on the door. There were two rough guys in there. Al asked again for his money. As soon as they start making excuses, Al starts swinging. I said, “No, no, Al, no, no man." Al didn't care. He starts screaming, “I want my money now." Well, he got paid, like always, in dollar bills, so he'd know exactly how much he had.
JW: You returned to Sarah in 1963. Why?
RB: Sarah wrote me from Sweden telling me that the city had reminded her how much fun we had in 1958 and asked if I'd accompany her again. Kirk Stuart, her pianist, was going to leave upon their return. When she got back, she came over to my house and talked to me about returning. The timing was good, since a show that Lena Horne and her conductor and husband Lenny Hayton had put together was disbanding. So I went back with Sarah for a few months. Sarah recorded a few of my songs—Missing You and I've Got to Talk to My Heart.
JW: You left Sarah again in 1964 for good, this time for Nancy Wilson.
RB: Again, it was a money issue. Nancy Wilson's manager, John Levy, asked me to accompany Nancy and rehearse the band. By then, I had a wife and family to support, and John was offering me twice the money Sarah was paying me. More important, I was going to get paid whether we worked or not, which was key.
JW: How did Sarah take the news?
RB: I called Sarah on the phone and said that I got an offer I can't turn down. She said, “What do you mean?" I told her the financial terms I was being offered and said, “Sarah, look, there's no one I'd rather play for but you. You're the boss. But the offer is too good." So Sarah asks, “Who is it?" I said, “It's a young girl, Nancy Wilson." There was the big pause. Then Sarah quietly said, “Alright, Ronnell" and slammed the phone down so hard I could imagine pieces of it flying everywhere on her end. Bob James replaced me on piano with Sarah.
JW: Is it hard to be an accompanist?
RB: It’s tricky. If you’re an accompanist, you’re listening to find ways to enhance what the singer is trying to do. You're listening to the words. You're listening to hear when the singer breathes and the singer's phrasing. You learn when to fill in, to lead them to the next phrase if you sense what's coming up. Or you may need to get out of the way. It’s a delicate, delicate operation that takes place seconds before notes come out.
JW: Who taught you the most as an accompanist?
RB: Sarah. She taught me how to stay out of singer’s way and how to build before a singer opens up and emerges into something else. Playing behind a singer is strategic. I never played much piano music with people like Sarah and Carmen. I had the chord changes and that was about it. They were so busy phrasing or coming in when they wanted to come in. That forced you get into their heads and made you listen to what they were doing. The first thing you learn playing as an accompanist is how to listen. When you do, you’re taking that trip with them.
JW: How could you anticipate where Sarah was going on a song?
RB: Sarah had a way of telling you when she didn’t want you to fill in. She would tighten up the lyrics. For example, she’d phrase a line this way: “The evening breeze, caress the treeeees, tenderlyThe trembling trees, embraced the treees…” No gap between the first and second lines. She’d go right into the second line without a break. Now normally you would fill right in with notes after that first line, because that’s where most singers catch a breath. But Sarah might want to go on without that break to build toward something else she wanted to draw out. So she'd close the gap, which told you what to do. You’d have to be on your toes so you could anticipate what she was trying to tell you.
JW: That doesn't leave you much time to think.
RB: Tell me about it. Your mind is racing. You have to get there fast. You’re scuffling but you learn. Sarah always listened carefully to what I was playing or what the bass and drums were playing. You can hear on the records how she picked up on what we were doing, and how we did the same thing based on her phrasing.
JW: Was this true only of Sarah?
RB: No. Carmen did that, too. She had that level of confidence and skill. It’s like Miles Davis. Most of those people, when they get out there on that stage and they’re really into the moment, they’re not involved with anything that’s set. The fun of the game is spontaneity. It’s like walking on eggs, and the accompanist has to be very sensitive to this. It’s a fun game.
JW: Don't all singers listen to their trios and interact with them on some level?
RB: Oh, no. Most singers feel like they’re doing the whole thing. They feel like when they hire you, they’re the musicians and that you’re just working for them. They try to tie you up a little bit and direct you in your approach to accompanying them. But when they do that on the job, they don’t do anything but frustrate the people they play with. It stops you from opening up and stops you from enhancing what they’re trying to do.
JW: How was Nancy Wilson to work with?
RB: Beautiful. They called her “Sweet Nancy” because she had such a sweet disposition. She was a lot of fun. Even tempered, and she never lost her cool. We first recorded The Nancy Wilson Show! in 1964. It was live date at the Coconut Grove in Los Angeles. At this point, I was becoming more and more a part of the Capitol Records scene in L.A.
JW: Did that include meeting your boyhood hero?
RB: Nat? Nancy knew how much I loved Nat King Cole as a kid. So she went up to him out in Los Angeles and said, “Nat, my pianist is over there and would love to meet you." Nat came right up to me and put his face in mine and said, “Hi, Ronnell, I'm Nat Cole.” Just like that. I just shrunk. This is just before he got sick. He said he knew me from Sarah's records. For years, he was to me the epitome of class and artistry. I was speechless.
JW: When did you find the time to write songs?
RB: Sometimes on airplanes or while waiting in a line. I'd write the words first, like a story. Then I'd add the melody and chords. I've written about 120 songs.
JW: You wrote Tender Loving Care, the title of an album you recorded with Nancy, with Johnny Mercer.
RB: I wrote the melody and Johnny wrote the lyrics. Nancy loved my song so much she asked Johnny to write the words. She first sent him a cassette tape of me playing, and he loved the song. When he finished writing the lyrics, he called me on the phone. He said, “You know, Ronnell, when I finish the lyrics to songs, I always call the composer first and read them to him." After he read them, he asked me, “Is it alright? If anything is out of sync or cumbersome, you let me know." I told them they were perfect and it was such an honor.
JW: Did you and Johnny Mercer collaborate on any other songs?
RB: Yes, four in total. When I played Comet in the Sky for him at his house, he asked me to add notes in places so his lyrics would work.
JW: What kind of person was Mercer?
RB: All I know is my experience with him. He was a stand-up guy. I remember attending a big gala event with my sister, Lois, in the 1960s. It was like an awards dinner. When I arrived with Lois, they announced us over the speaker system, like royalty or something, and said we'd be at table No. 39. Johnny jumped up from across the room and waved my sister and me over and said we would be joining him, at table No. 1, with his wife Ginger and daughter Mandy. He made room for us. Then he introduced me to Paul Francis Webster, who had just written Shadow of Your Smile. I wrote a song with Paul as well.
JW: Did Johnny ever give you advice?
RB: Well, we met for lunch about three weeks after the gala, and he asked me what I wanted to do ultimately. I told him I wanted to write for the movies. He said, “Well, I don't know. I don't think the time is right." I have no idea what he meant by that comment, but it sure was disheartening.
JW: What did you do after Nancy Wilson.
RB: I played with Ray Anthony in 1970. Quincy Jones had recommended me because Ray needed a player and writer/arranger. We were at the Miami Hilton for about three months. Milt Hinton was at the Fontainebleau Hotel, and I'd go by to hear him, and he'd come over to the Hilton. We talked about everything, including bass players.
JW: Who were Milt Hinton's favorites?
RB: He liked Richard Davis, Red Callender and George Duvivier very much. All of those guys came through Miami, and I had a chance to work with all of them.
JW: Who was your favorite bassist?
RB: Ray Brown, because of those big, walking bass lines. When I play a single [solo], which I often did in the 1980s at New York's Essex House, I'd walk my left hand thinking of Ray Brown. I'd just turn my left hand loose and it knew what to do.
JW: Speaking of left hands, did you ever meet Erroll Garner?
RB: Oh sure. Erroll came by my house in California. He was playing at Donte's. We sat at my piano and he played and we talked about his approach. I said, “Erroll, how did you get your style?” He said, “Well, Ronnell, when I came along, pianists were all playing stride. Like Teddy [Wilson], Fatha Hines and Art [Tatum]. I never could do that with my left hand. But I could do it in one spot, in the same octave range. A lot of folks didn’t know I was left-handed. My right hand was weakest. I’d always have to play catch up with my right hand, which dragged a little bit.” That’s how Erroll’s style was born.
JW: Erroll must have been frightening to play with.
RB: He was. I talked to two bassists who backed him: Red Callender and Eddie Calhoun. They said you never knew what Erroll was going to do. He had no relationship to keys. He didn’t read music. He’d just play. They said sometimes they’d play Misty in B or F-sharp. The next night the song might be in E or A. Whatever Erroll heard at the moment. There were no difficult keys for Erroll. That's why Erroll always started songs by playing solo or vamping. It gave the bassist time to figure out the key.
JW: What did Erroll think of you and your playing?
RB: He liked me. I didn’t realize that he had known me from my days in Chicago. He said, “I remember you at the Blue Note, with a trio. I wondered at the time why you were there. I thought you should be in New York.” That was nice to hear.
JW: Did you ever play with Ella?
RB: Yes, on a Country album called Misty Blue. I remember getting the call to play, and when I showed up, my fingers were all set for a swinging session. Instead, it was Ella on a Country date! At the time, they were trying to follow Ray Charles' model by mixing up her repertoire.
JW: Did Ella ever record your songs?
RB: Almost.
JW: Almost? What happened?
RB: Back in 1981, when my wife, Dianne, and I were living in California, on the beach, I called up Ella and told her that I had written a song called Sea Mist. I tol her that I thought it would be perfect for her. I told her I wanted to play it for her with hopes she might like it.
JW: What did she say?
RB: Ella said come on over. She gave me her address in Beverly Hills, and I drove out there. Her home was stately and in the Spanish Mission style. When I arrived, she led me into a small room with a console piano. She asked if she could get me anything to eat or drink. I told her no thanks, that I couldn’t stay long and that I just wanted to play Sea Mist for her. And that if she didn’t like it, that would be OK, too. “You’re going to sing it, too, aren’t you Ronnell?” So I did.
JW: What did she think?
RB: Before I could finish the song, Ella was on the phone with Norman Granz asking him to come over. She said, “Ronnell Bright is over here and he's playing it now.” A half hour later Norman was there, and I was playing and singing the song again. She and Norman spoke on the side. Then Ella asked if I could come back the next day. “I want Nelson Riddle to come over to hear it.”
JW: Wow, did he show?
RB: Oh yes. The next day I played Sea Mist for Ella, Norman and Nelson Riddle. Before I played, Ella told Nelson that Norman had raved about it and that it reminded him of a certain hit song from the 1930s. So I played and sang it again. At the end, Nelson asked Ella, “How do you want to do this?” Ella says, “I want to do it with the big stuff, you know, with violins, cellos, harp, everything.” So Nelson said OK, and he asked me to come with him to his office on the Sunset Strip that day.
JW: What happened when you got there?
RB: I sat at the piano and played some of the substitution chords I was using that allowed me to go in different directions. Nelson said Ella was going to Europe for two weeks and that he was going to score it for her during that time. A few days later, my phone at home rang and my wife told me Nelson Riddle was on the phone. I said, “Nelson Riddle? What?” I picked up the phone and Nelson said, “Ronnell? I just wanted to tell you that I just finished the arrangement of Sea Mist. It’s a beautiful arrangement. Thank you for letting me write a decent piece of music for a change. I’ve been writing such crap lately. The score is already at Ella’s house. When she comes back from Europe, she’ll find it on her piano."
JW: What did you say?
RB: I said, “Wow, thank you very, very much." He said, “See ya.” Dianne and I celebrated with champagne on the beach. We couldn't believe it.
JW: Did Ella record it?
RB: Hang on. Two months go by. One day I’m at the musician’s union office in L.A. and I run into Al Aarons, the trumpet player who was with Basie. We were there picking up checks for studio gigs we'd done. Al told me he was on his way to do a recording session with Ella. I said really, what is it? He said it’s a Norman Granz-Nelson Riddle date. I said, “Oh man, I’m supposed to have a song on there. Ella didn’t call me, though.” Al said, “Hey, if you have a song on there, come ride with me.”
JW: Was it the right session?
RB: Oh, yes. When I walked onto the sound stage at the Universal lot, they were already rehearsing. Marshal Royal was there, Jimmy Rowles, Bob Cooper, Joe Pass, Shelly Manne and a full string section. I went into the booth and sat down next to a friend. I looked back at the controls and saw Norman. I waved, but he dropped his head. There I am, anticipating Sea Mist. So I’m waiting for it to come up but it never does. On a break, Ella came into the booth and asked if she could talk to me outside for a minute.
JW: What did she say?
RB: We went outside, and she said, “You know, Ronnell, we’re not going to be able to do your song.” She said that Oscar would be so mad at her if she recorded it. Oscar? I thought to myself. What does Oscar Peterson have to do with this? He has his own claim to fame. Maybe he wanted her to record something he wrote and she didn’t and that this would ruffle him. I don't know.
JW: Did she let it go at that?
RB: No, that was more of the set up. She continued that they were all ready to record the song but at the last minute, Norman decided he didn’t want any original material on the album, only standards people knew, to be sure the record sold. Ella said he substituted The Best Is Yet to Come because she hadn’t recorded it yet.
JW: What a blow that must have been.
RB: Tell me about it. When that album came out, I saw that the song they put in became the album title. I just sat there and just looked at the album. I was so sad.
JW: Hey, that score must be kicking around somewhere.
RB: Now hold on a minute. I’m not finished. So several years go by and I’m playing at the Essex House in New York and living on 56th St., on the 31st floor. During the years Ella and I had kept in touch, exchanging Christmas cards and such. One day I get a call from Nelson Riddle’s road manager. He says he’s in town and that Ella asked him to call me. He asks if I can meet him in the lobby of his hotel on Sixth Avenue.
JW: Ella wanted to record it?
RB: Hang on. So I went over, we met, and he handed me the Nelson Riddle score to Sea Mist. He said Ella always felt terrible about what had happened and wanted me to have it as a gift. It had Nelson Riddle’s name on it and Ella’s name.
JW: You're an arranger. When you look at how the parts are written, how does it sound in your head.
RB: It’s plush, man. It's Nelson Riddle plush.
JW: Did you ever hire an orchestra to hear how it sounds?
RB: The closest I ever came was having the University of Kansas orchestra play the brass part. I was doing a concert there. But I have never heard the strings and orchestra parts together. One day, hopefully, one day.
JW: Based on your stories, it sounds like the West Coast music scene in the 1960s was a lot tougher than it seemed to average listeners.
RB: Look, the West Coast has always been a place that attracts large numbers of incredibly talented people. Back then, you didn't come to California to work a few days a week in the music business. It was a seven-day operation, especially as rock music ate into record company budgets. The stakes were higher. If you slowed up, someone else would get the gig. So you learned to take on opportunities and pursue them whenever they came up, if only so you didn't later regret not doing so.
JW: For example?
RB: Sometime back in the early 1970s, my wife, Dianne, and I went to a restaurant in Los Angeles. Dianne noticed that Barbra Streisand and Jon Peters, who was her hairdresser at the time, were just a few tables away.
JW: What were they doing?
RB: Peters was saying something to her and it looked like Barbra was crying. Dianne said that we had to get Sea Mist to her. This is before I took it to Ella.
JW: How were you going to get Barbra to hear the song?
RB: Well there wasn't a piano in the place and we didn't have the music with us. Dianne came up with an idea. She told me to keep them busy and said she'drush back to our place to get a cassette of the song.
JW: How were you supposed to keep them busy?
RB: I have no idea. That's what I told Dianne. She told me to do what I could before she raced out the door. Eventually the waitress came over to their table. Peters got up but Barbra looked out the window, I guess to hide her tears. Peters reached into his pocket for his wallet and paid. A minute or two went by and they got up to leave. I had no idea what to do. What could I say? I didn't have the music or anything.
JW: What happened next?
RB: Just as they neared the door with me behind them, Dianne came through. She walked right up to Barbra and said, “Miss Streisand, my husband there wrote a beautiful song that’s just right for you. I have a cassette and the music here.”
JW: What did Barbra say?
RB: Oh, man, Barbra wasn’t in the mood. She snapped at Dianne, “What’s this? What do you do—you write your own songs and hand them out and keep them with you all the time?” I was dumbstruck. But before Dianne could answer, Barbra said, “Give it here,” and she took the manila envelope Dianne had for her. Then Barbra and Jon Peters left and got their car.
JW: Dianne sounds pretty amazing.
RB: Oh, she is. She's my No. 1 fan. I said to myself at the time, if Barbra Streisand hears Sea Mist in her car, it has to get to her. She has such a beautiful voice, I figured the song had to touch her.
JW: Did Barbra tell you she was going to record it?
RB: A day or so later, we got the envelope back in the mail. Dianne had managed to put our return address on the outside while racing back to the restaurant. The envelope hadn’t even been opened. Someone had just written “Return to Sender” on the outside.
JW: That must have been tough to take.
RB: It was, it was. But look, in those years in California, when you took big risks, the payoff was either huge or you were disappointed for days or weeks. That's why you had to take those kinds of shots. You never knew what could happen.
JW: Sometimes breaks disappear due to misunderstandings.
RB: That's right. Someone you know says they're going to speak to so-and-so on your behalf. If the opportunity doesn't work out, it could have been because it wasn't put the right way.
JW: For example?
RB: Back in 1967, I got a call from Sid Feller, the arranger. We had worked together with Nancy Wilson. Sid asked if I was available to do a date with Doris Day. I said, sure, absolutely. I had always loved Doris Day’s voice. I thought, and still think, her tone and interpretations are so pure and lovely. She is truly exceptional.
JW: Was it a big date?
RB: Oh yes. When I got to the studio, there were a lot of West Coast heavyweights there: Barney Kessel, Irv Cottler and others. We did the recording over several days. When released, the record was called The Love Album. On the final day of recording, Sid came over and said Doris wanted to know if I could stick around afterward.
JW: What did you think?
RB: I thought I had messed up or something. All the guys were packing up to leave, and they kept looking back thinking I had done something wrong.
JW: What was the problem?
RB: Hang on, hang on. After everyone cleared out, Sid came back and said Doris wanted to meet me. I asked if I had done something wrong. Sid said, “No, no, it’s a good thing.” When I walked over with Sid, Marty Melcher, Doris' husband was there, not Doris. Marty said that he and Doris were aware of my talents and that they enjoyed my recordings with Sarah and Nancy.
JW: What did he want?
RB: Marty says, “How would you like to write the theme song to Doris’ next picture?” I said, “You’ve got to be kidding.” Marty said, “No, seriously.” I said absolutely. I had just finished writing a song with Paul Francis Webster, who wrote The Shadow of Your Smile. I asked if they wanted me to call Paul. “No, no, Ronnell, we know Paul,” Marty said. “We want you to write the words and music yourself.”
JW: Did you take on the assignment?
RB: Oh yes. They delivered the script the next day. It was about the New York City blackout of 1966. It was called, Where Were You When the Lights Went Out? So I wrote and wrote and wrote the whole week. I figured that if Doris didn’t like one song, I could always show her another.
JW: So you scored the movie?
RB: About two days before I was to meet Doris at her office on Cannon Drive, Don Genson, her record producer, calls. He says, “Ronnell, I’m so sorry. Marty is unpredictable. He’s already made an agreement with someone else who’s going to do the score. We told him we already had someone to do the title song. But he complained that if he’s going to do the score, he also wanted to write the title song. So Marty made an agreement to let him do it.”
JW: What a lousy break. Who wound up writing the title song?
RB: That was the funny thing. When the movie came out in 1968, it didn’t have a title song.
JW: So they tied you up for weeks and that was it?
RB: No. Don Genson said, “Doris is very upset about this and wants to meet you at her office to make it up to you. She wants to do another project.” Man, my spirit was so down at that point. But I went anyway.
JW: What was Doris like?
RB: Doris was sweet, just like she is in the movies. You looked into her face saw that her eyes were soft and she smiled so easily. She was timid but pompous in a protective sort of way. She sat on a tall stool, and I sat at the piano playing. She said, “You know, Ronnell, how would you like to do an album with me—just the two of us?" I said I’d love to.
JW: Who else was in the room?
RB: Don Genson and her rehearsal pianist. Doris says, “I’ve got a book of sheet music from different Broadway shows. I'd like you to pick a selection of songs from these shows and arrange them in my keys." Doris is a beautiful singer, and I was honored. She said, “If you can come back in a week’s time, we’ll meet and try them out.”
JW: What did you think?
RB: I had just finished staying up night and day writing music for the movie job that was taken away. Now I had to do more homework. But that was fine. I arranged about half the music in her key by the time we met the next time.
JW: How did it go?
RB: Back at her office, her rehearsal pianist was there again. He was throwing me dirty looks the entire time. He didn’t appreciate my being there, and I could understand completely how he felt. And I felt bad for him. Doris and I worked for about an hour. Then I took a break in the hall. I felt awful and couldn't really concentrate with the guy hovering around me.
JW: Did Genson get the picture?
RB: When Don Genson came out, I said, “Don, I appreciate this opportunity. But why is her pianist here? He’s shooting me dirty looks and coming up to the piano and checking out my hands. I can’t work like that. I have to be free. Is there any way to tell Doris not to bring him next time? I want to check out her singing and phrasing on these songs. I also want to communicate with her musically. But this guy is making me nervous.”
JW: So Don took care of it with Doris?
RB: About 15 minutes later, Doris came out with a powder puff, took it out and started powdering her face. “Alright Ronnell, you played for Sarah and Carmen but you don’t want to play for me?” Just as I opened my mouth to explain, she turned and left with Don.
JW: What do you think happened?
RB: I have no idea what Genson said to her. He must have gone inside and said “Well, Ronnell's all steamed up and doesn’t want to play with you under these conditions” or something like that. Whatever he said must have hurt her feelings to produce that kind of reaction.
JW: Why didn't Doris ask you directly for an explanation?
RB: In those days, I think Doris was insulated by the people around her. Maybe there was an insecurity. I have no idea why she didn't jump in and find out the truth for herself.
JW: If you could tell Doris Day something right now, what would it be?
RB: I'd tell her what I didn't have a chance to say that day. To me, Doris was on the same level as Sarah, Carmen, Ella and Nancy. When she sang, she had the love coming right through her. I so enjoyed her singing, and it was a joy to play behind her on The Love Album. I think had we been able to record an album with just the two of us, it would still be considered a jazz and pop classic. But you know how things go—they often happen or don't happen for a reason.
JW: How did you handle disappointments like that?
RB: Louis Armstrong once sat next to me on the piano bench. I said to Louis, “Do you have a line of advice for a young feller trying to come up in the business?” He said, “Just remember this, Fingers: Your health comes first.” That has always remained with me and has helped me shrug off many tough breaks.
This story appears courtesy of JazzWax by Marc Myers.
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