Marginal Encounters
(With Famous Jazz Musicians)
Roger Freundlich

One of my prized possessions is a concert program autographed by Coleman Hawkins, Roy Eldridge, Pee Wee Russell, Buck Clayton, Jo Jones, Bob Wilbur, Ray Bryant, Tommy Bryant, and Panama Francis. In 1961, our local Lions Club sponsored a jazz concert at the junior high school I attended in Malverne, NY. As we prowled backstage in our music room, used as a dressing room by the musicians during the intermission, rumors of condoms sighted in Buck Clayton’s trumpet case made a big impression on us. Roy Eldridge was not impolite but he eyed us with suspicion. To this day, I don’t know how I, 16 years old at the time, summoned the nerve to ask musicians of such stature to autograph my program. One possible explanation: No matter how famous or talented these men were, they were on our turf. In our band room. My band room.

During a Stan Kenton Stage Band Camp I attended in Bloomington, Indiana in 1961, Stan Kenton, the charismatic bandleader and music educator, sat down beside me in a front row auditorium seat as a student big band performed. Stan, otherwise known as the Great White Father, turned to me and said, “He’s a pretty good drummer, isn’t he?” An innovative and experienced bandleader who had probably heard hundreds or maybe even thousands of drummers during his professional career was asking an unknown 16-year old to back up his opinion. “Yeah,” was my succinct answer. Stan and I had this ability to spot drumming talent. No, wait. Actually, I knew nothing about drummers, even less about arguing with famous bandleaders.

In 1962, for my 17th birthday, I visited two jazz clubs during the same evening in New York City, accompanied by my parents Jules and Miriam and pianist-educator John Mehegan and his wife Gay. John had taught jazz theory to my mother as well as myself. At the Village Vanguard, John introduced me to saxophonist John Handy, whom I knew only from his aggressive recorded work with bassist Charles Mingus. Handy struck me as extremely pleasant, mild-mannered, and at peace with the world. It was then that I realized that often gentle people make aggressive music (John Coltrane), and aggressive people make gentle music (Ben Webster).

Along with the 200 other students entering the week-long 1963 Stan Kenton Stage Band Clinic at the University of Connecticut, I took a musical theory test to determine the theory or arranging course to which I would be assigned during the week. While I was not an exceptional talent, the year of jazz theory I had taken with John Mehegan in New York City gave me a competitive edge compared to the majority of participants. This was the early 1960’s. Education in jazz theory at the high school level was virtually non-existent. As a result of the entrance test, I found myself placed in Advanced Composition, a small, select group taught by Johnny Richards, one of Kenton’s most prolific arrangers. Not Beginning Theory, Intermediate Theory, or Advanced Theory. Not even Beginning Arranging or Advanced Arranging. Not even Composition. Advanced Composition! The elite. I’ll never forget how Johnny Richards warmly greeted me and shook my hand as I entered the classroom. I’m sure he believed he was meeting some talented prodigy. After listening to his lecture for about 10 minutes it was clear I had no business being there. I knew the rudiments of jazz harmonic theory, but my technical knowledge was far from complete. Terminology and concepts now familiar were unknown to me then. By the time the 45 minute session was up, some sense of honesty told me that the sham couldn’t continue. (Later I would kick myself.
Why didn’t I just blatantly fake my way through?) I confessed to Johnny Richards that
I hadn’t actually ever composed a piece of music. In fact I had never even arranged a piece of music. He understood, and recommended that I spend the rest of the week sitting in on Neal Hefti’s arranging classes, which I did. That was my brief moment of glory as an 18-year-old jazz composer, but hey, it looks good on my resume: “Studied advanced jazz composition with Johnny Richards.”

During the 1972 Pori Jazz Festival in Finland, Frank Foster, the tenor saxophonist who took over the Count Basie Band, came to conduct a jazz clinic. Frank brought his wife. During one of the main outdoor concerts, I sat, purely by chance, in the first bench row next to Frank Foster’s wife. I said nothing to her and she said nothing to me as we watched the performances. One evening, a few years after I had visited the Pori Jazz Festival, my small son Thomas shouted: “Daddy’s on T.V.” I rushed in and sure enough, there I was, sitting next to Frank Foster’s wife in the front row at the 1972 Pori Jazz Festival. Unknown to me at the time, a low-budget Finnish caper comedy film had been shot on location at the festival. The film’s director must have thought that Frank’s wife, who is African-American, and me, who is white, made a photogenic interracial couple, so there it is. Not a long shot, maybe 5 seconds, but enough to juice up my resume: “Has performed at the Pori Jazz Festival. Television and film appearances”.

In 1987, arranger Gil Evans, an inspiration to many, myself included, conducted and performed his compositions in Helsinki with The New Music Orchestra, Finland’s finest big band. After the concert I wandered down to the stage, hoping that at the very least, getting within range of this man’s magnetic field might have a metaphysically beneficial effect on my own arranging efforts. I had no intention of approaching him, but when I noticed he was signing autographs for others and seeming not to mind, I stuck my program before him, and he signed his name and the date. I thanked him for the evening and he politely acknowledged me. A little over a year later he was gone.

During the early 1990’s, Louis Bellson, the famous drummer, was invited to Helsinki,
Finland to conduct a week-long brass clinic and big band workshop with trumpeter Chuck Findlay, currently a member of the Tonight Show Band. I was invited to help fill out the saxophone section in the big band assembled for the occasion. After one rehearsal I found myself alone with Louis while he waited to be driven back to his hotel by Finnish trombonist-arranger Petri Juutilainen, the organizer of the clinic who had invited me along for the ride. Louis is dapper, trim, and articulate. To my astonishment Louis Bellson was interested in me. Not because I was an amateur musician, but because I was an American who had lived in Finland for over 20 years and spoke the local nothing-quite-like-it-except-Estonian language with reasonable proficiency. Petri drove, with me in the front, and Louis in the back. Here was a live piece of jazz history, enthralling us with his recollections (“Me and Tommy Dorsey...”). Luckily Louis doesn’t know Helsinki too well, so what should have been a three minute ride turned into a 15 minute meander along every conceivable side street– anything to protract those precious moments.

I have a Horace Silver LP on which has been written, “To Roger, Sincerely, Horace Silver.” Although I have seen pianist-composer Horace Silver perform in New York and Helsinki, I have never met him personally or requested his autograph. However my brother Douglas, a musician in Boston, is much better about these things. Seeing Horace perform locally, my brother told him what a hero he had been to us when we enthusiastically listened to jazz as youngsters during the 1960’s. Horace graciously consented to autograph a record jacket in my name, and my brother sent it to me in Helsinki as a Christmas present. But hey, 5000 years from now, when some archaeologist digs up my record collection, they’ll never know. (“Uncovered record collection today. Owner had met Horace Silver.”)