photo by Suzanne Cerny
By arnold jay smith
Many years ago, Jon Hendricks told me that a tune is remembered by its lyrics. "You can hum a tune forever, in the shower, or cleaning your apartment, and never know its name. But once you sing the words [he snapped is fingers], you got it!" Hendricks posed this thought: Would Duke Ellington have been as famous without all those songwriters? At the time Hendricks was in the throes of writing lyrics to many of Thelonious Monk's compositions (which were hard enough to remember as they were), then copyright them and become co-author. According to copyright law, once words are written to a melody and the title is taken from those words, both composer and author receive royalties, even if it was originally an instrumental. For "I Got Rhythm" it was George Gershwin's brother Ira; for "My Funny Valentine," Lorenz Hart; for "Maria," Stephen Sondheim, and so on. Sometimes the line is blurred, as with Lennon and McCartney. I once asked Betty Carter why she insisted upon putting the original composer and lyricist on her re-rhythm-ed, re-melodicized, and re-harmonized versions, as they were so unique as to warrant new ownership. Her reply was simply, "I owe them." (Meaning the songwriters.)
Many years ago, Jon Hendricks told me that a tune is remembered by its lyrics. "You can hum a tune forever, in the shower, or cleaning your apartment, and never know its name. But once you sing the words [he snapped is fingers], you got it!" Hendricks posed this thought: Would Duke Ellington have been as famous without all those songwriters? At the time Hendricks was in the throes of writing lyrics to many of Thelonious Monk's compositions (which were hard enough to remember as they were), then copyright them and become co-author. According to copyright law, once words are written to a melody and the title is taken from those words, both composer and author receive royalties, even if it was originally an instrumental. For "I Got Rhythm" it was George Gershwin's brother Ira; for "My Funny Valentine," Lorenz Hart; for "Maria," Stephen Sondheim, and so on. Sometimes the line is blurred, as with Lennon and McCartney. I once asked Betty Carter why she insisted upon putting the original composer and lyricist on her re-rhythm-ed, re-melodicized, and re-harmonized versions, as they were so unique as to warrant new ownership. Her reply was simply, "I owe them." (Meaning the songwriters.)
Hendricks was adding new life to Monk. "Monk had told me that 'the only motherfucker I want to write my lyrics is [you],' meaning me," Hendricks said. So he wrote new lyrics, even to "Round Midnight," which already had lyrics written by Bernie Hanighen (Carmen McRae once made an album of Monk tunes with new words and titles by Hanighen). "Do you know that Monk didn't even know [I wrote] lyrics to that one?" Hendricks remarked. "And that pisses me off! If it was Johnny Mercer, you know they'd bow and scrape. It's a racist thing man." Hendricks sent the new words to Nellie, Monk's widow, who approved.
There's the infamous case of "Moody's Mood for Love." Eddie Jefferson wrote new lyrics set to James Moody's brilliant improvised alto sax solo on "I'm In The Mood for Love" (perhaps the first recorded example of "vocalese," which we'll talk about below) and gave his version its new title. The courts preposterously decided that the Moody/Jefferson version of the tune still belonged to Dorothy Fields and Jimmy McHugh. Moody only gets a taste.
There's the infamous case of "Moody's Mood for Love." Eddie Jefferson wrote new lyrics set to James Moody's brilliant improvised alto sax solo on "I'm In The Mood for Love" (perhaps the first recorded example of "vocalese," which we'll talk about below) and gave his version its new title. The courts preposterously decided that the Moody/Jefferson version of the tune still belonged to Dorothy Fields and Jimmy McHugh. Moody only gets a taste.
Hendricks as written words to some of Horace Silver's eminently funky and lyrical tunes, and sung them with Lambert, Hendricks & Ross, among others. Silver decided he wanted all the royalties ("He's entitled; they're his songs," said Hendricks). Silver re-wrote new words with new titles for a Dee Dee Bridgewater CD called Love and Peace. Hendricks' name is nowhere to be found, posing the legal question: Can there be two sets of lyrics on one tune? "The answer is yes," Hendricks emphatically said. "You can have as many sets of lyrics you want, and collect the royalties on a 50-50 basis, provided yours are the ones that are sung. Horace just wants it all. Frankly, his are silly. Mine are better." I concur.
[ASIDE : Which brings to mind an apocryphal story. Mrs. Jerome Kern and Mrs. Oscar Hammerstein II are in a knot of people at a cocktail party when Mrs. Kern says proudly, "My husband wrote 'Old Man River.'" To which Mrs. Hammerstein replies, "Oh no he didn't. Your husband wrote (she vocalizes 'dah dah dah-dah,' the famous opening refrain sans words). My husband wrote 'Old Man River.'"]
Hendricks (b. 1921) does not have to fret about royalties. His lyrics to composers such as Louis Armstrong, Randy Weston, Miles Davis, Mongo Santamaria, Joao Gilberto, Duke Ellington, Lester Young, Count Basie, Bobby Timmons and Antonio Carlos Jobim, ("Would you believe 'Desafinado' was turned down by three major writers, so I did them," Hendricks said; history knocked, Jon answered] are sung seemingly endlessly in clubs, concerts, on recordings, and in elevators and supermarkets. There are even printed parts for vocal ensembles.
[ASIDE : Which brings to mind an apocryphal story. Mrs. Jerome Kern and Mrs. Oscar Hammerstein II are in a knot of people at a cocktail party when Mrs. Kern says proudly, "My husband wrote 'Old Man River.'" To which Mrs. Hammerstein replies, "Oh no he didn't. Your husband wrote (she vocalizes 'dah dah dah-dah,' the famous opening refrain sans words). My husband wrote 'Old Man River.'"]
Hendricks (b. 1921) does not have to fret about royalties. His lyrics to composers such as Louis Armstrong, Randy Weston, Miles Davis, Mongo Santamaria, Joao Gilberto, Duke Ellington, Lester Young, Count Basie, Bobby Timmons and Antonio Carlos Jobim, ("Would you believe 'Desafinado' was turned down by three major writers, so I did them," Hendricks said; history knocked, Jon answered] are sung seemingly endlessly in clubs, concerts, on recordings, and in elevators and supermarkets. There are even printed parts for vocal ensembles.
It's all because of something called "vocalese," the writing of real words telling real stories set to previously recorded—and often well-known—improvised instrumental jazz solos. Vocalese differs from scat singing, which is improvised vocal jazz using nonsense syllables, mimicking instrumental jazz technique.
Did Hendricks invent vocalese? Hardly. Remember "Jumpin' With Symphony Sid," a Prez solo by King Pleasure? Then there's "Twisted," a Wardell Gray solo by Hendricks' former partner Annie Ross. Both predate Hendricks' foray into the form, as did another Lambert, Hendricks & Ross colleague, Dave Lambert. Even Mel Torme and his Mel-Tones checked in. Hendricks' accomplishment was in making vocalese a separate, completely acceptable and popular form of vocalizing. Not a fad, but a trend.
It was December 2008 in Lower Manhattan. Jon and Judith Hendricks were in New York during a winter recess from his professorial duties in Toledo, his birthplace (also the birthplace of Art Tatum and home of the minor league Mud Hens). In their upper floor aerie overlooking New York's glorious harbor, we dined and chatted for hours on a groaning board prepared by Judith, and didn't get the whole job done. Due to Hendricks' phenomenal memory—and his long digressions—we needed another session. That took place the following June, when Jon was in town being inducted onto the ASCAP Jazz Wall of Fame (Annie Ross and the late Dave Lambert were among the other inductees).
It was during this second go-round that Hendricks opined on a variety of topics. "I was on a college jazz radio station with and for Mark Morganelli's Jazz Forum's 30th Anniversary (see www.jazz.com)," he began, "and for one full hour there was no Ellington, no Basie, no Dizzy Gillespie, no Charlie Parker …" he trailed off only to pick it up again. "[The classical station] plays music by dead people from three hundred, four hundred years ago. Why the fuck can't we? Ours is newer, just about a hundred. Oh, the music will survive, but these little shits [the CD spinners –he wouldn't dignify them by calling them DJ's which is more-or-less a profession] are going to stomp it into the ground.
Did Hendricks invent vocalese? Hardly. Remember "Jumpin' With Symphony Sid," a Prez solo by King Pleasure? Then there's "Twisted," a Wardell Gray solo by Hendricks' former partner Annie Ross. Both predate Hendricks' foray into the form, as did another Lambert, Hendricks & Ross colleague, Dave Lambert. Even Mel Torme and his Mel-Tones checked in. Hendricks' accomplishment was in making vocalese a separate, completely acceptable and popular form of vocalizing. Not a fad, but a trend.
It was December 2008 in Lower Manhattan. Jon and Judith Hendricks were in New York during a winter recess from his professorial duties in Toledo, his birthplace (also the birthplace of Art Tatum and home of the minor league Mud Hens). In their upper floor aerie overlooking New York's glorious harbor, we dined and chatted for hours on a groaning board prepared by Judith, and didn't get the whole job done. Due to Hendricks' phenomenal memory—and his long digressions—we needed another session. That took place the following June, when Jon was in town being inducted onto the ASCAP Jazz Wall of Fame (Annie Ross and the late Dave Lambert were among the other inductees).
It was during this second go-round that Hendricks opined on a variety of topics. "I was on a college jazz radio station with and for Mark Morganelli's Jazz Forum's 30th Anniversary (see www.jazz.com)," he began, "and for one full hour there was no Ellington, no Basie, no Dizzy Gillespie, no Charlie Parker …" he trailed off only to pick it up again. "[The classical station] plays music by dead people from three hundred, four hundred years ago. Why the fuck can't we? Ours is newer, just about a hundred. Oh, the music will survive, but these little shits [the CD spinners –he wouldn't dignify them by calling them DJ's which is more-or-less a profession] are going to stomp it into the ground.
"There's only one radio station around here [NYC], and that's over there." He pointed out the window across the river to New Jersey. "WBGO. They've got some real culturally attuned professionals like Michael Bourne; he plays the masters." In truth, 'BGO has a plethora of jazz personality riches: the regulars Gary Walker, Rhonda Hamilton, and Awilda Rivera. I got Hendricks to admit to being shortsighted as regards the station's DJs; even the weekenders: Rob Crocker, Monifa Brown and Sheila Anderson. "Ok. They've got a cultural center, but so many others have no sense as to how the culture came about."
Another favorite topic to which we returned a few times is education. "I have 200 students per section [at the University of Toledo]," he said. "That's 400 souls listening to Jon Hendricks expound from his soapbox on Jazz in American Society. I tell them on the first day that it is ludicrous that I should be standing here, 'telling you about your culture when it should be you telling me. You know everything about rock, which is bullshit, but at least it came from the blues, and nothing about jazz.'"
Hendricks' political suspicions became evident when he blamed the British intelligence services MI-5 and MI-6 for fomenting the [white?] rock revolution. He also alleged that the C.I.A. is responsible for killing some 18 people who were supposedly on a list kept by Jack Ruby, who himself killed Lee Harvey Oswald, John F. Kennedy's accused assassin. According to Hendricks, the list consisted of people who were privy to some uncomfortable truths. Ruby died of cancer in prison. Hendricks believes Ruby was injected with the disease.
Another favorite topic to which we returned a few times is education. "I have 200 students per section [at the University of Toledo]," he said. "That's 400 souls listening to Jon Hendricks expound from his soapbox on Jazz in American Society. I tell them on the first day that it is ludicrous that I should be standing here, 'telling you about your culture when it should be you telling me. You know everything about rock, which is bullshit, but at least it came from the blues, and nothing about jazz.'"
Hendricks' political suspicions became evident when he blamed the British intelligence services MI-5 and MI-6 for fomenting the [white?] rock revolution. He also alleged that the C.I.A. is responsible for killing some 18 people who were supposedly on a list kept by Jack Ruby, who himself killed Lee Harvey Oswald, John F. Kennedy's accused assassin. According to Hendricks, the list consisted of people who were privy to some uncomfortable truths. Ruby died of cancer in prison. Hendricks believes Ruby was injected with the disease.
We eventually got to musical improvisation, after more riffing through religion, social geography, and some Hendricks historical revisionisms.
"There was this hamburger joint on Indiana Ave. between Collingwood and Division, run by Stanley Cowell [father of the jazz pianist]," he began. "[Cowell] hung out with my brothers—I had eleven brothers and three sisters—as they were the same age. It was during the Depression. Nobody had any money. Movies were a dime, so [when I had bread], I could take at least two or three of my bothers and sisters to the movies with me. Even my father [who was a minister] had to take a day job cutting hair."
How did he get that bread? Jon, with time to spare, would hang around the Cowell jukebox all day. He learned the whole jukebox, "every tune on it, the arrangements, the solos, everything," he said. As other patrons approached the box, Jon would intercede. The colloquy went something like this: Jon: "Whatcha gonna play?" Coin holder: "What's it to ya?" Jon: "Gimme the nickel and I'll sing it." His goal was to make enough to take his and his brothers and sisters to the movies—remember, they cost a dime. "I think they were curious to hear what I was gonna do," he confessed. One tune was a hit penned by a young Gerald Wilson for the Jimmie Lunceford Orchestra called "Yard Dog Mazurka."
"I remember that tune to this day," Jon said. "That's where Stan Kenton got his 'Intermission Riff.' Copped it directly from Gerald." Jon would proceed to sing the chart, to the delight of the burger joint's diners. (He sang it for me.) "They would stop to listen. It became a regular floor show." (I wonder what Mr. Cowell thought about his patrons not buying his burgers.) The words would come later. "I wasn't there yet," Hendricks said. "I was laying the foundation for the tune, singing what [the potential juke players] wanted to hear." The vocal group the Ink Spots was big in the jukes then. Hendricks sang all the parts, some of which were vocalized instrumentals.
"There was this hamburger joint on Indiana Ave. between Collingwood and Division, run by Stanley Cowell [father of the jazz pianist]," he began. "[Cowell] hung out with my brothers—I had eleven brothers and three sisters—as they were the same age. It was during the Depression. Nobody had any money. Movies were a dime, so [when I had bread], I could take at least two or three of my bothers and sisters to the movies with me. Even my father [who was a minister] had to take a day job cutting hair."
How did he get that bread? Jon, with time to spare, would hang around the Cowell jukebox all day. He learned the whole jukebox, "every tune on it, the arrangements, the solos, everything," he said. As other patrons approached the box, Jon would intercede. The colloquy went something like this: Jon: "Whatcha gonna play?" Coin holder: "What's it to ya?" Jon: "Gimme the nickel and I'll sing it." His goal was to make enough to take his and his brothers and sisters to the movies—remember, they cost a dime. "I think they were curious to hear what I was gonna do," he confessed. One tune was a hit penned by a young Gerald Wilson for the Jimmie Lunceford Orchestra called "Yard Dog Mazurka."
"I remember that tune to this day," Jon said. "That's where Stan Kenton got his 'Intermission Riff.' Copped it directly from Gerald." Jon would proceed to sing the chart, to the delight of the burger joint's diners. (He sang it for me.) "They would stop to listen. It became a regular floor show." (I wonder what Mr. Cowell thought about his patrons not buying his burgers.) The words would come later. "I wasn't there yet," Hendricks said. "I was laying the foundation for the tune, singing what [the potential juke players] wanted to hear." The vocal group the Ink Spots was big in the jukes then. Hendricks sang all the parts, some of which were vocalized instrumentals.
He was a cute eleven year-old with a high-pitched voice. People dropped into that joint to hear this kid do Glenn Miller''s "Juke Box Saturday Night." The word got out that "little Johnny Hendricks does all the solos, too." Not only could he now afford to go to the moving picture shows, but also got the notoriety he needed for a paying gig at the Waiters and Bellmen's Club at the urging of fellow Toledo native, Art Tatum. Hendricks was billed as "Little Johnny Hendricks: The sepia Bobby Breen." [Breen was a very popular white motion picture and radio singing personality.] "I met [Breen] on the vaudeville circuit with Benny Kubelsky, who told bad jokes and played very bad violin. I thought, 'he needs to go back to Waukegan and take more fiddle lessons, or learn some new material.'" (Kubelsky did neither; he changed his name to Jack Benny.)
Hendricks gives credit to his "press agents." "I had the best of them. Art Tatum was plugging me in Toledo, and then when Charlie Parker came through and heard me, he set me up in New York just by telling about me." But it took its toll. As his usual happy tone turned a bit more somber, Hendricks related that "it had an effect on my growing up. I ran to sing right after school. I missed not having a girl friend to play 'sticky finger' with, like the other boys." (You'll have to figure out what sticky finger is by yourself. I remarked to Jon that if I ever did that I would have gotten the taste slapped out of my mouth by, not only her parents, but by my parents as well. He replied, "That's because you're a nice Jewish boy." True dat; we were saving our doing dirty nasty things for the woman we loved and respected!)
He missed going junkin' and taking [the stuff] downtown to sell it. But he was learning to communicate with Tatum through the music, of which he knew nothing. "[Tatum] would say, 'sing this.' And he would play something. Eventually, I could." Because of Tatum's teaching technique, the use of ears rather than eyes, Hendricks never learned to read music. "Art was blind and I was dumb," he quipped. "Illinois Jacquet once said of Tatum, 'he could hear a gnat piss on cotton.'"
Hendricks gives credit to his "press agents." "I had the best of them. Art Tatum was plugging me in Toledo, and then when Charlie Parker came through and heard me, he set me up in New York just by telling about me." But it took its toll. As his usual happy tone turned a bit more somber, Hendricks related that "it had an effect on my growing up. I ran to sing right after school. I missed not having a girl friend to play 'sticky finger' with, like the other boys." (You'll have to figure out what sticky finger is by yourself. I remarked to Jon that if I ever did that I would have gotten the taste slapped out of my mouth by, not only her parents, but by my parents as well. He replied, "That's because you're a nice Jewish boy." True dat; we were saving our doing dirty nasty things for the woman we loved and respected!)
He missed going junkin' and taking [the stuff] downtown to sell it. But he was learning to communicate with Tatum through the music, of which he knew nothing. "[Tatum] would say, 'sing this.' And he would play something. Eventually, I could." Because of Tatum's teaching technique, the use of ears rather than eyes, Hendricks never learned to read music. "Art was blind and I was dumb," he quipped. "Illinois Jacquet once said of Tatum, 'he could hear a gnat piss on cotton.'"
While Hendricks loved singing to instrumental parts, it was this communication aspect that piqued his interest. He thought that if he would sing real words and tell stories he could better get his message across. "It was like carrying a storyboard around in your throat," he explained. "I never tried to proliferate it, as there was a lack of understanding."
With it all Hendricks never skimped on education. He was an English major with a History minor. The former stood him well when it came to vocalese lyrics. It was his father who insisted that he keep up with his studies. "He knew that one day I might want to continue my schooling," he said. "My [preacher] father taught me 'parabalic (sic) poetry' based on parables. You could tell a story; Shakespeare used that. That is where my style came from. It's reviewing and hiding material." See more on....
With it all Hendricks never skimped on education. He was an English major with a History minor. The former stood him well when it came to vocalese lyrics. It was his father who insisted that he keep up with his studies. "He knew that one day I might want to continue my schooling," he said. "My [preacher] father taught me 'parabalic (sic) poetry' based on parables. You could tell a story; Shakespeare used that. That is where my style came from. It's reviewing and hiding material." See more on....
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