Max Jones talks more of your jazz heroes

Last year I came across an old copy of Talk about jazz in a second-hand bookstore. The 1987 memoir is a compilation of essays and other musings by Max Jones, a legendary British jazz journalist who helped make the music popular here. (For a fuller biography, see my article on Max Jones in the March 2023 issue.)

Jones was not only a knowledgeable and passionate supporter of jazz, but also a compassionate confidant of some of its stars. Broadcaster and trumpeter Digby Fairweather described his late friend, in an email he sent to me last year, as an “extremely kind critic.” As such, Jones had access to jazz royalty that would make other journalists green with envy.

Below, in a second foray into Talking Jazz, I uncover some of the fascinating information Jones discovered during his meetings with three legends: Johnny Hodges, Eddie Condon and Billie Holiday – the last of whom Jones saved from a more interested rabid press kit. in his drug addiction as well as in his musical achievements.

Johnny Hodges

Jones recalled Hodges, Duke Ellington sideman, as “the first altoist” [he] listened to on purpose” and “the first great saxophonist [he] had seen in person” (at a London Palladium concert in 1933). Jones finally met Hodges during a 1950 French tour of the band Ellington. They struck up a twenty-year friendship that lasted until Hodges’ death in 1970. (Jones recalled receiving the news in a phone call from saxophonist Ben Webster.)

While chatting in 1964, Hodges informed Jones of a recent recording session (Everyone knows Johnny Hodges1964) which “turned out to be quite nice”. Jones asked what he named his new songs. “I like to use titles that mean something to me,” Hodges responded. “What was that pub you took me to, The Old Spotted Dog?” I could do that on a date… “The Spotted Dog,” yes. (Hodges recorded “Spotted Dog” with organist Wild Bill Davis the following year.)

Despite their closeness, Jones described Hodges as “reluctant” during interviews. “I never felt like I understood the character beneath his skeptical eye and unflappable expression,” he recalls, “or why he was nicknamed ‘Rabbit,’ even though he suggested it had something to do with it. to his facial appearance.” For example, when asked if he was happy with his own songs, Hodges replied, “I like some better than others.” » When asked what his favorite was, he replied: “Oh, I don’t know. »

Hodges had other views on his government-sponsored tour of East Asia with Ellington in 1963 – the first of the so-called “jazz ambassador” tours of the Cold War, aimed at projecting the soft power of states -United abroad. “We were guinea pigs on that tour,” Hodges said, adding, “Almost everywhere we went, a revolution broke out, or we narrowly missed an incident. Guys were walking the streets with machine guns. And we were on a goodwill mission.

Hodges nevertheless considered the mission successful. “I’ll tell you this: music has a lot to offer,” the saxophonist said. “You can go to the most prejudiced state and they will accept the music you play… Yes, music is a hell of a weapon.”

Eddie Condon

Jones described Condon as another of his “personal jazz heroes.” The writer admired this “dandy character with varnished hair” whose playing always gave a song a “strong and firm rhythm”. He hailed Condon as a pioneer of the “Nicksieland” style – combining the sounds of old New Orleans and more modern Chicago, swapping the tuba for the double bass, and emphasizing soloing over ensemble playing — refined at Nick’s in Greenwich Village, New York, where Condon spent much of his playing career.

Jones remembers the stubborn, hard-drinking Condon as “a concise, instinctively funny conversationalist who rarely told a story the same way twice.” The guitarist rejected both old New Orleans musicians and peddlers of nascent bebop music; Jones recalled that at Condon’s eponymous club on West 3rd Street, opened in 1945, the musician often responded to the sound of dropped drinks with, “No progressive jazz here.”

Jones first met Condon during the latter’s first trip to Britain, when Humphrey Lyttelton and his band met him at London airport along with other music journalists, “miscellaneous fans” and a song. A morning press conference followed in Condon’s hotel room, at which the musician ordered several whiskeys before lying in bed with a hat on his face. Journalists tried in vain to get usable quotes from the conductor: When asked why he never took solos, he replied, “I don’t know enough about guitar.” When pressed, he added, “I’m a saloon keeper, not a guitar player.” »

On Condon’s third day in Britain, he flew from London to Glasgow for the first concert of his UK tour. His group followed him on a night train. Presented with a bottle of rare scotch by former bandleader Billy Mason, Jones remembers Condon saying reverently, “That, my dear, is medicine…I love medicine on ice.” After the Glasgow debut, supported by Lyttelton, Jones joined the musicians for a drink in the hotel bar.

Despite Condon’s fearsome drinking reputation, the Brits would have been the last two standing. “[We] lived to see [Condon] done,” Jones recalls. “I think it’s one for England,” said Humph, raising his glass to me. And it was. Two in fact, but only just. Of the two groups, British and American, he and I were the only ones who could stand.

Billie Vacation

“Writing about Billie Holiday, even thinking about her, is filling my mind with memories of a love story with a voice,” Jones recalls. “I was addicted to all of Billie’s sonic and stylistic qualities, to her almost indolent improvisations, to the freshness, the accuracy and the particular rhythmic thrust of each interpretation, to the fact that she had never seemed skillful, artificial or winning in no time. girlish way.

Jones met his “jazz heroine” in late 1953. He picked her up at London airport, armed with a photographer and a bottle of whiskey. “I knew both could be helpful as icebreakers, and both had to be helpful,” Jones recalls. He admitted he had mixed feelings about meeting Holiday, given her “uncertain character” and reports of “unreasonable behavior” toward other journalists.

“As I parked near the arrivals lounge, I felt the thrill of impending adventure – eager anticipation tinged with apprehension,” Jones wrote. When she came out, “the singer looked tired, cold and resentful, as if she had suffered many stupidities in the recent past.” The jazz writer presented himself with “measured warmth, politeness and a certain reserve”. [he] was far from feeling. Long story short, he survived the encounter unscathed, took a photo and offered the whiskey – which was received with a smile and “disappeared into the mink”. [coat]just as his entourage disappeared into the limousine.

Jones and Holiday later met at the Piccadilly Hotel, where a press conference had been arranged. Lady Day had already started answering questions and looked “harassed” when Jones arrived. Most of the questions were not about the singer’s music, but about her widely publicized drug addiction and recent stint in prison. “Are you still on drugs, Miss Holiday?” » asked a journalist pointedly. Billie ignored the question, but explained that she had served time for the offense and hoped to be able to start again with a clean slate.

Ever the gentleman, Jones came to the singer’s defense. “I told the whole company I didn’t think Miss Holiday had come all this way to give a lecture on narcotics,” the writer recalled. “I asked how she got her nickname, Lady Day (even though I knew the answer), and she gave me a real smile and an expression of gratitude… Then, every time a drug question started to come up arise, I interposed a question about his program, his records or his accompanists.

Jones was rewarded for his humanity with a warm and lasting relationship with Holiday, giving him unprecedented access to the star throughout his UK tour. “For me, it was the beginning of a friendship that I found as touching as it was surprising,” he recalls. “I chauffeured her when needed, ran errands, took her out to eat and drinks, visited her and [husband Louis] McKay at the hotel. I saw her as much as possible and kept my job.

On nights off, Jones and his wife Betsy would go out with Holiday and McKay. “Most of the time we talked about music, alcohol, sex, drugs, politics, gangsters, movie actors, club owners, writers and café society; also about dogs, or about clothes and shopping. Jones later wrote an article for Melody Maker titled “Max Jones Vacations with Billie”, alluding to the closeness of their relationship.

You can learn much more about the heartwarming, but ultimately tragic, friendship he had with the jazz icon in Talk about jazzwhich you can still find on eBay for under $10. It’s a fascinating read. Or you can just continue buying the ST. I’m sure I’ll come back to Jones in the future.