<![CDATA[TED NASH

<![CDATA[TED NASH - Blog]]>Fri, 03 Feb 2012 23:16:18 -0500Weebly<![CDATA[Sittin’ in with Sutton on Saturday]]>Thu, 02 Feb 2012 14:07:02 -0500http://tednash.com/3/post/2012/02/sittin-in-with-sutton-on-saturday.htmlHad a great time the other night at Birdland! Went down to catch The Tierney Sutton Band for their last set of the week. I was really glad I showed up. I was in one of those “stay-at-home-on-a-Saturday-night” moods, but reminded myself what I ask other people sometimes: a few years from now what are you going to remember - that you stayed home and got some work done, or went to be part of something?

The band was playing music from many of their recordings, including their most recent, American Road. The West Side Story arrangements were killing. What I love about this band is that they have been together for almost 20 years, and the kind of trust and intimacy that comes with this long-term relationship really shows.

Tierney is like family. Her husband, the great trombonist Alan Kaplan, and I have been friends since we played in the Don Ellis Band together, back when we were practically kids (not sure how old Alan was, but I was 17). When my mother passed a couple years ago, Tierney and Alan were among the close friends and family that were at the wake.

I have been reprimanded in the recent past for not bringing my horn down to someone else’s gig (thanks, Wynton!) so I had my alto with me when I walked in the door at Birdland on Saturday. When I saw Tierney she said “Hey, you got a horn with you?” “Of course” I replied, as if I did that every time I went anywhere.

On the 5th tune, Tierney announced: “We are going to do something we have never done in all the years we have played at Birdland - have a horn player sit in with us.” I had no idea we were setting a precedent. I figured it happened all the time. She gave me a very generous introduction and I grabbed my 70s Vito alto and got to the stage just as they began Caravan. The band was killing, and being part of their sound felt as if I had played with them for years.

Toward the end of the set Tierney called me back up to play a ballad of my choice. I said the first song that came to mind: “My One and Only Love,” not even sure how well I knew it. Tierny turned to her pianist, Christian Jacob, and he just kind of shrugged like it should be cool. Tierny just started singing where it felt natural, and then Christian joined in, followed by Kevin Axt (bass) and Ray Brinker (drums). Between phrases Tierney said “Did I pick a stupid key like B, or something?” showing both her sense of humor and easy-going style.

The key really wasn’t important. What was important is that everyone played with such sensitivity and creativity. Particularly Christian, who really knows how to take risks behind Tierney without getting in her way.

Glad I didn’t stay at home.
]]><![CDATA[Hippie Mobile, Part II (to catch up, see previous blog)]]>Sun, 22 Jan 2012 13:28:55 -0500http://tednash.com/3/post/2012/01/hippie-mobile-part-ii-to-catch-up-see-previous-blog.htmlWe had to wait for about thirty minutes for them to get to us, still parked next to the gas pump, sticking out a little, in peoples way. When they arrived they looked at me like “If this starts right up I’m going to be mad.” Like when I couldn’t find a shoe or something and my mom would come upstairs saying “If I find this right away you’re in trouble.” Which never made a lot of sense to me. But anyway, they tried the ignition a few times, with negative results. I was hoping they would be mad at me...

We push-started the van (one great thing about stick shifts!), and decided to head back to the shop to work on the ignition. But of course we didn’t even get that far when the engine lost compression, and got slower and slower, like the inferior “ordinary carbon” battery in the Eveready commercials. We pulled off at the next exit and crawled to a nearby parking lot, the van coughing and farting the whole way. After working on the car for close to an hour they realized they needed more tools and parts, and drove back to the shop.

Ivette and I walked about a half mile down the street to an ice cream shop and waited out the delay eating double scoops of mint and mocha. Mainly we just wanted to be indoors where it was warm (of course we came to Florida on the coldest day of the year).

Forty-five minutes later the guys were back with thick canvas bags full of tools and parts. We watched as they replace the battery, the starter, and the points. All to no avail.

The AAA flatbed tow truck arrived about an hour later, and the guy attached a huge cable to somewhere under the perfectly preserved bumper. “I just want to let you know the bumper where the chain is scraping against it might get a little scratched,” he informed me perfunctorily. I suggested he put a rag between the chain and the bumper, and he did, with a look on his face like I was asking for more than anyone else ever had.

After about three hours at the shop the van was once again ready to hit the road. Something to do with the distributor, I think. Hand shakes all around, more comments from both sides about how beautiful the van was, etc. Whether we had intended to or not, we had gotten to know these people.

Finally - on the road! There had been a bomb threat on the main route (I guess someone wanted to blow up a palm tree, or something) so we were redirected onto a smaller residential street through the hood. (The sellers had earlier talked about how dangerous this part of town was.) We hit a speed bump and the headlights went out. I slowly drove for a couple blocks while trying to get the lights to come back on, pushing and pulling knobs, the windshield wipers wiping, emergency flashers flashing. Good thing we weren’t attracting any attention! I finally pulled over, but changed my mind and pulled back out when I noticed a couple rough characters walking towards the car.

We drove for half a mile and parked on bigger street, one with street lamps. I got out and lightly kicked the headlights (I had seen that in a movie once), but it didn’t work.

Back on the phone. Ryan and Mike were washing their hands (literally and figuratively) and almost laughed. I told them we were only a few blocks away and to wait there. When we pulled up, laughing ironically (at least we were still laughing), Mike reminded me that sometimes you had to jiggle the ignition a little, which he did, and the lights were back on.

“Bye, Bye, thank you.” “Good luck. Take care.”

This time we got about fifteen miles north on 95, and the van just DIED. Unbelievable. We called Ryan who by that time was home with his wife and kids, showered and ready for bed. It had been a long day. He put the call into AAA, and we sat in the cold camper for at last 45 minutes until the tow truck arrived.

We met Ryan back to shop, where we dropped the van off. The car was going to need new parts, and they would have to drive to Ft. Lauderdale in the morning to get them. Ivette and I headed to the nearest hotel. It was midnight, and last call at the lobby bar, where Ivette and I sipped a cabernet, and ate the free Double Tree cookies (our dinner).

The next day was spent hanging around the lobby, calling for updates. At one point I hadn’t been able reach them for a couple hours and I hoped it was because they were under the car, and not half way to Mexico.

When we finally did get them on the phone, it was apparent the van was nowhere near being road ready, and we decided to get back on a plane to New York.

*****

A couple days later Ryan called. The van, with rebuilt distributor, new battery, new points and plugs, repaired brakes, and new starter, was ready to be shipped to New York. “Good to go,” he assured me. I told him I’ll believe when I see it (and drive it more than 15 miles...).

I got a call from the shipping company on the following Saturday - the camper was in Brooklyn, in the shipping yard. I could let them deliver it, or come and get it for a $50 discount. I opted for the discount.

Bright and early Monday morning Ivette and I headed out to Brooklyn on the subway. A guy picked us up at the subway and drove us a couple miles to some industrial area near the water. We pulled into the lot, and there it was, wedged between a couple nondescript vehicles: my beautiful, candy-apple red 1971 VW camper. I guess it wasn’t a dream - I really did buy this thing.

I signed the necessary documents and climbed into the van, praying to the Hippie Gods somewhere that this would start. It did. Thank you Reality D. Blipcrotch (won’t make sense to you if you didn’t read Part I).

First stop: the DMV to get plates. The car was currently unregistered, without plates, and bright red. Not a great combination. Navigating through lower Manhattan using the iPhone GPS wasn’t working - it placed us somewhere in New Jersey. After a few wrong turns we finally pulled up in front of the DMV. It was closed! Martin Luther King Day! I need to start watching the news...

Half way through a nervous drive up the West Side Highway, with my constant glancing in the rearview mirror for police cars, the car started making a very loud noise. And got louder and louder. Hmmm...the car still had good compression. Then I remembered: I was supposed to turn back the key slightly after starting the car. The ignition switch was faulty and stayed forward constantly engaging the starter, unless you did this little trick Mike and Ryan had showed me when we first looked at the car in Florida. Well, I hadn’t done it, but did as soon as I remembered. Slowly the loud noise began to fade. The rest of the ride uptown felt calm and steady.

My original plan was to get to my neighborhood a little before alternate side of the street parking was over, to nab a good spot in front of my apartment building. The timing was perfect, but my plan wasn’t - there was no alternate side of the street parking in effect due to the holiday. By some miracle, however, I found a spot across the street. A good omen? Let’s not act so fast...

I got into my apartment and immediately called the police station and asked what would happen to a car parked in the street that didn’t have plates. “You can’t park that in the street. It’ll be towed. Or at least tagged. You gotta get that off the street.” I almost sprinted to the car. But was okay so far - no ticket. But the cop was right - I needed to get this into a garage for the night.

I get and turn the key and guess what - the car wouldn’t start. (You’re getting smart.) Just a loud churning noise coming from the back of the van. “The starter,” I thought to myself. “I burned out the starter!”

My neighbor Paul was home and helped me push start the car, and I drove it straight to the nearest garage, where it spent the next three days getting the burned out starter replaced, and having the tricky ignition to not be so tricky.

When I picked up the car three days later, it started and drove with no problem. I parked it in front of my building a couple days ago and every time I pass it, heading to the subway, or going to the store, there is always someone standing there looking at it. Or taking a picture of it. I guess it does look like some kind of museum piece. Come to think of it, maybe it WOULD be better off in museum...

The van will be used in a TV show I will be hosting called “The Best You’ve Never Heard.” This will be the subject of a future blog.

I have posted photos and a video here:
www.tednash.com/camper.html

Thanks for reading all the way through!
]]><![CDATA[Hippie Mobile, Part I]]>Sun, 15 Jan 2012 16:13:34 -0500http://tednash.com/3/post/2012/01/hippie-mobile-part-i.htmlI am now the proud owner of a classic 1971 VW camper-bus, complete with pop-top, fold-down bed, sink and refrigerator. Why did I acquire such a hippie vehicle? Two reasons. The first is I have always had a fantasy of owning own, ever since my father’s foster brother Jerry Leroy, aka Reality D. Blipcrotch, aka Jerry Wiley (I’m not making this up) parked his in the driveway of our home when I was about 10 years old. Jerry Wiley was his birth name and the one he used as a young up-and-coming actor. The second one was his stage name when he became a hippie rock musician with a group called “1” (I saw them do a sound check at the Fillmore in San Francisco). This from Wikipedia: “Come is 1's only album. The band had been signed by Paul Kantner to Grunt Records. Pat Leraci was assigned to help produce the album, and encountered the lead singer, named Reality D. Blipcrotch, demanding such things as a marijuana leaf popping out of the record, and the record self-destructing at the end of side B.”

His third name came when he was born again and moved to Hawaii and started writing Christian operas.

Now, somewhere in the middle of this he dropped his camper off with my dad (who happened to be the cosigner!) and disappeared, leaving my dad to sell it to cover the loan. My mother vowed never to talk to him again, although I know my dad was in touch with him several years later when Jerry “straightened out” and was writing Christian operas. Apparently he needed my dad’s help to orchestrate the music. (I never heard any of them.)

Although I don’t remember ever driving in it, I used to often peek in the window when I was playing in the front yard. I was fascinated by the compactness, and that everything you needed to survive was in such a small space. Designed for total independence (except, of course, when you need a cosigner).

The second reason I decided to purchase this camper is that I am hosting and co-producing a TV show, along with director Douglas Chang and co-producer Ivette Dumeng. The camper will be my primary mode of transportation (and sort of a character in the show). I don’t want to divulge the exact theme of the show yet, but we begin shooting the trailer (or “sizzle”) later this month.

I won the cherry-red 1971 camper (with 45,000 miles) at an online auction. The bus was located in Florida, and I decided to fly down to pick it up in person, as I didn’t want to wire money to people I didn’t know, for a car I had never seen. I also thought the drive back to New York would be an adventure (it turned out to be more an adventure than I expected). Ivette insisted I not make the drive back to New York alone and flew down with me, to share the adventure, and the driving (although we discovered in mid-flight that she had never driven a stick before).

The sellers have a vintage car restoration business. Ryan, a nerdy-but-handsome guy probably in his late twenties, and his 40-something uncle Mike, who had a slightly graying ponytail, were waiting for us at the airport in a highly non-collectable Honda. We headed straight out to their shop so I could inspect the bus before paying for it. It was beautiful and in amazing shape for being 40 years old. Most of these vans end up being trashed, or over-customized (i.e. destroyed), but this was all original. I got in and started it and drove around the parking lot for a couple minutes, and it felt cool.

We then went to the bank where I withdrew and transferred the funds to the sellers. With title in hand we returned to the shop, got in, shook hands all around, and hit the road.

If any of you have ever driven an old VW, the engine kind of sounds like a lawn mower. Charming I suppose, but a little unsettling. We didn’t get more than ten miles up 95 when the compression started to go and I couldn’t get the van to top 45 miles per hour. We pulled off the highway and called the sellers. They suggested that since it had been sitting for a couple weeks the carburetor might have gotten a little gunky and recommend adding something to the gas tank that would help unclog it. I did, along with another half tank of gas. Hopefully that would take care of the problem and we could drive the next 1,210 miles without incident.

All strapped in and ready to go, I turned the key. Nothing! Wouldn’t even turn over. Just a click. I kept trying. Finally, I called the sellers again and they couldn’t believe it. According to them it had been running perfectly before we got there.

(to be continued...)
]]><![CDATA[Bringin’ in the New Year Right!]]>Wed, 04 Jan 2012 12:17:16 -0500http://tednash.com/3/post/2012/01/bringin-in-the-new-year-right.htmlLast night was one of those nights. One of those good ones. Sometimes when I am at a happening that is truly happening, I think “This is one of the best places anyone could be at this moment anywhere in the world.”

Frank Wess is turning 90 this month and to celebrate, Dizzy’s Club paid tribute with a gig featuring the “Dizzy Gillespie All-Stars,” led by Roy Hargrove. The band featured some of the best musicians, younger and older, and was swinging like crazy. Jimmy Heath was in the sax section, if that gives you any idea.

The thing was that “All Star” as this band was, the audience was just as much so. At the table where Ivette and I sat (as guests of Frank Wess and Sarah) were Lew Tabackin and Toshiko Akiyoshi, Jerry Dodgion, Dennis Mackrel, and Ed Xiques. Sitting across form us was a man named Jimmy Fleet, the son of a Biddy Fleet, who not only taught Frank Wess in the late 30s, but Charlie Parker as well. Bill Charlap and Renee Rosnes were a table over. Dave Sanborn was there the set before. This is an example of how musicians love to come out and support those who have helped create and shape this art form, be part of the connection to this rich history.

Frank Wess didn’t sit in the sax section, as he did for years as part of the Count Basie Orchestra, but was a featured guest, and came out and swung on three or four tunes. It’s amazing that at 90 he can still play both with the ferocity and tenderness he did fifty years ago.
]]><![CDATA[Christmas Memories, Part III]]>Mon, 26 Dec 2011 19:15:31 -0500http://tednash.com/3/post/2011/12/christmas-memories-part-iii.htmlWhen I was six my father (none other than the legendary trombonist Dick Nash) had the brilliant idea of introducing me to music by teaching me to play the trombone. I think this action may technically qualify as child abuse. I survived, but not without an incident that traumatized me for life.

Now, if any of you know how a trombone works (I had to be reminded of this once by sacbut specialist Ron Westray, but that’s another story) you will be cognizant of the fact that at age six there is no way to reach the bottom positions - sixth and seventh - without either being a contortionist, or letting go of the slide. This restriction made it difficult, but not impossible to play a few melodies, and with this knowledge my father prepared me for my first concert. This took place on Christmas Eve. The repertoire: the perennial classic “Jingle Bells.”

My dad had me practicing for several days leading up to the concert. When the big night finally arrived, the extended Nash family, the Persoffs, and several other close friends were spread around the living room on our eclectic collection of chairs and floor pillows. An announcement was made and I entered from the dining room. There was no opening act, no fanfare. (True art needs no ornamentation). The applause became more enthusiastic as the group caught sight of the skinny little blond kid trying to carry this awkward assemblage of pipes. Even though I was nervous, I am sure I had the intuitive understanding that no matter what I played they would like it. But this didn’t stop me from taking this concert very seriously, from grabbing it full on, from giving it my all.

I got right to it. I remembered the first seven notes were the same, an A, and I had to put the slide down a little from the top - “second position” in my newly acquired vernacular. After that I faltered: the next note was supposed to a C, but sounded more like a B. Then I lost confidence and clammed a note. From there it was down hill. I think what I eventually played sounded more like “Dradle, Dradle, Dradle” than “Jingle Bells.”

When the song was over and the last note finally petered out, my performance was greeted by a thunderous ovation. My intuitive understanding also told me they were probably all faking it, and I ran back to the dining room crying. My father caught up with me seconds before the trombone was to have found a new home on the grass, on the other side of the window (in a pool of broken glass). “That was great! Perfect!” he assured me.

Once my whimpers had subsided, and my shoulders had made their last up and down spasm, I braved the family and friends again and did my best to receive their accolades (whether authentic or not) and had some egg nog.

]]><![CDATA[Christmas Memories, Part II]]>Mon, 19 Dec 2011 00:01:45 -0500http://tednash.com/3/post/2011/12/christmas-memories-part-ii.htmlMr. Winter was the name of my junior high school band director, and although his name suggested something cool, he was anything but. He had a temper. And the way he dissipated this temper, which was easily aggravated by a room full of thirteen-year-olds and their benign disrespect, was to leave the band room and smoke a cigarette.

One day in early December we took advantage of his absence by passing a coffee can, collecting funds for his Christmas gift. This action was repeated several times over a week or so. When the clinking sounds of dimes, nickels and pennies hitting other dimes, nickels and pennies came to an end we new it was time to add up the booty. $16.34. Not bad.

My best friend Mike Lane and I were put in charge of acquiring the gift with this fortune. First stop: ask my dad for advice. “Cologne is always nice,” he said without much thought. “You’re not serious?” my mother snapped back, certain there was a more creative idea floating about.

“Hey,” my dad said, after giving it more thought, “why don’t we go down to Bob Stoller’s and see if he has anything lying around.” Bob was our very good friend - a brilliant sculptor, and card-carrying schizophrenic, whose Ventura Blvd. storefront gallery was a couple miles down the road.

We entered the gallery and Bob greeted us. The space was not large, but impressive with welded metal sculptures here and there on dark-stained wooden bases. The storefront was divided into three sections: the gallery, his living space (which was no more than a cot, hot plate, and chest of drawers), and workshop. The latter was the largest of the three sections, and clearly where he spend the most time.

“Hey, Bob, the kids collected some money for a gift for their band director at school and wondered of you had anything.” “Well, let’s see - how much did you collect?” I dumped the money on his desk. “Sixteen dollars and thirty-four cents,” I proudly reported. He looked down at the heap of coins, and back up at me. I figured the blank expression on his face was his attempt at veiling his overwhelming excitement. After a few seconds of thinking he said “Sure, I’ll do it. I’ll make something.” He told us to check back with him the following week.

More than a week had passed. It was now December 23rd, and my father decided it was time to call Bob. Bob had completely forgotten about the project, but promised he would have something by the next day and hung up. My father, sensing my disappointment, assured me Bob would pull it together.

Christmas Eve arrived. My father, brother and I were rehearsing the Christmas carols my dad cleverly arranged for our little trio, which possessed a range of strengths and weakness (mostly weaknesses). On this night, for the past couple years, we hopped around to households of various friends and neighbors. An important and well-anticipated stop on this year’s agenda was the house of none other than the hot-tempered Mr. Winter.

Bob Stoller called and said he would be right over - he had something for us. Bob also happened to be our flashlight holder when we performed our carols. He had originated and mastered a technique of holding three flashlights at the same time, equally illuminating the music on the metal folding music stands.

When Bob entered the house he looked stressed, excited and relieved all at the same time. With bags under his eyes, and a slight sweat covering his gray face, he produced his commission. Our jaws dropped and we gasped. Bob was holding the most beautiful creation: a conductor, complete with tails, in the throws of a passionate gesture. He had apparently been working all night on it, and was looking at us with a big grin, happy he didn’t disappoint us.

Later that night we quietly parked our car two houses down from Mr. Winter’s modest Valley ranch home and quickly set up our music stands. With the flashlights masterly focused, we began playing our first carol. After no more than ten seconds Mr. Winter and his wife opened the door and came out onto the porch, and listened intently to our concert. When we finished, they invited us into the house for a quick hot toddy. That’s when we made our presentation. I set the awkwardly wrapped package on his coffee table. “What is THIS?” he asked. “It’s a gift from the band,” I replied. “Open it.” “Now? In front of everybody?” He hesitated, and then just decided to go for it. Mr. Winter stared in disbelief upon seeing the art piece, and his eyes filled with water. In the three years I had been in the concert band, I had seen many of his expressions, but not the one we were witnessing at that moment.

***

About thirty years later, Bob Stoller was dying of cancer. I went to visit him at his little house (he had lost his gallery years before). He was in his bed, by himself, with the shades all pulled down. The air was stuffy, and smelled like cigarettes. We talked about art. I gave him a book I had put together of my young kids’ drawings. He looked at each very carefully. He then told me he was always looking for a childlike quality in his artwork.

“Hey Bob,” I said at a quiet moment. “Do you remember the time we came over and gave you sixteen dollars and thirty four cents, and you made that incredible sculpture for Mr. Winter? Well, that was was one of the most generous things I have ever seen.” Bob just laughed and said “Hell, you kidding - I needed the money.”
]]><![CDATA[Christmas Memories, Part I]]>Mon, 12 Dec 2011 17:47:37 -0500http://tednash.com/3/post/2011/12/christmas-memories-part-i.htmlThis is the first of three in a weekly blog about Christmas - my experience growing up in a musical family in California.

It’s no secret my father, Dick Nash, is a great trombonist. But less is known of his and my mother’s roles as civil rights activists. Through their associations with an organization called Operation Bootstrap, my family was introduced to a man who called himself Hakim Jamal (formerly Allen Donaldson). He was a disciple of Malcolm X, and became an active spokesman for the Nation of Islam and of Black Supremacy, groups that would refer to the white man as The Devil. You can read a little about Hakim Jamal here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hakim_Jamal.

In 1967, my parents got to know Jamal from seeing him at various civil rights meetings and fundraisers. When late December arrived, my mother invited Jamal and his family to come to our home and trim the Christmas tree with friends, a ritual very special to us. He said his family wouldn’t be interested. My mother snapped back, “Why don’t you ask them.” “OK, I will” was his response, sure they wouldn’t want to drive all the way from Compton to spend the evening in a white family’s home.

About three days later an envelope arrived in the mail with several letters, all handwritten by the Jamal children, saying “Yes, we want to come trim the tree with you.” My mother called Jamal’s bluff and won.

When the anticipated night finally arrived, my father made the climb up to the loft on a ladder that seemed to stretch upward for miles, a climb that took him to some magical place above the garage we kids were not allowed to go. This is where they kept all the Christmas decorations, and other magical things (we imagined).

When the boxes were brought to the living room, my mother would unpack the contents carefully and dust everything off. In these cartons were items that perhaps because they were only seen once a year, seemed so precious and valuable - glass balls of the most vibrant colors, ornaments handmade in elementary school by my parents, endless strands of lights and tinsel. My dad would ask one of us to help him identify the “duds” along the line of Christmas lights and we would carefully replace them.

Eventually everything would be organized and ready for THIS YEAR’S TREE, which was certainly the best one ever. My mom would continue preparing food and drinks, and we kids would wait impatiently for friends to arrive so we could start trimming.

When the Jamals’ car pulled in the driveway, the headlights swept across the floor-to-ceiling curtains, and our pet Mynah Bird barked like a dog (mimicking Lucky, our miniature poodle). The front door opened, and six people poured at different speeds into the house. There was one person missing: Jamal. He was a very stubborn man, and apparently had no intention of coming in to be part of our Christmas, just brought the family as per their wishes, and in keeping of his promise. He actually stayed out in the car the entire evening. Looking back, I wonder what was going through his head for those hours, while his family was in the “Devil’s” house.

This photo was taken that night:

During the months that followed, the Nashes and Jamals got very close, and that summer went on a week-long vacation to the Grand Canyon.

This a portrait of the two families during that trip in 1968:

I think that Jamal’s softening happened for a couple reasons. One is that Malcolm X had left the Nation of Islam, disavowing racism, and Jamal followed suit. But I like to think the main reason is that he saw my parents for who there were: caring, giving people that embraced all into their lives. No hidden motives, just love. Once he felt that, he opened up to and trusted us.

To open your home is the true spirit of Christmas. The gifts are pretty nice, too.

]]><![CDATA[Muscat Ramble]]>Sat, 10 Dec 2011 21:33:09 -0500http://tednash.com/3/post/2011/12/muscat-ramble.htmlI recently returned from Oman where, with the Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra, I performed at the beautiful new Royal Opera House in Muscat. Amazing architecture and killing acoustics! The 14 hour flight makes this easily the farthest I have traveled for a single gig.

Here’s me in my seat (aka “room” - see blog below) from JFK.

The photographer, Frank Stewart, and I had a little time the day of the concert to check out a bit of the city, which is unlike any place I ever been. Here are a few pictures I took, including a couple of the Opera House:

Jazz at Lincoln Center’s relationship with the Middle East is growing: they will be opening a new jazz club in the St. Regis Doha, in Qatar. Tareq Derbas, general manager of the new hotel, said: “We are encouraged by the positive response from the people of Qatar and believe that Jazz at Lincoln Center Doha will reinforce the city’s position as an emerging cultural centre in the Middle East...”

I can’t wait to play there, although I wonder who they will get to play the role of Todd Barkan. And of course it won’t be possible to jump on the A Train to get home...

]]><![CDATA[Oh, Man....Oman]]>Sun, 27 Nov 2011 23:37:00 -0500http://tednash.com/3/post/2011/11/oh-manoman.htmlI am four hours into a flight to Oman. I will be playing a concert in Muscat with the Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra, making this, certainly the longest commute I have ever made for a single engagement. We are part of the opening season for the new Royal Opera House. Sharing with us this exciting first few weeks of their first season is the American Ballet Theater, Placido Domingo, and Renee Fleming, among others.

If my seat on the plane is any example of what is to come over the next three days, this trip is going to be a trip. Actually, I don’t have a seat on this Emirates flight: I have a small room. It’s got lamps, a TV, various remote controls, and compartments I still haven’t figured how to open or what they’re for. On my left is a pop-up snack-bar. Even though the stock is all free of charge, I am conditioned from years of staying in hotels never to go for the overpriced stuff. The dining menu, which rivals any upscale Manhattan restaurant’s, can be ordered from at any time. I’ve had a salad, fish cakes, green tea, and have watched a movie using the provided noise-canceling headphones.

Here in first class (I was, in all fairness, bumped up from business) it seems that the number of flight attendants is equal to that of the passengers (although they probably call us “clients,” or “guests”).

Vince Gardner is in the seat in front of me, which is about a five minute walk. Sherman Irby is next to me, but I can’t see him because I have my wall up. I know he planned on getting some writing done on the flight, but if he is anything like me, he is far too distracted by all the amenities. I get more work done in coach, that’s for sure. Joe Temperly is in here somewhere, but I think it’s on the other side. I might call him on the remote which doubles as a phone, on which you supposedly can call other “clients.” The problem is I still haven’t figured out how to open the compartment with the instruction booklet (which probably also describes how to open the compartment to get the instruction booklet).

Anyway, I am looking forward to playing a place in the world I have never been, and to be part of a new cultural center that will provide opportunities for a lot of great music and theater from around the world.

I’ll let you know how it goes...in the meantime I think I’m going to order the sea bass, a glass of wine, make my seat fully horizontal and watch another movie.
]]><![CDATA[Weekend in LA]]>Sun, 13 Nov 2011 01:37:00 -0500http://tednash.com/3/post/2011/11/weekend-in-la.htmlI’m sitting near gate 33 B at LAX, getting ready to head home to NY after three days in Los Angeles. This place used to be my home, a million years ago. But whenever I walk in the front door of the house I grew up in, the one my family has had since 1963, I am transported back to a time when I was discovering so much. The thing so apparently missing now when I walk in that door is my mother, who passed away about two years ago.

I got a lot done in a short amount of time. The primary reasons for my trip were to 1) master my new CD, and 2) work on designs at my mouthpiece manufacturer’s factory. In addition to this I set aside time to catch up with my old friend Scott, who produced my CD. All of this was accomplished and still there was time to eat some good food, sit in at a club, and of course get stuck in traffic. By the way - Los Angeles road rage is not a myth...

Day One: the mastering studio of my long time friend Doug Schwartz. Doug is the son of one of the great studio saxophone doublers Wilbur Schwartz. Claim to fame: he played lead clarinet with Glenn Miller, and provided the syrupy alto sax theme for “My Three Sons.” And he was a world-class prankster. Before he opened his mastering business Doug was a busy studio engineer - worked with Blondie, Suzi Quatro, Motely Crew, etc. Started Mulholland Music many years ago and has been very successful. He bought the old Cherokee Studios, where many rock records were recorded in the 70s (Steely Dan, David Bowie etc.). It is a beautiful ranch in Chatsworth, a stone’s throw from the Santa Susana Mountains. Doug mastered my recording “Rhyme and Reason.” Great working and hanging with him, as always.

Day two: the Beechler factory. I have been playing a Beechler alto mouthpiece since I was 17. I have changed facings over the years, but am still with them. My visit had three objectives: 1) find a good student model for “Project Student Horn,” which I will get off the ground as soon as these mouthpieces are finished (see an earlier post); 2) make a copy of my current mouthpiece in a hard rubber material; and 3) try more tenor mouthpieces. For many years I have been using a metal Wolfe Tayne (AD facing) on tenor. I have always felt comfortable playing it, but it often sounds brighter on recordings than I think I actually sound.

Beechler recently sent me a hard rubber tenor mouthpiece, a Custom Jazz, which I respectfully set on my music stand. Two weeks later, “just for fun,” I tried it and was completely surprised! It was dark and yet very projecting, with a lot of color. The next day I was flying to Cincinnati to premier my commission “Suite Ivette” at the Constella Festival. For three days I played only this mouthpiece, and at the end of my Ohio visit I had been converted. Yesterday, at the factory, I tried another similar model called a 110+, and it was even better: warm, dark and projecting. I am very excited. It was also great working with Judy and Mark at the factory. Very cool and knowledgeable.

The last evening was spent at The Out Take Bistro in Studio City, where Gene Cipriano, a great studio sax/doubler (“the most recorded musician of all time”) was playing an informal gig with Cat Conner (vocals) and Jim Fox (guitar). Cip, as he is affectionately known, was my dad’s roommate on the road with The Tex Beneke band (they also shared a room with Mel Lewis). They spent decades in the studios together.

I hooked up with my producer/friend Scott, joining my dad and Shelly Balloon (her real name - she legally changed it years ago because of her party/balloon business) and had some very good food and drink. Cip sounded great! His tenor playing had strong touches of Getz and Prez, and was very personal. I grew up playing football with his family every thanksgiving but don’t think I ever heard him play live.

My dad and I ended up sitting in on a few tunes, and I’m glad we did. It was a very informal, warm vibe. Of course, playing with my dad is always special. And there’s something about a father and son doing their thing together that people are moved by. Even if we mess up the changes.

My friend Scott had a couple-too many apple martinis and I was forced to drive his 12 cylinder, 500 hp Mercedes SL600 back to his house where I left my dad’s Prius. Things your friends make you do for them... ]]>