7 Cannonball’s Run

We tend to look at jazz history—or any other history, for that matter—as a procession of great individuals who come along at intervals, shake the firmament, and create change. For jazz, that means we focus almost exclusively on innovators or leaders who have shaped the jazz tradition from decade to decade. Naturally we tend to give the music’s greatest players virtually all the credit for the most important works of jazz. But jazz has progressed as a communal art form in which many players—some obscure, others not—have made important contributions. Great jazz albums have been made by a bassist who is able to drive the players to new heights, or have been ruined by key sidemen or the wrong drummer.

One famous example of the importance of every player in a jazz group is the “reunion” of Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie that was recorded for Verve in 1950. The producer, Norman Granz, had a magnificent opportunity, and he made two good choices for the rhythm section, Thelonious Monk and Curly Russell. Monk was probably chosen at the behest of either Bird or Gillespie, since the pianist was not a Granz favorite. He probably would have preferred Oscar Peterson, who would not have adapted very well to the situation.

But then Granz made a crucial error: rather than using one of the great bop drummers of the day (for example, Max Roach or Kenny Clarke), he chose Buddy Rich for the session. Rich was a great drummer, but he simply did not fit with the other players. It should have been one of the finest moments in modern jazz history, if for no other reason than that Gillespie, Parker, and Monk—the three most important bop innovators, who at the time were at their peak—had never previously recorded together and never would again. Thus, these recordings did not achieve the level of greatness they might have if Granz had used a sympathetic drummer. (I should add, however, that the group did record a magnificent side, “Bloomdido,” which includes one of my favorite Bird solos.)

Most of what has been written about Kind of Blue focuses on John Coltrane, Bill Evans, and of course Miles Davis himself; yet the dominance of their performances is deceptive, because any jazz album is a collaborative effort. In retrospect, I find it nearly impossible to conceive of this album without the four other musicians, and they must not be ignored.

In any case, it would certainly be difficult to ignore Cannonball Adderley, especially his presence on the bandstand. He was a huge, rotund man who, I suppose, might be called “jolly,” though “ebullient” is a far better way to describe him. I once asked Miles why he used Cannonball. At the time, I believed that Adderley was not on the same level as Coltrane, Evans, and Miles, and there were many who agreed with me. Moreover, Miles had a rather childish and insensitive disdain for overweight people. He thought there was nothing wrong with saying directly to a heavy person’s face, “You’re too fat!” (When his former colleague Charles Mingus died, Miles said: “He was too damned fat!”) When I asked him why he used Cannonball, I was surprised to see for a brief moment an undeniable sadness sweep over Miles’s face. (Adderley had died relatively recently.) Miles replied, “Cannonball had a certain kind of spirit.” That was all he said, but as usual with Miles, it was enough. His statement had more than one level of meaning, though as usual, it took me a while to understand that other level.

At one time I thought that Miles’s use of Adderley was the only genuine flaw in Kind of Blue. I no longer feel that way. Adderley certainly does bring a “certain kind of spirit” to the album, a funky joy that gives the music an added facet—and an important one. Miles, Coltrane, and Evans looked deep within themselves to create their music; Adderley buoyantly celebrated the moment. The blues were always present when Adderley played but were rarely the melancholy blues; rather, they were the music of a man who reveled in the totality of life.

Yet as I finally understood, Miles’s comment about Adderley has another meaning: Miles was also referring to Adderley as a jazz populist. That is not the same thing as a jazz popularizer like Herbie Mann or, for that matter, Kenny G and the other players of “lite jazz” (how I hate that term). Adderley believed that jazz was still a “people’s music” and strove to make it accessible, especially to black audiences—although he had many white fans as well. In fact, he often employed white players such as Joe Zawinul and Victor Feldman. If jazz had become a more elitist music since the rise of bebop, Adderley’s mission seemed to be to make it once again a music for dancing and celebration.

Julian “Cannonball” Adderley was born in Tampa, Florida, in 1928, making him two years younger than Miles and Coltrane. He was given his nickname as a twist on cannibal, which referred to his huge appetite. His father was a musician who had played in some local bands, but he actively discouraged his son from pursuing the insecurity of jazz life. Cannonball’s first instrument was the trumpet, but he soon gave it up and turned the horn over to his brother, Nat, who became a fine player in his own right (although he eventually played a cornet rather than trumpet). The two of them would later form their own band. Cannonball decided to concentrate on the alto saxophone. He led his high-school band but, after the warnings of his father, decided that it would be safer to pursue a career as a music teacher rather than as a jazz musician.

He graduated from Florida State University with a degree in music teaching. On the side, he continued to take whatever gigs he could find. Playing mainly dances, he discovered (as he would tell Nat Hentoff years later) that such gigs “made it necessary to play with drive and with a basic blues feeling to keep an audience at a dance interested.” This was a lesson that would affect his playing for the rest of his career, even though as a jazzman, he was playing clubs and concerts rather than dances.

Cannonball took a job teaching at a Fort Lauderdale high school. He must have been a great teacher; for one thing, he was fluent on several instruments, including trumpet, flute, clarinet, and both the tenor and alto saxophones. In addition, he must have been entertaining to his students if his later behavior is any guide: when he was leading his own groups, Adderley enlivened his audiences with jovial mini-lectures that were both humorous and instructive, creating a warm and intimate atmosphere. At this time, jazz musicians rarely addressed the audience at all, or if they did, it was only to name the tunes and perhaps introduce the other musicians (of course, Dizzy Gillespie was one great exception). Part of this hands-off attitude toward the audience was the influence of Miles, who regarded any type of stage patter as a throwback to the minstrel era; he firmly believed that the music should speak for itself. Coltrane, after he began leading his own groups, would adopt Miles’s onstage style (although he was not accused of being “arrogant” toward his audience). But Adderley saw nothing wrong with addressing his audience verbally; he felt that, if anything, such talk brought them closer to a kind of music—modern jazz—that many thought was over their heads.

After being inducted into the army in the early 1950s, Adderley played in several military bands. After leaving the army, he went back to teaching high school. But he was full of ambition and wanted to at least attempt being a success in the New York jazz scene. Both he and his brother, Nat, decided to venture to the big city. The story of Cannonball’s “discovery” in New York is one of those jazz legends that on the surface sounds like a Hollywood fantasy. But it is the improbable truth. Soon after they arrived in New York City, Cannonball and his brother went to a now-defunct club in Greenwich Village called the Cafe Bohemia. It was at the time a favorite haunt of jazzmen; several important albums from this period were recorded live there.

The night the Adderleys went there, the bassist Oscar Pettiford was performing with his group. Pettiford was one of the great jazz bassists, a pioneer at adapting the advances of bop to the bass. He was also well known for having a peevish temper, particularly after a few drinks. On this night Pettiford’s regular saxophonist, Jerome Richardson, was late because of a record date, and the bassist wanted to begin his set. He noticed that Adderley had a horn and asked the young jazzman to lend it to one of the established saxophonists who happened to be in the audience. Cannonball refused to lend his horn but said that instead he would like to sit in. Apparently Pettiford was offended at the brashness of this big young man but assented and let Cannonball play with the group.

Pettiford had no intention of letting Adderley off easy. Jazzmen have a long tradition of testing would-be players by choosing a tune with tricky chord changes and counting out a very fast tempo. It was a test of mettle that most burgeoning young jazzmen failed. Pettiford chose “I’ll Remember April” and set off at a furious tempo. But Cannonball shocked all the musicians and “hip” elite by playing brilliantly, eating up the changes, totally unruffled by the tempo. When Jerome Richardson got to the club, he was shocked to see this unknown saxophonist on the stand. As Richardson recalls, “I came in and found this guy playing and he was blowing the walls down, and I said, ‘Oh, Jesus, who the hell is this?’ And I thought to myself, Well, I just lost my job.”1

But Richardson need not have worried; not only did he continue to play with Pettiford but he also became friends with the Adderley brothers and was one of their most tireless boosters in the New York jazz scene. He was scarcely the only one; after that night at the Bohemia, the reputation of both Cannonball and Nat (who also sat in with Pettiford) spread like wildfire throughout the jazz world. The two brothers continued to play with Pettiford and soon became respected members of the jazz fraternity. Cannonball’s reputation reached the stage at which he was able to become a leader in his own right, forming a group with his brother. They also received a recording contract with Savoy and began what would be a long and active recording career.

Cannonball’s earliest recordings reveal that even at this point of his career, he had an unmistakably original style, although the influence of other altoists (in particular, Bird and Benny Carter) can clearly be heard. Since Charlie Parker was so important to Cannonball’s development, it should come as no surprise that Nat was heavily influenced by Miles. However, like his brother, he developed his own style and became a formidable player. Incidentally, despite being so deeply influenced by Miles, Nat could not tolerate him as a human being. This antipathy can perhaps be traced to a famous incident. Miles was in a nightclub where the Adderley brothers were performing. During intermission Miles went up to Nat, took the cornet out of his hands, and acted as if he were about to hurl it to the ground, saying, “You can’t play this thing, motherfucker!” Nobody ever accused Miles of being overly tactful.

Although he had a high repute among fellow musicians, Cannonball discovered what a struggle it could be to keep his own group afloat. Despite his musical prowess, dealing with all the practical and emotional difficulties of leading one’s own jazz group proved to be more than he could handle at this stage of his career. After all, he had been a leader while he was living in Florida only, and he had not done particularly extensive work as a sideman in New York. He hadn’t paid nearly as much “dues” as most other jazzmen on the scene. Nevertheless, he and Nat realized that seriously paying one’s dues would be the only way to survive if they wanted to remain in the city.

Listening to Adderley’s early albums, it becomes clear that his problems as a musician extended beyond the financial and logistical concerns of group leadership. Although no one would deny his technical facility, his style betrayed certain deficiencies. Perhaps the most outstanding problem with Adderley’s playing was taste. It is very difficult to define taste, in particular within the context of jazz improvisation. After all, one man’s tastelessness may be another man’s (or woman’s) ecstasy.

Is it tasteless because he plays so many notes? Well, Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie played a lot of notes, yet only “moldy figs” ever called them tasteless. Certainly Coltrane played vast mountains of notes; there were those who called him tasteless, but to be succinct, they were simply wrong. Coltrane paints on a vast canvas and needs those countless notes to “get it all in.” Tastelessness, at least in jazz improvisation, occurs when one plays more notes than are necessary to make a musical point. This was a large part of Adderley’s problem.

Just as important, however, is his use of blues licks. As already noted, there are people who believe that all jazz expression must touch on the blues in order to be truly idiomatic; and there are many, including me, who do not agree with that position. There are certainly a number of jazzmen whose work is more blues-tinged than others—for example, Louis Armstrong or Horace Silver. But those two players, and other great jazzmen as well, are careful not to blow basic blues licks, chords, or even blue notes haphazardly, turning everything they play into funk.

Despite Cannonball’s inability to keep his own group afloat, he caused a stir in the jazz scene. Although like most saxophonists of that period, he was clearly in thrall to Charlie Parker, he was just as clearly his own man. In addition to Bird, he was also influenced by such rhythm-and-blues players as Eddie “Cleanhead” Vinson (with whom he would later record) and Earl Bostic. Technically commanding, Adderley could keep pace with any of his contemporaries in jazz.

In addition, Adderley had emerged in the heart of the New York jazz scene at a very propitious time for someone with such a fervid and blues-drenched style. In 1955, the year Cannonball arrived in New York, the hard-bop movement was just beginning to dominate the East Coast jazz world. This movement was to a degree a reaction to the “cool” jazz era that was for the most part identified with West Coast (and mainly white) jazz musicians. Many jazzmen were looking back to their music’s black roots, and for many of them that meant the blues.

Did jazz really develop out of the blues? The answer is yes—but only to an extent. Labeling jazz as “blues music,” as one writer has done, exhibits a lack of knowledge about the true roots of jazz. Those who insist on claiming that the blues is the sole parent of jazz do so for their own narrow sociopolitical agenda. For me, one of the most inspiring aspects of the evolution of jazz is the resourcefulness and eclecticism of the musicians who have developed it. They took what they needed from a wide panoply of sources: gospel music, African rhythms, brass band music, the blues, European folk music, classical music, “Latin-tinged” music, and who knows how many other types of music. (Some have even claimed to hear in jazz Native American music and, amazingly, cantorial song.) This is what makes jazz so profoundly American—like its people, the whole of these different musical sources is greater than the rich sum of its parts.

Nevertheless, the blues have traditionally been associated with African American culture; and it certainly is true that West Coast “cool” jazz had virtually no blues tinge at all, except when the musicians actually played blues (which was not too often). So when somebody whose playing was as steeped in blues as much as Cannonball Adderley’s arrived on the East Coast, he was immediately embraced for his commitment to the black roots of jazz.

Perhaps this encouragement led Adderley to rely too heavily on blues licks. Their overuse made some musicians and critics doubt his sincerity, as they similarly doubted the sincerity of other musicians. Oscar Peterson, for example, often turned blues clichés when playing virtually any kind of tune. Miles caustically remarked that Peterson was the type of musician who had to be taught how to play the blues. Such clichés have often been used by jazzmen, but some musicians in the mid and late 1950s created solos with very little else except blues-oriented clichés.

Martin Williams, hailed as the dean of American jazz critics, put it this way: “I find Adderley’s work unsatisfying.… At the end of his solos, I usually find myself asking just what he has said—in form, in melody and rhythm, and in content.… Adderley seems to toss off casually what he can play within the technical form of each piece but not within its emotional form or musical implications.”2

In a review of a live Adderley album, Williams wrote that the tunes have “more blue notes per four-bar phrase than you might have believed possible. Indeed, the whole occasion has the air of a communal celebration in which a black middle-class determinedly seeks out its musical roots.”3

Yet another critic of Adderley was Miles Davis. Miles had befriended Cannonball after he made his move to New York, giving him advice about using the right agent and which record companies to stay away from. He also gave him musical advice. As Cannonball later recalled it: “Miles began telling me something musically about chords, but I sort of ignored him.… I was a little arrogant in those days. Then about three months later I saw an interview in which Miles said I could swing, but I didn’t know much about chords.”4 Make no mistake about it—Miles said these things deliberately to reach Adderley, whom he had been thinking of hiring. He undoubtedly wanted him to become more harmonically sophisticated before he would be permitted to play in Miles’s group.

Despite this criticism, both Miles and Williams recognized Cannonball’s great talent, and so did most of those on the scene. But the burden of leading a group made it difficult for Cannonball to focus totally on his own playing. And his group with Nat had a tough time finding enough of an audience at this early stage of their careers. Adderley was forced to accept the fact that he would not be able to keep his band together, at least not before he became a better-known name among the jazz audience.

But then Cannonball got a break, the most important of his career. Dizzy Gillespie had invited him to join his small group, and Adderley, frustrated with trying to lead his own group, decided to do it. At the time, he was playing opposite Miles at the Cafe Bohemia, the same club where he was “discovered.” When he mentioned to Miles that Gillespie had asked him to join his group, the trumpeter asked Adderley why he didn’t join his group. Cannonball replied, naturally enough, “Because you never asked me.”

In October of 1957 Cannonball finally disbanded his group and accepted Miles’s invitation rather than Dizzy’s. He said, “Not that Dizzy is not a good teacher, but he played more commercially than Miles. Thank goodness I made the move that I did.”5

At the time, Miles’s group was a quintet—Coltrane was still with Monk. The importance of this opportunity for Adderley was more than simply Miles’s penchant for “star making.” For one thing, it gave the saxophonist a certain kind of legitimacy. Playing for Miles, throughout virtually the trumpeter’s entire history as a leader, meant almost instant acceptance among those in the jazz scene. And since Miles toured constantly, a musician was able to garner nationwide, and even worldwide, recognition and respect.

But for Cannonball, there was an even more crucial reason that Miles was important to his career: better than just about anybody else, Miles was able to help him shape and develop his conception. As Nat Hentoff put it in an article about Cannonball, “Adderley had been mistaking speed and facility of execution for musical expression, and he learned much about editing his solos and about harmonic imagination from Davis. ‘You don’t have to play all those notes,’ Davis would tell him.”

There are many musicians (and even more jazz fans) who confuse superb technical facility with great playing. There are many jazzmen who have gained their reputations by their ability to play very fast or “all over their horn.” Some musicians have regularly tried to “wow” their audiences by using circular breathing in order to hold on to a note for a lengthy period of time. Roland Kirk amazed audiences with his ability to play three wind instruments at once, and maybe blow a flute through his nose simultaneously. (It should be said, however, that he could also play brilliantly on one horn when he wanted.) But improvising beautiful and emotionally meaningful music has nothing to do with that kind of facility. After all, jazz is not a series of carnival or athletic events. It is an art form that speaks to us as deeply as any other. The best technique is that which is invisible, which does not draw the listener’s attention as if the technical challenges alone constitute the essence of the music.

I have often wondered whether there is an element of racism in the way some jazzmen are admired for these purely technical qualities; such admiration is not dissimilar to the respect given, for example, Michael Jordan or Walter Payton or Mike Tyson. It is easier for some white people to admire black men and women for physical ability than for being able to create profound and intellectually stimulating artistic statements.

There have been some jazzmen who were incredibly virtuosic but also played music of great beauty and depth. Charlie Parker is one obvious example, along with fellow bopsters such as Dizzy Gillespie, Bud Powell, and Fats Navarro. To examine the flip side of the “technique” argument—this time with a very different kind of jazzman, I think it is fallacious to state that Thelonious Monk lacked technique. As previously noted, he developed the precise kind of technique he needed to play his own unique music. And that distinctiveness is the quality that is paramount: a jazzman’s—or at least a great jazzman’s—technique arises out of the specific demands of his own idiosyncratic musical conception. Ask yourself, for example, whether Clifford Brown is a “better” trumpet player than Miles Davis. From the perspective of traditional musical technique, yes. But from the more demanding jazz standard—the ability to create personal, emotionally compelling musical statements—no.

For Cannonball Adderley, then, his great technical facility perhaps stood in the way of his developing into a major jazzman. But he could not have found a better way to evolve as a musician than playing with Miles Davis. Nobody had a better understanding than Miles of how to make musical statements with an economy of notes. This is not an easy thing to learn. Many musicians have said that the important thing about improvising is knowing what not to play. It takes time and great patience to discover this truth. Some critics have pointed out that Miles seemed to have the ability to edit complex lines as he played, reducing them to their essentials and implying more than he actually stated.

The effect of Miles on Cannonball’s development as a mature improviser is clear when one listens to the music Cannonball recorded while he was with Davis, both as part of Miles’s group and as a leader in his own right. The first time Cannonball recorded while he was with Miles was on the first session for the Milestones album on February 4, 1958. Of course, by that time Coltrane had rejoined Miles. On the group’s version of Monk’s “Straight, No Chaser,” Cannonball plays with a sense of purpose not heard in his earlier work. He is obviously being spurred by Coltrane to play more adventurously than he had in the past, and his harmonic language in particular is far more exploratory. From Adderley’s earlier work, the contrast between him and Coltrane is not as great as one might have expected. Miles was a master at finding ways to make his musicians play over their heads. For example, often during a performance by the sextet, Miles would whisper into Coltrane’s ear while Cannonball was playing, and vice versa, praising whoever was playing at the time. By doing so, he exacerbated the competitiveness between the players, which in turn caused them to take chances and not rely on clichés and trite licks.

Cannonball seems far more relaxed and assured on “Miles” (“Milestones”). In fact, his solo is one of his best on the album; his work gives credence to Miles’s remark about Cannonball’s “spirit”—it is genuinely joy-inducing, and the ability to elicit joy in this way should not be discounted. Cannonball may suffer from the same prejudice that makes many jazz fans downgrade Dizzy Gillespie in comparison with Charlie Parker or Miles. Darker emotions are, for some people, much deeper or more significant than the expression of joy. This view is similar to the widespread belief that a great comedy is less profound than a serious drama—but this perception is, at best, superficial.

A month after the first Milestones session, Cannonball recorded the only album he would do for Blue Note (that is, as a leader; he was a sideman on a date led by the trumpet player Louis Smith). The album, called Somethin’ Else, was a true “all-star” date, and a very unusual one at that: one of the sidemen was Cannonball’s boss at the time, Miles Davis. The rhythm section was suitably top-drawer: pianist Hank Jones, bassist Sam Jones (the two were not related), and the mighty Art Blakey. Although this was nominally Adderley’s date, Miles clearly was the one running the show. Perhaps, then, it should not come as a surprise that this is the finest album Cannonball ever recorded as a leader. If there needs to be any further evidence of Miles’s genius for giving musicians the perfect context in which to excel as improvisers, this album should provide more than necessary.

Not only is this Cannonball’s best record, it also includes his finest solo—his beautifully sculpted, emotionally charged “Autumn Leaves.” This solo alone proves that Adderley was capable of playing superbly when given the opportunity. Of course, Miles, in his subtle yet calculated way, strongly affected Adderley, whose playing is far more thoughtful and nuanced than most of his earlier work, and these qualities would continue to be true for years after. At the same time, Adderley retains the bluesy passion that colors most of his music. Miles also plays magnificently on the album; he was obviously at a new peak. Unfortunately, it was a peak he would never equal again, although his playing on Kind of Blue comes, at times, quite close. As we shall see, Adderley would also be the source of the single obvious flaw in Kind of Blue.

Miles’s genius as a musical strategist is important in his work with Adderley—or, for that matter, with any jazzman who played in his group. Miles never jumped into anything unless he had tested the waters; he understood that his own ambitions could not be realized unless the musicians he worked with were able to follow him as he headed in new directions. I believe that this was the main reason Miles undertook the role of “sideman” to Adderley on this one date. Cannonball, as noted earlier, seems more relaxed on the first modal tune Miles recorded—“Miles” (“Milestones”). Yet Miles must have realized that the alto saxophonist was not a musician on the same exalted level as Coltrane, Bill Evans, or himself. For Adderley, Miles was in a sense both Machiavelli and Svengali: Miles was subtly preparing for the new challenges he planned for his musicians as well as helping shape Cannonball into a player who could prevail in the new kind of musical freedom Miles intended to explore.

Why, then, use Adderley at all for Kind of Blue if Miles had misgivings about the saxophonist? The answer takes us back to the beginning of this chapter—Miles understood the value of that special “spirit,” that funky ebullience and joyous celebration that Cannonball brought to the music and to life itself. Years after Kind of Blue, Miles would be harshly criticized by some critics—and by more than a few musicians, too—for his explorations of jazz/rock/funk—or fusion, as this period was labeled. He was accused of selling out, deliberately diluting his music in order to reach a huge pop and rock audience. But the truth is, Miles was never an elitist. He always wanted his music to reach the broadest audience possible.

Late in his own career, Cannonball himself was accused of selling out. His answer was that if he could find a way to sell out, he would do it in a minute. The fact that Cannonball’s blues-filled style reached those in an audience confused or put off by Coltrane’s byzantine journeys into the stratosphere or Bill Evans’s romantic introspection gave the sextet an extra dimension. After Cannonball left the group, at the end of 1959, Miles toured with only a quintet. In his autobiography he makes clear that without Adderley, he was not able to continue in the same direction that he had been pursuing with the sextet. But Miles could not have gone out and simply hired any of the alto saxophonists on the scene in order to restore the sextet. Miles was always concerned with the primacy of sound itself, and no alto saxophonist except Adderley could have combined with the other horns to make the glorious sound of the great sextet.

The recordings of the quintet that Miles used on his European tour are magnificent; Coltrane’s solos, for example, virtually explode with ideas. But there is something lacking. And Miles was right: that missing quality was a certain funky “spirit.”

*   *   *

Rhythm sections are always vital to a great jazz album. In the case of Kind of Blue, the rhythm section and its sensitivity in supporting the soloists was particularly crucial. The emotional and musical ambience of Kind of Blue is so fragile, a responsive and inventive rhythm section is as important as brilliant soloists. Moreover, the wide disparity of styles (and especially rhythmic conceptions) in this band was so great that the rhythm section had to shift gears constantly, depending on who was soloing—not an easy thing to do. And this rhythm section was nothing short of magnificent.

The musicians in the rhythm section on Kind of Blue are not as famous or respected as several others from this era, including some of the jazzmen in Miles’s own groups. The bassist Paul Chambers and the drummer Jimmy Cobb have never been as celebrated as, say, Chambers and Philly Joe Jones from Miles’s original group, or as the Tony Williams-Ron Carter pairing in the group Miles would lead a few years later. But in many ways the Chambers-Cobb rhythm section is equal to them. It was not as innovative as, say, the Williams-Carter section, but it was the perfect rhythm section for Kind of Blue. No other rhythm section that I can think of could have supplied such strong but unobtrusive and sensitive support. Both Chambers and Cobb not only knew how to listen to what the soloist was doing, they were able to anticipate the flow of each solo. And with soloists like the ones on this record (and in particular, Coltrane), this was a formidable task.

It is especially astonishing to hear how mature the playing of Paul Chambers is on this record, since he was only twenty-three at the time. But Chambers was one of those remarkable prodigies that springs up in jazz from time to time. He was born in Pittsburgh in 1935 and moved to Detroit after the death of his mother. His original instrument was the tuba, but when he turned fourteen he switched to the double bass. Within a few years he was playing with some of Detroit’s best jazzmen and was hired by the tenor saxophonist Paul Quinichette for a tour that wound up in New York, where Chambers finally settled. He soon became one of the most admired young bassists in jazz, playing with some of the best modernists of the time, including pianist George Wallington, trumpeter Donald Byrd, trombonists J. J. Johnson, Kai Winding, and Bennie Green. When Miles formed his first great quintet in 1955, he chose Chambers as his bassist. At the time, few bassists swung as hard as Chambers, although he was not among those who were attempting to expand the role of the instrument. That honor would go to Charles Mingus and the important bassists who somewhat later would take the bass further along an innovative path, including Scott LaFaro, Gary Peacock, and Ron Carter, the bassist who would eventually replace Chambers in the Davis quintet. For Miles, though, Chambers’s ability to provide strong rhythmic impetus for a band was of paramount importance. “Phew,” Miles said about him, “that motherfucker can really make a band swing.”

It is not surprising that Chambers became a drug addict after joining the Davis band—still nicknamed the “dope and booze” band despite the fact that Miles himself was then clean. (Still, anyone who worked in close proximity to Philly Joe Jones seemed to be drawn into heroin sooner or later.) Chambers would eventually stay with Miles until 1963, when the entire band, which by then included the tenor saxophonist Hank Mobley, broke up in a rather confused fashion. Chambers and the others in the Miles rhythm section, Wynton Kelly and Jimmy Cobb, formed a trio that was quite successful for a while; they recorded a live album with Wes Mongomery that, in my opinion, is the best album the great guitarist ever made—Smokin’ at the Half Note.

Although Chambers was not in the vanguard of jazz bassists, his playing was tremendously influential for its drive and deep, woody sound. His good taste and penchant for playing the right notes were remarkable for someone so young. Rather than trying to overrun the soloist with his technique like many youthful hotshot bassists, his dedication was always toward being supportive of the soloist. He himself was also a superb soloist who could improvise equally well when strumming the bass or playing arco (with the bow). That may be Chambers’s greatest legacy—he influenced many bassists as a soloist. And, of course, as the perfect bassist for Kind of Blue, he will be remembered as one of the greatest of all jazz bassists.

Jimmy Cobb never got the approbation from critics that Chambers received. I think he is one of the most underappreciated of all modern jazz drummers, and not just because he played on Kind of Blue. For me, at least, he is pivotal in the evolution of jazz drumming, serving as a kind of bridge between Max Roach, Roy Haynes, and Philly Joe Jones and the important drummers of the 1960s, such as Pete La Roca, Elvin Jones, and especially Tony Williams. More than any of those drummers, Cobb was, and is, a group drummer who understands how to pull together a band while forcefully providing perceptive support to the soloists. He never let his ego dictate his work as an accompanist; he never tried to overwhelm the soloist, nor did he take many solos himself (at least not while he was with Miles). Miles’s rhythmic conception was so subtle that playing with him was a test for a drummer; the drummer could not simply bash ahead. He had to be able to listen not only to what the trumpeter was actually playing but also to its implications. As mentioned earlier, Miles became notorious for turning his back to his audience—to hear the drummer better, he said, not to shut out the audience. However the audience understood Miles’s somewhat melodramatic gesture, his own comment reveals how important the drummer was; and Cobb not only played exactly what Miles needed but he did it with great drive and intelligence—a truly musical drummer.

Jimmy Cobb was born in Washington, D.C., in 1929. He took some lessons but was mainly self-taught. By the time he was twenty-one, he was gigging regularly, playing locally with musicians ranging from Charlie Parker and Leo Parker (they were not related) to Billie Holiday and even Pearl Bailey. He left Washington to tour with rhythm-and-blues saxophonist Earl Bostic, with whom Coltrane also played for a while. After leaving Bostic, Jimmy played with the blues singer Dinah Washington, whom he married. The relationship was volatile and eventually led to divorce. After Cobb settled in New York, he became a very busy drummer, playing with some of the top modernists, such as Stan Getz, the ubiquitous J. J. Johnson, and Cannonball Adderley, who was responsible for bringing him to Miles’s attention.

Cobb joined Miles’s band in 1958 amidst the chaotic sessions for the Milestones album. Miles was having major problems with both Red Garland and Philly Joe Jones, so Cannonball brought Cobb to the session in case Jones did not show up. Jones did eventually show up, but Red Garland, who was still supposedly the pianist in the group, did not. Miles was forced to accompany the soloists on piano and then to play without piano accompaniment when he took his own solo. At the end of the session, as Cobb remembers, “Red walked in and started to play the piano. But the shit was over! Miles was pissed, but he knew what Red and Philly Joe were about; he had been through that junkie bullshit himself. And Red and Philly Joe, in turn, felt that Miles didn’t care about their problems, that he could just go home—to his great home. He didn’t have to scuffle on the streets like they did.” Soon after these notorious sessions, Cannonball brought Jimmy in to play a date at a club in Brooklyn, and from then on he was the sextet’s drummer. (This was also the gig at which Bill Evans first played with the group.)

Playing with this sextet was both a dream come true as well as nightmare for a drummer. It was the best band in jazz, and it played hard, giving the drummer the opportunity to really turn loose, which is how most drummers like it. Some drummers have almost been ruined when they are forced to play mainly behind singers. Such gigs may be lucrative but are frustrating for a drummer; and, of course, Cobb knew this very well after the years of playing behind Dinah Washington. The complexity of playing behind such disparate soloists as those in Miles’s band was daunting, to say the least.

Coltrane, especially, was a challenge. His intense solos became longer and longer, forcing Cobb to test his own stamina as it had never been before. One evening he was playing so hard behind a lengthy Coltrane solo that one of his sticks flew out of his hand and just missed the saxophonist’s head. After the set, Coltrane chuckled and said to him, “You almost got me that time.” But Cobb loved Trane’s playing, as exhausting as it was just to keep pace with him.

Cobb, like the other players in the sextet, was given the freedom to develop his own style. I have often wondered whether Miles himself was actually a strong influence on Cobb because the drummer seemed at times to be paring down his style, breaking away from the complex rhythms of a drummer such as Philly Joe Jones. Cobb’s work was, in fact, similar to that of Miles’s best solo statements, implied rhythms rather than outright statements. Thus, Cobb streamlined jazz rhythms while still providing the strong rhythmic support that Miles demanded. Like Chambers, the drummer’s ability to provide sympathetic support behind such an array of different soloists was extraordinary in itself.

Jimmy Cobb is a quiet, plainspoken, gentle, and truly sensitive man with a great sense of humor. From his demeanor one would never guess what an explosive drummer he really is. Hopefully, the high regard for Kind of Blue will result in reconsideration of Cobb in the pantheon of great jazz drummers.

Wynton Kelly has only a cameo role in Kind of Blue, but Miles’s decision to use him instead of Bill Evans on one cut, the blues “Freddie Freeloader,” was a stroke of genius. Kelly was a master blues player who was a swinger if there ever was one. Yet unlike many of his contemporaries, in addition to being funky, Kelly was also a highly lyrical player who combined his blues with a songlike character that made him unique. As Miles put it, “In Wynton Kelly we had a combination of Red Garland and Bill Evans so we could go in any direction we wanted.”6 Additionally, Kelly was one of the greatest accompanists in all of jazz. He did more than just provide support; he gave the soloist a genuine lift and was able to engage in a kind of two-way musical conversation, throwing out ideas, filling in spaces, giving drive to the entire rhythm section while never interfering with the soloist’s musical direction. As Sonny Rollins pointed out, some pianists get in the way of a player’s freedom or simply envelop him in chords; Kelly, on the other hand, made a soloist want to play.

Wynton Kelly was born in December 1931 in Jamaica. When he was four years old, his family moved to Brooklyn. By the time he was a teenager, he was playing in rhythm-and-blues bands, which heavily influenced his mature blues-oriented style. He went on to play with Dinah Washington (while, incidentally, Jimmy Cobb was playing drums behind the singer) and later with Eddie “Lockjaw” Davis, whose playing was like one of the “blues shouters” out of the 1940s. When Kelly was eighteen, he was hired by Dizzy Gillespie; thus, by the time he was hired by Miles Davis in 1958, he was at twenty-seven already a veteran.

Wynton Kelly is one of the greatest of all modern jazz pianists, although lately he has become almost a forgotten figure (while Bill Evans’s reputation has, if anything, soared after his death—and rightly so). Kelly made dozens of albums with some of the best post-bop players, including Miles, Dizzy, Coltrane, Sonny Rollins (he was Sonny’s favorite accompanist), Wayne Shorter, Hank Mobley, and dozens more. Tragically, he died at the age of thirty-nine. Among the many pianists whom he influenced were such future Miles sidemen as Victor Feldman and, especially, Herbie Hancock.

The contrast between these three jazzmen—Bill Evans, Jimmy Cobb, Paul Chambers—proves how much difference one musician can make, especially in the rhythm section, to the overall dynamics of a jazz group. With Evans, the rhythm seems slightly behind the soloist, providing a more abstract rhythmic attack. But with Kelly, the rhythm is far more aggressive, pushing the soloist forward. It is difficult not to swing when Kelly is in the piano chair. And the one track on Kind of Blue on which Kelly plays has a very different feel from the others, although in its own way it is no less compelling than the tracks on which Evans is the pianist.

Miles often pointed out that his rhythm sections liked playing with one another. This was certainly true for the KellyCobb-Chambers team. They fit together perfectly. As pointed out, none of them were radical innovators; rather, their concern was to try to make the group swing as hard as possible and to provide strong support for the soloists. And they succeeded at it brilliantly.

These musicians—Cannonball Adderley, Paul Chambers, Jimmy Cobb, and Wynton Kelly—usually do not get much attention or credit for the success of Kind of Blue. But bring in, say, Philly Joe Jones instead of Jimmy Cobb, or Oscar Pettiford instead of Chambers, and the album would have been entirely different. Not necessarily worse or better, but profoundly different.

The lives and careers of all seven musicians who play on Kind of Blue seem almost predestined to lead each of them to the time and the place, the recording studio where this jazz masterpiece was created in March and April of 1959.