Clifford Everett “Bud” Shank, or “C.E. Shank” (1926-2009), was one of the great West Coast “cool” legends who played in the big bands of Pete Rugolo, Maynard Ferguson, Shorty Rogers and Gerald Wilson. While born in Dayton, Ohio, Shank became the epitome of the “cool” jazz style California so prominently heralded in the early fifties and one of its most prolific and poetic progenitors.
Shank helmed the flute and baritone saxophone with easy efficiency. But it was his alto sax that became the barometer of a smooth and sweet sound that defined the warm, breezy coastal feeling – one that defined the West Coast trend of the period. That tone, which critic Owen Cordle later described as “somewhere between the melancholy of [Lee] Konitz or [Art] Pepper and the sweetness of [Paul] Desmond,” had a joyous, swinging signature all its own.
Shank’s sound had the remarkable ability to suggest the sun, the beach, the fun and the careless days of youth. Total West Coast cool. That sound was very likely the reason Shank was asked to write the soundtracks to such surf movies as Slippery When Wet (1959) and Barefoot Adventure (1960). Not only was it Cool, it was cool.
Shank waxed a prolific number of notable recordings during this period, including West Coast sounds of his own as well as more formidable “crossover” albums, such as Brazilian-jazz projects with guitarist Laurindo Almeida – that, remarkably, predate the bossa-nova movement of the early sixties – folk-jazz records and Indian-jazz projects with Ravi Shankar, that likewise, predate the mid-sixties obsession with raga music.
And then there’s Chet Baker. Not only did Baker (1929-88) emerge as one of the stars of the West Coast Cool movement in the early fifties, he became its poster boy. The angelic-looking but devilishly handsome Baker was adored as much for his brooding, matinee-idol good looks as his playing, a lazy but appealing imitation of Miles Davis (Baker was entirely self-taught and rarely practiced or rehearsed in any meaningful way).
Baker shot to early prominence as Charlie “Bird” Parker’s “first choice” during a West Coast stand and a spot alongside Gerry Mulligan’s in the baritone saxophonist’s piano-less quartet. It was Chet Baker that sparked Richard Bock to form Pacific Jazz Records in the first place, in an effort to capture some of the dust of this budding star’s promise. And, indeed, he did.
In 1954, when Baker demanded to record an album with strings – just like Bird had – Bock arranged to finance it with the help of the Columbia label, which would actually sign rival Miles Davis the following year.
In those years, Shank and Baker recorded together with the Gerry Mulligan Tentette (1953) and on the Chet Baker albums Witch Doctor (1953, but not issued until 1985) as well as the above-noted Chet Baker & Strings (1954), Chet Baker Sextet (1954), Chet Baker Sings (1955) and Chet Baker Big Band (1957). Both leaders were also featured performers on The James Dean Story soundtrack (1957).
By the end of the fifties, the West Coast sound was largely losing its appeal – although the rest of the world caught up with what these guys were doing years later. Chet Baker was run out of town as drug-enforcement agents hunted him down. The trumpeter spent a year or so in New York, where he waxed a series of records for the Riverside label before heading off to his notorious European adventures.
Shank, like so many of the West Coast players of the period who could read music, began lodging many hours in the L.A. studios as a session player. He recorded anything and everything from pop, jazz and easy listening music to jingles, TV shows and film music.
At the time of the recordings under review here, Shank was also a member of Stan Kenton’s innovative Los Angeles Neophonic Orchestra, which played commissioned third-stream pieces by such composers as Shorty Rogers, Lalo Schifrin, Pete Rugolo and John Williams.
Shank could also be heard on recordings by such singers as Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis, Jr., Anita O’Day, June Christy, Sarah Vaughan and Mel Torme as well as on many soundtracks by Elmer Bernstein, Johnny Mandel, Lalo Schifrin, Henry Mancini, Quincy Jones, Michel Legrand, Neal Hefti, Patrick Williams, Dave Grusin and Jack Nitzsche.
The recordings under review here came about shortly after Richard Bock had sold his Pacific Jazz label to the commercially-oriented Liberty Records. The label morphed into the now more expansive World Pacific Records. Bock stayed on as a producer for several more years but he was asked to produce more commercial fare – as was the Blue Note label when Liberty acquired it a couple years later.
In late 1965, as Bock prepared to produce the latest record for Bud Shank – who had been with Bock since the beginning – Chet Baker had returned to California. He had recently fled New York with his family (and the clutches of Richard Carpenter) and was desperate for cash.
Bock had been burned by Baker before, but found it was always hard to say no to the trumpeter. Instead of just giving Baker money, though, Bock made him earn it by playing as a guest on Shank’s record. Baker had lost his trumpet and was now playing flugelhorn, which suited the needs of Shank’s record perfectly. This was not the West Coast cool of the fifties, but a gloss on the popular music of the day meant to “crossover” to listeners outside of jazz.
For his part, Baker “showed up,” even though Shank knew he came just for the pay. Baker’s performance on Michelle – a genuinely worthy turn – did the trick and scored him a series of records of his own on World Pacific with the unfortunately gimmicky Mariachi Brass and the Carmel Strings, which will be discussed later.
Although much of this music rarely rises above what we now call “easy listening” music, Shank’s interpretations -and ever-brief solos are well worth hearing. Chet Baker’s presence is, as ever, hardly reliable. But as first impressions go, at least one of these records reflects well on Chet Baker.
Michelle (1966)
Today, when a jazz artist waxes on The Beatles, they are celebrated and revered. But back in 1966, when Bud Shank’s Michelle was released, they were mocked and criticized. Indeed, critics often blamed The Beatles for any top pop song appearing on a jazz player’s album (pop songs were hardly ever part of a jazzer’s actual repertoire, even in those days).
Michelle probably raised a few eyebrows, if not hackles at the time. In a DownBeat Blindfold Test, saxophonist Zoot Sims said of this record’s “Love Theme, Umbrellas of Cherbourg”: “It sounds contrived, to please the mass, I guess . . . the big mass music lovers. But, man, I didn’t dig that. It’s not even worth talking about, really. … I just don’t dig it.”
Michelle pairs Bud Shank’s warm and breezy alto (a bit reminiscent of Paul Desmond at times) with Chet Baker’s cool and restrained flugelhorn in a softly-lit combo enhanced – if that’s the word for it – by a sleepy vocal choir. Bob Florence provides the mostly imaginative settings, not as lush as they are comfy. All told, it’s a very pretty record with the two horn men’s signature sounds grooving on mostly familiar pop material of the day.
Recorded in December 1965 – the same month the Beatles’s album, Rubber Soul was released – Michelle may well be Bud Shank’s best-known, if not his most popular record. The title song, released as a single in December 1965, even became an easy-listening hit in 1966, of course prompting more of this sort of thing.
Chet Baker is a prominent and surprisingly welcome presence throughout. But his credit seems to be underplayed, as though the producers were unsure whether Baker’s name would help or hurt the album. The record’s labels credit “Bud Shank Featuring Chet Baker” while the back-cover sleeve lists “Bud Shank/Chet Baker/Arranged & Conducted by Bob Florence.” Baker’s name is nowhere to be found on the record’s front cover or spine.
Highlights include “Petite Fleur,” the swinging take on “You Didn’t Have to Be So Nice” (which, along with California Dreamin‘s “Daydream,” inspired Shank to do a whole album of Lovin’ Spoonful songs in 1967) and the percussive “Blue on Blue,” the 1963 Bobby Vinton hit that preceded “Blue Velvet.” Both “Petite Fleur” and “Blue on Blue” offer up two of Baker’s finest statements on the record, however brief they may be.
“There are some beautiful moments in this album,” wrote pianist Marian McPartland in her three-and-a-half star review of Michelle in DownBeat. “For me, the high point of the album is Sidney Bechet’s lovely ‘Petite Fleur’. (One could listen countless times to this just for the wistful introduction by Baker.)”
Despite what she calls “the heavy, intrusive drumming” and the “mystifying” fade-outs of every tune, McPartland was effusive with admiration for the record: “Shank and Baker soar above and around the rhythm accompaniment, intertwining contrapuntal ideas in airy fashion, and Baker plays his lovely solos hauntingly (I would like to have heard much more of him). Between them, he and Shank transcend the gimmicky drum effects with their sincerity.”
With the exception of the drumming – which couldn’t be more restrained if it was mixed out altogether – this listener concurs. There is a genuinely audible sincerity here, not only in Bud Shank and Chet Baker’s handling of the tunes but also in Bob Florence’s rather inspired and not at all dumbed-down charts. Shank was known to get defensive about albums like this, claiming it was the only way to keep his career alive. But he seems to have put his heart and soul into it even so.
The easy-on-the-ears Michelle is West Coast cool for a new generation and well worth hearing for that reason alone.
End note: The lovely “Petite Fleur” was notably curated by James Gavin for the 2002 CD companion to his superb Chet Baker biography Deep in a Dream, probably because of that wistful introduction Marian McPartland so rightly admired.
California Dreamin’ (1966)
This sequel to Michelle was recorded a mere three months later, in March 1966, when the title track of the earlier record was making warm waves on easy-listening radio stations. Released in May 1966, California Dreamin’ is – as expected – much more of the same. But while it’s a little more ambitious than the previous record, it’s neither as consistent nor as enjoyable. It seems the passion for the music was not the same. Still, it has its pleasures.
The ambition comes mainly in the programming. Even though there are no originals (again!) or provocative choices like “Petite Fleur” to hook jazz listeners, the set mixes big hits of the day with some rather lesser-known fare that sometimes rate more than a casual listen.
Bob Florence’s arrangements are erratic and also not always, as we now say, on brand as before. But when he cooks, he does so with fire. I would call out his handling of the swinging “Listen People” (originally performed by Herman’s Hermits for the film When the Boys Meet the Girls) and the genuinely unique take on “Norwegian Wood.”
The album’s title track seems ideally suited to West Coasters Bud Shank and Bob Florence. Indeed, Shank was the first jazz guy to record the song. Later versions were waxed by Hugh Masekela (1966) and, of course, Wes Montgomery (1967). (George Benson also performed the song winningly at the Hollywood Bowl in 1972 with the CTI All Stars in a recording that was first issued in 1977.) But their hearts just aren’t in it, although it’s nice to hear Shank’s flute here.
While the big hits are present (“What the World Needs Now,” “Monday, Monday,” “Daydream”), the lesser-known pieces merit a mention. These include “In Times Like These,” an early Burt Bacharach-Hal David tune, “Woman,” a Peter and Gordon hit written by a pseudonymous Paul McCartney, and Roger Miller’s genuine downer “Husbands and Wives.”
The two most notable pieces, however, are the least known: “Imprevu” and “Gotta Go.”
The former, which Florence sets in a nice bossa nova groove, started life as a TV commercial jingle for a perfume brand – just like Herbie Hancock’s “Maiden Voyage.” Liza Minelli waxed a version of “Imprevu” that was produced and arranged by the song’s co-writer, Bob Crewe of the Four Seasons. (Crewe’s co-writer here was composer Johnny Richards, who often contributed compositions to the Los Angeles Neophonic Orchestra, of which Shank is a member.) This one swings.
Marty Paich’s “Gotta Go” is also the only song on the record whose arrangement is credited to Paich. I suspect “Gotta Go” is here because Shank was likely one of the studio musicians on Paich’s own recording of the tune, heard on the composer’s album The Rock-Jazz Incident (1966).
Paich’s version of “Gotta Go” has a trumpet carry the melody, while offering a brief feature for flute, one that could very well have been played by Shank himself (Baker’s flugelhorn fills that spot on the Shank version). In truth, the Paich recording is the better of the two tunes. Shank’s “Gotta Go,” however, sounds less like Paich and more like the rest of Bob Florence’s mostly soporific arrangements on the record.
Chet Baker is present here – on flugelhorn again – but barely noticeable. While his playing is hardly objectionable, there is little, if any, personality to it. There’s no way Baker would be identified in a blindfold test, unless someone knew this music well. Like the previous record, California Dreamin’ is even skittish about crediting Baker. Again, Baker’s name, while listed on the back cover and record labels, is missing from the record’s front cover and spine.
“Many tunes performed by the Beatles,” wrote DownBeat in its two-star review, “and similar groups are engaging, and it was almost inevitable that jazzmen would get around to recording them. Some of the songs lend themselves fairly well to improvisation, but, unfortunately, the selections included on this LP are handled superficially. Florence’s arrangements for Shank’s combo, augmented by a vocal group, are inoffensive but bland. And the improvisation is disappointing.”
Agreed. But The Beatles are hardly the reason anyone should listen to California Dreamin’, a record that’s hiding several moments well worth hearing.
Brazil! Brazil! Brazil! (1966)
What is not immediately apparent about this album is that, for the most part, it’s not something entirely new. Brazil! Brazil! Brazil! is mostly comprised of several Brazilian-oriented tracks Shank had previously recorded, with Julian Lee’s (George Shearing, Gerry Mulligan) strings newly overdubbed atop the original tunes.
The only new piece here is “Summer Samba (So Nice),” probably recorded in August 1966 – and released as a single that very same month. It is also the only song here featuring the set’s third-billed player, Chet Baker, who is back on trumpet here.
“Summer Samba” originated in 1964 as “Samba de Verão,” a song by brothers Marco and Paulo Valle. In 1966, producer Creed Taylor perfectly parlayed the song in to a hit for Brazilian organist Walter Wanderley (released the month before Shank’s version), which wound up reaching an astounding number 26 on the Billboard Hot 100 in October of that year. Johnny Mathis, Vikki Carr and Connie Francis also had Easy Listening hits with the song.
Shank’s version wasn’t so lucky; it never even charted. But it’s also not a terribly good performance either. And that’s all due to Chet Baker’s abrasive, amateurish performance. In an album of otherwise beautiful, warm and easy-on-the-ears performances, Baker’s trumpet, once so soft and romantic (and what this song required), is a truly jarring turn-off.
To be fair, this was one of the first recordings the trumpeter made after he had his teeth bashed in during a July 1966 brawl he had outside of the Fillmore auditorium in San Francisco. The details of the beating are murky and, of course, Baker changed his story many times over the years. But it was certainly drug related and Dick Bock, Baker’s long-suffering benefactor and producer of this record, gave Baker yet another one of the bazillion benefits of the doubt this junkie got.
Writing of his playing here, Baker biographer James Gavin said that the trumpeter was “blowing so faintly he could barely be heard.” Agreed. But given how sloppily Baker is playing on this occasion, it may well be due to the producer doing his best at pushing Baker way back in the mix.
As Pete Welding writes in his three-and-a-half star DownBeat review of Brazil! Brazil! Brazil!, “Summer Samba” is “easily the lightest-weight performance in the set.” Even though Baker was scheduled to record an album of his own at the time with João Donato – the two were performing together when the San Francisco incident happened – Baker’s ability to even play acceptably prevented that from happening.
As far as the other tracks on the album, it’s worth noting where the originals came from: “Nocturno,” “Carioca Hills,” “I Didn’t Know What Time it Was” and “The Color of Her Hair” are from Holiday in Brazil (1959), with Laurindo Almeida; “Elizete,” “Otem a Note” and “If I Should Lose You” are from Brasamba! (1963), with Clare Fischer and Joe Pass; and the “Sausalito” “Samba Do Aviao” are from Bud Shank & His Brazilian Friends (1965), with João Donato.
“Carnaval” and “Quiet Nights (Corcovado)” come from pianist Clare Fischer’s lovely So Danço Samba (1964), a highly-regarded quartet session that neither includes Shank’s participation nor gets the addition of Lee’s added strings.
Despite this being essentially a compilation, it is a very good one – with the possible exception of Baker’s unnecessary participation. Lee’s string touches are lovely and – winningly – do nothing to denigrate the original performances. Surely, Lee is no Claus Ogerman. But even if Welding thinks that “Lee’s writing doesn’t add that much,” it certainly doesn’t hurt anything either. This is a mostly wonderful record.
“(Love Theme From) Is Paris Burning?” (1966)
“Is Paris Burning” is an unusual non-album B-side to Bud Shank’s single release of “Summer Wind.” It’s Maurice Jarre’s theme to another big-budget Hollywood epic that followed up on the popularity of the previous year’s Doctor Zhivago. But neither this film nor its theme made much of an impact or an impression on anyone.
This film theme did get its covers among such Muzak maestros as Doc Severinsen, Skitch Henderson and Ferrante & Teicher. But flautist Herbie Mann’s 1967 version must be heard to be believed: arranger Jimmy Wisner somehow injects Jarre’s theme into the Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass’s hit take on “A Taste of Honey.” Shows you how far you need to go to make things like this relevant. But, of course, it didn’t work.
Since I don’t have a copy of this record, I cannot speak to its provenance. But I may not need to. It’s a little-known and little-remembered theme that got what is likely a typical reading by Shank, Baker and arranger Bob Florence. This also comes weeks after Baker lost his front teeth during a brawl in San Francisco in the summer of that year. My sense is that there is a reason this one didn’t make it on to an album.
Oddly, though, the discographies list this Bob Florence-arranged movie theme as having been recorded at the same September 28, 1966, session that allegedly spawned “Summer Wind,” from Bud Shank’s Oliver Nelson-arranged album Girl in Love, as well as “A Man and a Woman,” from the Chet Baker and the Carmel Strings’ Harry Betts-arranged album Into My Life. Doesn’t make much sense.
Magical Mystery (1968)
Bud Shank’s Magical Mystery was recorded in November 1967, the same month as the release of the album it pays homage to, the Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour. Shank covers all the songs from the Fab Four’s concept album except, surprisingly, the title track, replacing it instead with a cover of “Hello Goodbye,” the non-album Beatles single also released that very month.
It was an audacious ploy: one, that they could make jazz out of this music and, another, that someone would want to hear it. But the gamble capitalized on Shank’s own success with “Michelle” two years before – “the instrumental hit,” wrote producer Richard Bock, “on [sic?] this great Lennon-McCartney song” – while it also prefigured the following year’s jazz gamble, guitarist George Benson’s album-length Beatles ode The Other Side of Abbey Road.
Not surprisingly, the Shank ploy failed. But the half-hearted – or desperate? – effort heard here was hardly noteworthy in any way. The Beatles material gets squeezed on to the first side while a half dozen Top 40 covers of the day round out the record’s all-too dreary second side. The odd arrangements are more what someone thought the kids wanted to hear than anything original, inspired or even interesting – as could have been heard on the Creed Taylor-produced Benson album.
With the exception of “Fool on the Hill” and “Hello, Goodbye,” the Beatles’ tunes hardly rank among the group’s most memorable, and beside the addition of unusual electronic effects and electric keyboards, depressingly little is made of them here.
George Harrison’s disarmingly odd “Blue Jay Way,” however, may have a special significance here. The song itself was inspired by Harrison’s studies with Ravi Shankar, who Bud Shank had actually recorded with several years before. Indeed, the album’s cover shows Shank sitting Indian-style, as did Harrison in this particular part of the TV film, even mimicking the prismatic viewing through the kaleidoscopic lenses that occasionally pop up in the film.
The record’s second side weirdly sounds like it came from an entirely different record. The electronic effects are gone and an uncredited pianist moves up front in the mix. Covers of then-in pop hits by The 5th Dimension (whose “Paper Cup” is supposedly songwriter Jimmy Webb’s own tribute to The Beatles). The Association, The Monkees and Dionne Warwick get very bland readings here. Only “I Say a Little Prayer for You” has any energy or enthusiasm.
Shank, of course, solos beautifully throughout, particularly on “Fool on the Hill,” “Stormy” and “Prayer.” In addition to Shank on alto sax and flute (only on “Fool”), the record credits both Chet Baker and Gary Barone on flugelhorn as well as two guitarists, two bassists and Victor Feldman on percussion. As Magical Mystery was recorded over two days, this suggests two different groupings.
Barone is probably on both sessions and most tracks, filling in where Baker is unable to play up to par. As it turns out, Magical Mystery is the first record Chet Baker waxed after getting his first set of false teeth (earned after a brawl in the summer of 1966 that resulted in the loss of his front teeth). And while he was still working on his getting his embouchure back, he struggled then, and throughout the remainder of his life, to keep his dentures affixed to his gums while playing.
To these ears, Baker is most obvious where the playing is lazy and a bit flat, as on “Fool on the Hill,” “Hello Goodbye,” “Windy” and the underwhelming half-chorus solo on “I Say a Little Prayer.” Be forewarned, though, the precision flugelhorn playing on “Prayer” – notably its elegant counterpoint and the spritely outro – should not be mistaken for the work of Chet Baker, who, significantly, does not get a “featuring” credit as he does on Michelle and California Dreamin’.
“I Am the Walrus” was released as a single in March 1968, to obviously no avail. Shank would continue waxing crossover records for World Pacific through 1970 (when Dick Bock left the label) before returning to a straight-ahead jazz style – all without Baker. The trumpeter struggled for at least another five or six years to get the chops to play trumpet in a manner even approaching his old style. He labored even more with getting gigs or landing recording dates until well into the seventies.
Bud Shank would meet Chet Baker on only one more occasion – in New York, of all places – on the live set Chet Baker with Special Guest Bud Shank – Live at Fat Tuesday’s, recorded in 1981, but not issued until 1990, a little more than a year after Baker’s mysterious death.