Scott LaFaro, poet of the bass


It’s anyone’s guess what more bass genius Scott LaFaro would have achieved had he not died in a car accident at the age of 25. In fact, what he did achieve in a 7 year time span when he switched over to bass from saxophone remains extraordinary over 50 years later. I’d like to toss around a few ideas about why Scott was great and why his voice is probably more underrated than music popular wisdom has it.

What I hear most clearly in Scott’s playing is a profound sense of urgency that his early accidental death makes even more fateful. LaFaro was an unrelenting workaholic, as Bill Evans remembers in the priceless interview track from the tribute album Pieces Of Jade. Oh boy, and it shows! In my humble opinion, what LaFaro brought to jazz bass playing is comparable to what John Coltrane brought to the saxophone, or Mozart to orchestral music. Consider that the guy had only played the bass for 7 years when he performed so magnificently with Bill Evans and Paul Motian that one night at the Village Vanguard! The three performance nights captured on the albums Sunday at the Village Vanguard, Portrait in Jazz and Waltz for Debby are unanimously considered as a paradigm-shifting watershed for the evolution of the jazz piano trio. Scottie was at the top of his game, inspiration gushing out of every pore of his skin. Were attendees of that show on the night of June 25, 1961 aware of what was going down there? I’d be curious to see who were those people who jingled their glasses that night at the Vanguard. Anyone tracked them down?

But however influential that trio was and is it’s a little trickier to think of more than a handful of genuine continuators of Scottie’s virtuosic style. Let’s lay out its main characteristics.

Scott LaFaro rarely walked his bass when accompanying Bill Evans and when he did, he incorporated a kind of triplet feel into it that created a unique propulsion around Paul Motian’s spacious beat. When soloing – including on ballads – Scott rushed into sixteenth (very fast) notes right from the start of his improvisation, going for broke, as if music didn’t wait, and he had to pour it all out before it was too late. Listen to him on Gershwin’s beautiful waltz My Man’s Gone Now. On that tune, the trio are seamlessly locked in, Scott dances with Bill in telepathic interplay, leading the steps with a deeply warm bass tone while Paul Motian graces the dance with subtle brushwork on the cymbals. The musical chemistry here is still a shining and inspirational example of what three musicians can achieve when they are riding the same wavelength in the moment of performance. What still makes my jaw drop when I listen to Scott is his phenomenal command of the instrument, a facility that lets him play ridiculously fast lines like a saxophonist and still delineate the melodic and harmonic arc of the songs. While most great soloists tend to build their solos progressively, gathering steam and progressively building drama with more and more notes, Scott is already barreling ahead from the start and apparently needs no warm-up.

I never got around to transcribing LaFaro’s solos and keep that practice on an occasional basis anyway. But I recently stumbled on videos by bassist Phil Palombi – who put out a book of LaFaro transcriptions – and today decided I’d give a shot at “Gloria’s Step” from Sunday at the VV. Holy s…So here’s the deal. If on your first attempt you get past the first 8 bars after an hour’s worth of intense practice, you are either a monster I will NOT stoop to talk to or you have been drinking way too much coffee today and your brain will fry anytime soon. Be careful. Seriously, how does a normal person think of hitting an Eb three octaves high on the fingerboard hardly two measures into the solo? Nailing that note is hard enough but the movement across the strings that precedes it is the real torture here. I almost broke my wrist before I could do it properly. Yet LaFaro does that all the time and doesn’t seem to sweat too much over it. Granted, the legend has it that Scott had his bass set up with lower action (strings close to the fingerboard) than the norm. And he had the greatest instrument to support his musical appetite, a large-shouldered 1875 Abraham Prescott bass that played evenly across the registers and strings with no dropoff in volume or tone clarity. A bassist’s wildest dream. The story of Scottie’s bass – which got severely damaged in the same accident and was restored by luthier Barrie Kolstein – can be found in a video online and will definitely satisfy bass geeks and LaFaro enthusiasts. Still, no other bassist could have made it sing that good.

To me, Scott is a kind of bel canto singer with killer jazz chops to match. Another major characteristic of Scott’s playing and one that might have left a deeper mark on today’s musicians than his hand speed is his tendency to omit the downbeat or play delays and accelerations within a 4 beat or 3 beat measure. Motian picked up on that immediately and sort of acted as the discreet yet conducive gel that tied it all together. The effect on the ear is pretty devastating as the time-keeping duties conventionally reserved for drums and bass are reinvested with a more flexible quality. This new elastic relationship with time created a contrapuntal texture that Bill Evans reveled in as it gave him new spaces for modal explorations. Also, this new relationship with time introduced a variety of rhythmic displacements in the fairly conventional  context of piano, bass and drums, inspiring generations of rhythm sections to mess around with time even when  playing simple pop song forms.

No wonder Bill Evans couldn’t play for months after Scottie’s death and changed bassists 3 or 4 times afterward. It’s an odd irony that the first albums with Motian and LaFaro are called The Bill Evans Trio featuring Scott LaFaro when you consider how dominant and assertive the bassist sounds on these tunes. On his own composition, Gloria’s Step, mentioned above, Scott almost steals the show from Bill Evans, complementing every phrase with a variety of fills that makes you wonder if he’s not soloing over Bill’s solo…

Though Scott LaFaro is usually considered as one of the greatest bassists of all time, and a ground-breaking one at that, few have treaded a similar path in “mainstream” modern jazz. Gary Peacock’s ornamental and lyrical approach to the bass is probably as close as anyone has gotten so far. But to me, Scott LaFaro will always be in a league of his own, a Promethean poet of the bass that must have had a lot more to say.

Scott LaFaro appears on four landmark albums with Bill Evans and Paul Motian, recorded between 1959 and 1961:

Live at the Sunday Village Vanguard, Portrait in Jazz, Waltz For Debby and Explorations.

He can also be heard in different contexts, such as on Hampton Hawes’ For Real album and Ornette Coleman’s The Ornette Coleman Quartet. Thre might be others I am not aware of.

PS: For those who can’t get enough of Scottie’s bass playing, check out Phil Palombi talk about him and play his solos on the restored Prescott bass.

Nice work.

Charlie’s last song

It pains me that this blog increasingly looks like a jazz musicians obituary  but what can you do, they are passing on, one after the other.

The profoundness of Charlie Haden’s contribution to modern jazz and bass playing cannot be overstated. In Ornette Coleman’s opinion, he had the biggest ears. If there ever was a sound close to the human voice on the upright, Haden was probably its quintessential representative. My admittedly screwy theory is that when he lost his vocal chords to polio aged 15, he got even with life and decided to turn his bass into a midrange baritone voice (not sure it’s the right descriptor though!).  He could carry a tune, that’s for sure. I’ve already contributed some basic analysis of his style in an old post. So I feel like the best way to remember him by is to listen, over and over again, and realize ecstatically how deeply he listened. Unsurprisingly, my man over at DTM has all the good stuff, complete with lengthy interviews, insightful analysis, and a wealth of archives.

Very nice tribute post from Hank Shteamer here.


Selected recent recordings:

Keith Jarrett & Charlie Haden: Last Song (ECM, 2014)

Keith Jarrett & Charlie Haden: Jasmine (ECM, 2010)

Lee Konitz, Brad Mehldau, Charlie Haden, Paul Motian: Live at Birdland (ECM, 2011)




Henry The Great

Photo credit: Hans Harzhelm

Photo credit: Hans Harzhelm

Admittedly, I have a tendency to cover bassists a lot on this blog. The main reason might just be a click away if you go to the About this blog page. Rest assured, though, if you are getting tired of low frequencies, I will probably be writing about a few pianists in a future post that has yet to be given a relevantly unifying theme and some personal motivation. Stay tuned.

The story of Henry Grimes is undoubtedly an astounding one. That it made its way into the New Yorker’s Goings on about town section  is even more surprising. That kind of story is usually bounced around from music fan to music fan with varying degrees of authenticity and embellishments. However, The New Yorker rundown goes straight to the point about Grimes: Once renowned bassist whose impressive credentials range from Sonny Rollins to Cecil Taylor disappears from the scene for 35 years, spirals down into hard times, is widely believed to be dead and later tracked down by a fan and given a green-finished bass by fellow bassist William Parker. I haven’t listened seriously to Henry’s recent music but it seems like he keeps a hectic gigging and touring schedule. I wonder how often he brings out his “Olive Oil” bass on gigs, and more importantly, what it sounds like. It’s not hard to imagine that an accomplished musician who once had to pawn his bass never to get it back (how heart-breaking is that?), has some powerful statements to make now. What first appealed to me about Henry’s sound is the gritty yet precise quality of his articulation no matter if he plays a blues, an uptempo tune or totally free.

On the five recordings I own featuring Grimes on bass (McCoy Tyner’s Reaching Fourth, Don Cherry’s Complete Communion, Roy Haynes’ Out of the Afternoon, Cecil Taylor’s Conquistador, Sonny Rollins’ amazing live bootleg in Sweden (with master drummer Pete LaRoca and a particularly inspired Sonny), his presence is devastating. His tone has a Mingus-meets-Garrison vibe that drives its way into your ears and stays there.

However incredible Henry Grimes’ story is, it highlights a continuing pattern in all things artistic. The most revered artists/musicians can rise or fall almost overnight, the most committed to their art know that they can’t afford to take recognition for granted. That precariousness makes their art even more fascinating.


“He was a free spirit, full of folkloric counterpoint delivered with subtle undertow”

These are the words of The Bad Plus pianist Ethan Iverson describing Jimmy Garrison’s bass style. Read the full post here on his highly recommended blog (Iverson also does justice to another great bassist, Wilbur Ware). It’s hard to find a more insightful analysis of this shockingly underrated musician. Before I even knew what a double stop was (two notes played simultaneously on a stringed instrument), my early attraction to jazz has a lot to do with this guy’s sound in the John Coltrane Quartet. Garrison often had a solo spot to introduce or end songs, and the emotional power of these moments highlighted the meditative feel of the music. Listen to “Song of Praise” on The JC Coltrane Quartet plays (Impulse, 1965) for example. As Iverson writes eloquently, Garrison’s tone is all about the darkest low-down blues. This penetrating quality certainly blended in with Coltrane’s stratospheric explorations. Garrison had a powerful way of hitting the strings, adding even more fuel to the firestorm raging on top. Sometimes you just have to forgive YouTube’s appallingly low-fi videos (for a minute) and indulge your musical appetite. On the famous tune “Impressions”, Garrison provides a shining illustration of Iverson’s argument, here. Jimmy swings hard “behind” Coltrane, Tyner and Jones, interspersing his swinging walk with his patented rhythmic accentuation. I particularly like the rumbling stumble he inserts into the walk, a kind of “grainy” anticipation that reinforces the propulsion of the bass-drum groove machine. McCoy Tyner’s solo is pure class, seamlessly fading into Garrison’s meditation at the 4.30 mark. Listen to the flamenco-like strumming, savor the blues-drenched sweat. These fingers were made of iron.