James MOODY (Jazz Hot 619)
Still Young at Heart

By Josef Woodard

In 1996, James Moody released a tribute to Frank Sinatra called Young at Heart. The title resonated on at least two levels, taken as it was from one of Sinatra’s hits and also referring to Moody’s own outlook on life. He’s always ready with a philosophical quip and he plays with an easy-going fluidity of a young player, mixed with the wisdom of having traversed the world and life for eight decades.
Moody has been a part of jazz history going back to the late ‘40s, and has been a veteran sideman for Dizzy Gillespie and others, and a leader in waves, including the recent chapter of his career. On the brink of turning 80, on March 26, 2005, Moody in the past decade has found himself the subject of awards and a major label recording contract, with Warner Brothers, a tribute from Jazz at Lincoln Center, and a general sense in the jazz world that Moody is a resilient and still-vibrant veteran deserving of respect.
And for all the various twists and turns in Moody’s 50-plus year career, he’ll still always be best known for one fateful solo--the fiendishly tuneful choruses he took in Stockholm in 1949 over the changes to ‘In the Mood for Love.’ It was Moody’s first visit to Sweden, and he was invited to record by Metronome Records founder, drummer Anders Burman, who had heard Moody play in a festival in Paris just prior to his northern trip. Moody’s one-take solo, thanks to Eddie Jefferson’s clever lyrics and King Pleasure’s hit version in the ‘50s, was transformed into the classic «Moody’s Mood for Love,» with its famous final, tumbling line, ‘James Moody, you can come on in, man/And you can blow now if you want to, we’re through.’
Born in Savannah, Georgia on March 26, 1925, Moody came of age in time to jump into the bebop revolution, in full swing. After a stint in the Air Force in the mid-‘40s, he hooked up with Dizzy Gillespie, the beginning of an on-and-off musical connection that would last until Gillespie’s death, over 40 years later. Moody’s fluidity and inventive mind, on tenor and flute, and occasionally other horns, established him as a solid contender in the ranks of bop-raised horn players. And yet his presence on the jazz scene over the decades has been uneven, partly because, unlike many jazz musicians, he has settled in locales other than the jazz home turf of New York City.
He lived in Europe for several years early in his career, and in the ‘70s, lived and worked in Las Vegas, completely off to the side of jazz. He re-emerged and returned to New York in the ‘80s, but landed in San Diego, California in the late ‘80s.
After a few albums made for Warner Brothers in the ‘90s, including tributes to Sinatra and Henry Mancini, Moody again ducked out of sightóat least in terms of recording. After six years without a new title, Moody is again putting himself before the public, with a fine and varied new album out, Homage, on Savoy Records. Conceptually-oriented, pays homage to the saxist himself, the album is much more than a casual, slap-dash jazz project, even if the sessions happened on the usual short time frame of most jazz projects. Producer Bob Belden, helped by Gil Goldstein’s arrangements, helped bring all the pieces together on an album with songs specially, and lovingly, written for Moody by Joe Zawinul (‘A Message to Moody’), Herbie Hancock (‘Into the Shadows’), Chick Corea (‘Moody Tune’), Kenny Barron (‘And Then Again’), and Horace Silver (‘When Lucy Smiles at Me’).
With the tolling of his 80th birthday this year, Moody will again be subjected to various types of celebrations and homage. He will, again, be treated like an august senior statesman in the jazz universe, and will no doubt be playing like he never left his wild youth. In conversation, Moody doesn’t waste words, and is happy to share his collected witticisms and wisdom. Like Gillespie, he has a perennial lightness of being, which has held him in good stead over the years and changes.


Jazz Hot : You’re one of the rare world-renowned jazz musicians making your home in San Diego, California. How long have you lived there, and does it suit you?
James Moody : We moved here 15 years (with his wife Linda). It’s fine and wonderful. It’s like I’m on vacation. When I come home, I’ve got my pool and Jacuzzi in the back and we’re 50 feet above a golf course. Things are wide open and there are the mountains. Oh, I’m in heaven. When I leave, it’s always «ok, I’m leaving,» but when I come back, it’s «hip hip hooray.»

You’ve been at this for so long and still have this fire to make music? Have there been many periods when you didn’t have that fire?
I don’t ever recall not wanting to play. Musicians don’t retire. They just fade away, you know what I mean?

Did you know this would be your life from an early age?
That’s what I wanted to be, I wanted to be a musician. As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to play saxophone. But the thing was, I didn’t know you had to make a living at it. I never thought about that. But I’ve been fortunate.

Is that one of the secrets of being a good and committed musician, trying not to dwell on the fact of it being a career?
No. When students ask me ‘do you think I ought to have another profession to have something to fall back on?’ I tell them, ‘(if that’s your view), don’t be a musician. Don’t do it. Music takes up 150% of your time.’

This is a wonderful new album you have out, Homage, your first in six years, and the first since you left Warner Brothers. Are you happy with the way it turned out?
I wish I could have had more time to sit with the music. I got the music in the studio. But I won’t be able to play any of that music, from Homage, live, because of the arrangements. I’ve got a quartet and I can’t very easily do it. We’ll see what happens.

Homage is so diverse, but it seems true to who you are. As a whole, the songs touch on swing, bebop, rhythm and blues, Brazilian flavors, and even Was that part of the plan behind the album, to show the different styles you’re interested in?
Yeah. I like all of the styles. Some more than others, but I like different things. It’s a musical buffet.

And a tasty one. Was that Bob Belden’s idea to have musicians write for you?
Yeah. Boy, he’s a wonderful producer, isn’t he?

It was great to hear that Joe Zawinul tune, «A Message to Moody,» opening the album. It’s a fine ‘how do you do’ to the rest of the music. Do you go back with him? Have you played with him in any settings?
No. I think we played once or twice at the Apollo Theater. I don’t recall anything else, but I know Joe.

As soon as the melodic line starts, you know it’s his tune: he’s got such a distinct voice as a composer.
Right. As a matter of fact, I just did a week at the Iridium as a tribute to Cannonball, with Vincent Herring, myself and James Carter, Michael Woolf, Roy McCurdy and Walter Booker. A lot of the things, Joe wrote. As soon as his things came up, you could always tell, because they were always a challenge.

You mentioned that you wished you had more time to sit with the material. Was Zawinul’s song one of those? It’s melody is so unusual and snaky. It’s beautiful but strange.
Oh yeah.

When I heard, of course, I was reminded of Weather Report and Wayne Shorter. Was that in your mind, as well?
No, it wasn’t. I was just looking at the music and trying to play it, and liking the way it sounded.

In Zawinul’s famous compositional method, he improvises and writes down ideas likes later, formalizing them into compositions. In a way, that connects with a key point in your career, the solo which became «Moody’s Mood for Love,» thanks to Eddie Jefferson’s lyrics and King Pleasure’s hit version.
I figure I was just blessed with that solo. If I go somewhere and I don’t do that, I might as well not come.

Do you remember the session that yielded that solo, and did you know it was a special one?
Sure. It was in Stockholm that I did it, with the Swedish musician, G&Mac246;sta Theselius. We had one more tune to do and he asked what I’d like to do. I said «how about “I’m in the Mood for Love?” So he went into the john and sat down and scratched out the harmony parts for the four horns. When we did it, we did it in one take. Later on, I copyrighted the melody that I played in the solo and called «Moody’s Mood for Love.»

It’s almost a textbook case of the creative possibilities of jazz improvisation. You really did reinvent something, and something lasting, with that solo, on the spot.
I don’t know what to say except that I was trying to play, because I was playing on alto and I was used to playing tenor. So I was fingering the keys, trying to think of what to play. People said «you really must have been inspired.» I would say, «yeah, I was inspired to try to find out what I was doing.»

Aha, so it was the power of struggle at work to inspire creativity.
(laughs) Oh yeah, that’s it. I love that. ‘The power of struggle.’

A lot of people have done the song, but I know it’s a highlight of George Benson’s concerts, for one.
Yeah, the list goes on. Van Morrison, Aretha Franklin, Quincy Jones, and now Queen Latifah. Did you know that Queen Latifah just did the song on her new album? She also did ‘Mercy, Mercy, Mercy.’ I’ll tell you, it’s a beautiful album she has. She can really sing.

Where did your musical education begin?
It began as soon as I picked up the horn. Although I wasn’t fortunate enough to get a so-called normal music education, I got mine through the streets and just through listening. There were one or two people who were important teachers - Tom Macintosh and Mike Longo - and I’ve been inspired by all the musicians I listened to and all the students that I’ve come in contact with. Music offers you a lot and you learn, that is, if you keep your ears open.

That’s the trick. How old were you when you picked up the horn?
Sixteen.

Were you from a musical family?
Well, my mother played piano in the church and my father played trumpet in Tiny Bradshaw’s band. He was a circus player.

Was there something in particular that made you want to pick up that horn?
I just loved the way it looked, and the way it sounded, although I didn’t really know what it sounded like until I heard Jimmy Dorsey. He was my first idol. Then there was Charlie Barnett, and finally Georgie Auld and Ben Webster, Coleman Hawkins, Chu Berry… Then when I heard Dizzy Gillespie Charlie Parker, I said «oh, that’s it.»

You didn’t study music in school, in a formal way?
No.

Back then, there really wasn’t much jazz education, per se, was there?
Not that I know of. You know, it’s a funny thing. All the time, when I was 16 and 17, I was saying «I’d like to study music.» But the thing is, I didn’t know where to go and my family, first of all, didn’t have any money. They didn’t know where to go or who to ask. The people I was listening to were coming from the radio -- Martin Block on WNEW. It’s like the blind leading the blind.
I heard somebody said that so and so could play. I had a couple of lessons from a guy that sounded syrupy (sings a tune with straight phrasing and goopy vibrato). That wasn’t what I had in mind. Nothing really started popping for me until I was in the Air Force. And then, that’s where I started getting an idea about things.

That was a musical experience for you, wasn’t it?
No kidding. I was sent to segregated services and was sent to Greensborough, North Carolina. They wanted a Negro band. What they did was to ask if anyone had a horn. I said «I have one,» so they sent for it. Then when I got the horn, they formed a band and they had the official Air Force band. We only occupied a quartet of the base. What they did was to have the official band come over and help us. Two years later, I went with Dizzy’s band.

That was the beginning of your official music career. Speaking of educationóthat must have been a learning experience.
Of course, it was educational, alright. In more ways than one.

Have you been involved with teaching much?
Oh yeah. I do clinics and go to colleges and give master classes. Wherever they hire, I’ve done them.
As a matter of fact, I’m going to go to Ravinia and do something there, with David Baker and Rufus Reid… that’s at Stearns Institute. We did that last year.

Is your attitude one of wanting to give back to a coming generation of musicians?
No, it’s not an attitude of giving back. You don’t give back, because first of all, you give what you know willingly to anyone who wants to know. The more you give, the more you get. It’s not a point of wanting to give back. What can you give back? What did you take?

Do you have any observations about jazz education, per se, has changed since you were first coming up?
Don’t forget what I said. I didn’t know anything about jazz education when I was coming up, so I can’t compare something that I don’t know about. But like I said, to my knowledge, I didn’t know anything about there being any jazz taught. I know now they have all kinds of books and things from all the different players, and the Jamie Aebersold play along things and all those books by guys like Weiskopf, David Baker, and Derek Campbell, Dave Liebman. There are so many books now. People can get them and they give an idea of something to work on.
When I was coming up, I didn’t know anything about this back, but there had to be people learning, because people were playing. But how they were learning, I don’t know.

The point could be made that, without all these educational materials available, they were forced to rely on their own creative instincts to solve problems.
Well, don’t forget that Diz went to Laurinburg Institute (in North Carolina). He was fortunate enough for someone to be aware and wise enough to make him aware of the piano and harmony and things of that nature.

I know you worked a lot with Dizzy Gillespie, and for decades, off and on. It was right up until the time he passed, right?
Yeah, 47 years. And I was with him when he passed. It was me, Jon Faddis, John Marteli, Jonathan Muyel? and his son. It was just the five of us there. I told my wife at the time, ‘mark my words, in ten or fifteen years from now, there will have been 25 people in the room with Diz when he died. They had the story going around saying that some kind of CD was playing at the time. Dizzy was just sitting there, trying to breathe. That was what that was. This was in the hospital in Englewood, New Jersey.

Did your link with him set the stage for your musical life?
I guess it did. That was it. That was my experience. I joined Diz when I was 21 years old. Monk was at the piano then, Ray Brown on bass, Milt Jackson and Kenny Clarke. Miles was even in that band for a hot minute.

Was there something about his attitude that rubbed off on you?
Well, you know, when you’re young, you see a lot of things. If you like it, you remember that. We all liked the bebop thing, at least I did, with the black glasses and the beret. It was nice. Good memories.

He always had such an upbeat spirit, which I would say you have, as well.
Well, it’s nice to be jovial. There’s a saying: everybody’s got one, but you don’t have to act like it. You got that one, right?

(Laughs) That should be on a t-shirt or a bumper sticker. You took a hiatus from jazz, proper, to play in Las Vegas for several years in the ‘70s. What led to that change?
The reason I did that was because I wanted to raise my daughter. In my first marriage, I wasn’t with my kids and I wanted to raise her. Lo and behold, I went to Las Vegas, and before she was a teenager, I was divorced. But I have a nice relationship with my ex-wife and with my daughter, our relationship is wonderful.
As a matter of act, I played at the Black Caucus. They had a gala there in Washington, D.C. My ex-wife came to all the events with my daughter. We hung out a bit there, and it was fine. My wife sends me birthday cards. It’s nice.

That’s good to hear.
Yeah. She’s got her life and I have mine.

That must have been the longest you were settled down. You essentially had a day gig, right?
Yes. For seven and a half years, I played at the Las Vegas Hilton. I played with Liberace, Ann Margaret, Connie Stevens, Bill Cosby, Rita Moreno, Milton Berle, Liza Minelli, Glen Campbell, with the Osmonds, Steve and Edie Gormet, Eddie Fischer, The Rockettes, Elvis Presley… I did all those shows.

Was the jazz player within you must have been vying for some release during that period?
No, it wasn’t. Actually, when I went there, I didn’t play clarinet. I wasn’t proficient. So I learned that there, on the job. If I had it all over to do all over again, I’d do it, because I learned a lot. Oh yeah.

Do you think that Las Vegas maybe doesn’t get enough credit, in terms of the musician pool?
Well, at that time, it was. Everything is self-contained. As far as music is concerned now, Vegas is a vacuum.

You’re saying that this period in your life had benefits in terms of your expanding your skills. But did it also instill in you an urge to get back to jazz, to pick up where you left off?
No, it didn’t. My feeling is that, whatever you decide to do, you should just do that. I wasn’t playing any jazz at all there. I was just doing that, because that was what I felt I had to do. And I was busy, trying to learn things like the clarinet and to get that stuff down. I was busy.

When you were on Warner Brothers in the ‘90s, you made a couple of beautiful tribute projects, to Sinatra and Henry Mancini. At the time, were you inclined to do projects like those, of did the labelpush you into them?
Well, you know, when these producers are doing things, they always want a concept. Playing music is playing music, but there has to be a concept behind it. Hard-boiled eggs and chicken soup. I said «ok.» Who can think of two more wonderful people than Frank Sinatra and Henry Mancini? So that was ok.

You weren’t compromising: these are major, worthy figures you were paying tribute to.
It cracked me up. I remember the executive producer «I want such and such a name to produce the album -- not this one but another one. He sad «he’s got good ears.» I thought to myself «what the hell have I been doing all these years?» These producers don’t usually play any instrument. They hear something and think they know what it is. I always think if I can do everything you couldn’t do, then I have a license to criticize. But if I can’t do what you do, then I should keep my mouth shut.

That must be another reason why it was nice to work with Bob Belden. He knows which way is up, musically.
Oh, Bob Belden, yeah. He was nice. Gil Goldstein, who did the arrangements, was great, too. He plays the heck out of the accordion, too.

So it’s been six years since your last album. Is that because of the shifts in the Warner Brothers jazz department?
No, I left Warner Brothers. I said «that’s it.» I wanted to do something similar to what Bob Belden did here, and they said that wouldn’t sell. That did it for me. I said «ok, goodbye.»

Is that an advantage in working on a smaller independent label, that you can have more creative control?
I have no idea. It has to do with people. I never will forget a gentleman told me «Moody, I’d like for you to come over to my label. You can do anything you want to do.» I said «fine.» Then, when it came near time to do it, he said «I sent you some things I want you to listen to, because this is kind of what I’d like you to do.» I said «well, later for that.» Yep.

So that was the end of that relationship?
That’s right.

Having worked with different labels and seen the jazz scene go up and down, you have a sense of what’s what in the business and what to avoid, don’t you?
Well, I think so, at least some things. I don’t know everything, but I know some things. I know I don’t respect the record industry. I don’t respect it as a whole, butóexcuse me for saying it, but they’re full of shit. They’re not interested in giving people quality. They want to give them some dumb quantity. I’ve always said that America is a land of mediocrity. If it’s some dumb shit, they say «oh, give me some more of that.» You know what I mean?

Especially now that all the major labels are cutting back on jazz, things have to change. Branford Marsalis is just a recent example of a jazz musician who took matters in his own hands and started his own label, Marsalis Music. Have you considered going that route?
My wife and I have considered it. I just may wind up doing it. I might have my own things and getting someone to distribute it. Like Richard Pryor says, «we will see.»

Looking over your bio, you’ve had this long and winding career and have been the recipient of many awards just in the last several years. This term ‘jazz legend’ naturally keeps hovering over you. How does that term suit you?
Fine. If you live long enough, you’ll be a legend. It’s as simple as that. I’m thankful for being here. A legend… as my grandmother would say «I’m a legend in my own mind.» She also used to say «Jim, you’re a big shot from a little gun.»

There’s more to it than just being around for a long time. The talent and the essential musical spirit you have is at the core. And you’re not looking away from the contemporary scene: you end your new album with a hip hop-meets-jazz tune, on which you do a sweet rap… There’s something to that.
I don’t know. You just go with the flow, I think. Sometimes the flow isn’t worth two dead flies, but you go with it, anyway.

You’re helping to keep the flow go strong.
Well, I hope so. My goal in life, first, is to make my wife happy, and the next one is to play better tomorrow than I did today. That’s it. I’m not in competition with anyone. I just want to be able to play better tomorrow than I did today. Hey, I’ve got a saying for you: if you change the way you look at things, things will change.