Von FREEMAN (Jazz Hot 622)
By Josef Woodard

For anyone who has kept tabs on the jazz and musical culture scene in Chicago over the last few decades, the name Von Freeman resonates warmly. Born there on October 3, 1922, and a lifelong resident of the South side of Chicago, Freeman has long been a local legend, one of those saxists who is beloved in the hometown but deserving-wider-recognition by the larger jazz scene. He has played with Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie and Sun Ra (as an original Arkestra member), and has led a loose jam session every Tuesday at the new Apartment Lounge in Chicago for nearly 24 years.
Outside of Chicago, though, the name has mostly surfaced as a footnote and sometimes collaborator with his better-known son, Chico Freeman. Both generations of saxophonic Freemans appeared on a 1982 concept album for Columbia Records, Fathers & Sons, along with another pair of inter-generational jazz musicians, Wynton, Branford, and Ellis Marsalis. The Marsalis saga, as it has progressed since that time, needs no introduction or recounting. The Freeman saga is still unfolding now, as Von sails through his 80s with greater recognition than he’s yet known. Better late than never.
Von Freeman’s situation and public profile has, thankfully, changed just in the last several years - in the new century, basically - thanks to the efforts of Michael Friedman and his Chicago-based Premonition label. In 2001, Friedman released a tape that had been shelved, Live at the Dakota, originally recorded in St. Paul, Minnesota in 1996. Next, he got Freeman to record a new album, The Improvisor, in 2002, with a cameo by pianist Jason Moran, but most importantly, some fiery playing by Freeman on the occasion of his 80th birthday. The extra-Chicago jazz scene, critics and listeners alike, perked up their ears, and did so even more with last yearís fine The Great Divide, which the lifelong Chicagoan recorded in New York with drummer Jimmy Cobb, pianist Richard Wyands and bassist John Weber.
Suddenly, there was a renewed energy in Freemanís discography, which had been a spotty affair dating back to the Rahsaan Roland Kirk-produced Doiní it Right Now (for Atlantic, reissued by Koch), in 1972. That album also featured Cobb on drums, the late Sam Jones on bass, and Chicago pianist John Young, and it should have been the beginning of a solid career for Freeman. And yet, released to mixed reviews, the album would be his last major label release (so far), although listening to it now reveals a rough charm and unique musical palette that makes it something of a lost gem.
Hearing Freeman play, then or now, is to hear bits and pieces of jazz history through the filter of one who has lived through it, and not just casually lifted ideas and styles. Freeman also distinguishes himself by playing with a broad brush, in terms of approach: he can echo the romanticism and old school swagger of his early heroes Coleman Hawkins and Lester Young, and also include touches of dissonance or abstraction that come out of an avant garde vocabulary. At 83, he still doesn’t abide by one camp or another, but follows his heart, and his heart is a flexible, sturdy, unsentimental organ.
When Freeman looks back on his long musical life, it is with a mind grounded in the city where he has spent his life. Chicago names and places are the ones ringing loudest in his ear and memories, going back to an influential early teacher, Captain Walter Dyett, at the DuSable High School.
The following interview took place soon after Freeman had played at a special concert with five tenor players, cutting across the generations of Chicago-based and formerly Chicago-based saxists. The concert was organized by Jon Faddis, in his role as head of the Columbia College in Chicago and the frontline included Freeman, Johnny Griffin, Ira Sullivan, young thirtysomething Eric Alexander, and another Chicago legend, the 94-year-old Franz Jackson. Freeman calls Jackson “one of my idols.” Franz Jackson was one of my favorites back when I was a kid, when he played with Earl Hines. He sits down and plays, but he’s still blowing. Ten years his senior, Jackson could be a role model for Freeman, who goes way back, and has a ways to go.

Jazz Hot : It’s fair to say that you’ve revered as one of Chicago’s jazz legends by now, isn’t it?

Well, that’s just because I’ve been around so long. Believe me, there are a lot of people here who play very well. But there are really aren’t too many recording outlets here that you get around the country. You might be known in Chicago or een the suburbs, if you’re lucky. But in order to get out of this city and get attention around the country is not easy.

Is it true that you lived briefly in New York, in the ‘40s?
You know, I read that somewhere, and I don’t know where that came from. There are a lot of things about me - there’s some truth in some of it, and some of it is just… I just hope that it’s good. A lot of people think I should be worldwide famous, so they say some nice things. That goes for quite a few guys around here. Some of them are lucky enough to get their names around. I’ve been extremely fortunate in the last few years.

Are you still playing at the New Apartment Lounge every Tuesday?
Oh yeah, going into the 24th year. I’ve been there a long time. For one thing, it’s amazing that a place stays open that long. That place is sort of an institution. I was there in a band with my brother George years before that. Just about everybody who plays an instrument of some type has been in there. It has been there.

Let’s hear it for continuity.
Well, it’s the Southside and the Southside kind of went out of business awhile ago, but this always managed to survive. At one time, years ago, it was all happening around here, especially from 47th Street on up. It’s funny about the history of this city, because when I first started, as far back as 37th Street was busy. You had really big names, like Fletcher Henderson, Horace Henderson, Earl Hines, and even Benny Goodman played at the Capitol Theater downtown. This used to be a busy town.
And then I watched it dry up, especially around the Persian ballroom, a popular place during the bebop era. I watched that dry up, and the South side dry up. One time, around 40th Street, where I am now, I was the only band around there. It seems like that would be impossible, but for awhile there… they’re trying to do something there with little three and four piece groups.

Why do you suppose it did dry up?
Well, the place that made Bird famous around Chicago was the Persian Ballroom. It had a lounge down on the main floor and it had a famous basement when Bird also appeared, and a lot of the bebop stars appeared. I had been there with Captain Walter Dyett’s first excursion into nightclubs. I was in his high school band. When I got out of the service, around ’46, I saw him start off in that basement. Then when Bird died, I had moved upstairs to the lounge. I was with a little group.
When Bird died, the music just changed. They were calling the music rhythm and blues. I worked there with a few rhythm and blues people, and then it moved to rhythm and blues singers. And then it closed and they tore the building down. It just went through a full phase of the music.
And then they started rebuilding around the middle of the ‘60s. I came back home from a brief tour with Milt Trenier’s band, a show band that did Vegas and all the different ports. When I came back, I joined my brother George and went into the Apartment, it was called. And then there was another place called the New Apartment, about a mile from the original. But the original Apartment is still there. I just sort of saw the different music. And then, too, guys from the South side went up and found jobs in the North side. You have a few clubs up on the North side. For one thing, Joe Seagel is up there, and has the club, the Jazz Showcase. He hires mostly out-of-town talent.
But you’ve still got the Green Mill up there and a few other clubs that hire us. Just in general, the clubs are up north, and downtown. It’s sort of shifting back here a bit.

Your musical life has really come alive in the last five years or so, hasn’t it?
Well, that has been ever since I’ve been recording for, this fellow Michael Friedman, the president of Premonition. He found an old record that I had recorded in the ë90s. He liked it. He put it out, not the original people who recorded it. That’s the one called Von Freeman Live at the Dakota. There have only been three. So he put that out and it caused a little noise, which is kind of rare for my records. Usually, I put them out and you never hear any more from them.
So it caused a little noise and he said «let’s do another one.» He was savvy and used Jason Moran on it. Jason was an upcoming star from New York. He played on a couple of tunes. Then he put out this last one, “The Great Divide“. That one really took off as far as critical acclaim goes. So I’ve been fortunate.

Do you try to tune out all the distractions of the music business and focus on your horn?
Oh yeah, you have to. I told Michael Friedman «you handle all my business, because I can’t think about this stuff.» Especially when you start getting older, past that 70 and 80 mark, all you do is get up there and try to be competitive with your instrumentóand stand. See, most of the time when you’re being competitive, they want you to stand up. Well, when you can’t stand, that’s another problem. When your name reaches the status where you can sit down and play, they want a little dancing and moving around. You might even have to dye your hair.

That’s one aspect of horn players distinguished from being a drummer or pianist. It’s a stand-up gig.
Well, the horn players have had the best part of it for years, because they were always upfront. So it’s just coming back now. See, it’s coming back, baby.

Oh I see: it’s karma?
Oh yes. Drummers and piano players can sit there and be cool. When I go somewhere and a piano player or a drummer is standing, they look funny to me. They’re trying to get with the kids. A lot of them stand. I think «that can’t be easy.» They’re selling the music. So it’s not
It’s like my daddy told me when I first got into music, he said «it wont’ be easy.»

Your latest album, “The Great Divide“, paid homage to the effect that Hawk and Prez had on your playing, as part of its concept. Did you see that album as a statement of your musical identity, showing your different influences?
That’s all that was. See, some of the critics changed that. A lot of them asked me about that album and tried to put it somewhere else. I said «no, I was just paying homage to these people.» In my career, I grew up playing like Coleman Hawkins, first, then Lester Young and then Charlie Parker. It’s no secret. I have never said I was an original or nothing. I just more or less evolved. That’s all I was really saying. They tried to make it seem that I was making a tribute album. I didn’t do it for that reason.
What I really got upset about was that I turned on the radio and nobody was playing Hawk anymore, Prez anymore, Bird anymore. A few statements were made here and there and there and here that their music was nominal. I thought «this is crazy. These are guys who, as far as the saxophone goes, were three of the main characters that proceeded along in the music.» Of course, whenever you try to pick out three or four men as doing something important, there is controversy. But nobody challenged me on that, as far as that was concerned.
I played like each one of them. What really got me into this album was that, years ago, I’d go on a job and say «I’m gonna play one of Hawk’s tunes because I admired him. I’d play a Stitt, all the tenor players I cared about. I’d never try to play it like them, but just play one of their tunes. That worked for me for years, until I got into my 70th year, it seems like. I can’t almost remember. I’d go somewhere and the first thing I know, I’d be playing like somebody and not even thinking about it. I thought «wait a minute, those men are really in me. I’m a kaleidoscope of all these different saxophone players.»
What happened was, when that first record Von Freeman Live came out, they were saying «this guy is pretty old but he’s keeping up.» The second one was called The Improviser because that’s what I was into at the time. Everybody would say «where’s your music?» I’d say «well, it’s in my head.» They would look at me kinda strange.
Then, when I brought out this one, about three saxophone players, they thought maybe I was trying to make a statement of some sort. Not at all. Even when I made this album, I wasn’t trying to play like anybody else. I just played like I always do. I hope I’m lucky enough to make another one. There’s nothing mysterious about it.

Anybody’s style is an evolutionary matter, isn’t it?
Of course. But naturally if you look like you might get ahead of the feel a little bit, then somebody crucifies you. They try to make it something that it’s really not. You said it correctly: with anybody who can play, especially if they’re past 70, then they have a bunch of styles together that they have seemingly brought into one. But if you break it down, everybody comes from somebody. I learned that early on in music.
Maybe one distinction in your case is that you’ve actually lived through the music and its evolution. There are many young versatile players who have culled from different styles and eras, but you were there. What I hear in your playing are strains of the players you just mentioned, but also some avant-garde ideas. There’s a whole world there.
Yeah, I’ve come up through a lot. I’ve got a lot of Sun Ra in me. He told me one day «boy, you’re crazy, just like me.» That was always a part of the way I played. A lot of people said I was out of tune. They didn’t understand at all what was happening. Folks really got a thing going where you played loud or out of tune, or both.
It’s common knowledge, with critics and listeners who really understand that if you get anywhere, you have to pay the piper. For a long time, I didn’t pay anything because I wasn’t going anywhere. It didn’t make any difference. I was just hanging around. The minute records sell something, to whoever the powers are, there you go. So I just accepted it.
Like I used to crack all the time, «I’m glad for my fifteen minutes,» and I am. It’s better than being unknown, because I’ll tell you, I really faced a hard time trying to go out on the road twenty-five years ago. People said «you play well, but where have you been? Play me some Stitt, play me some so-and-so.» I said «fine.» Then, one day, I got tired of doing that. I thought «maybe I’ll change something,» but I found out I couldn’t change nothing. I could only go play.
Finally, when I got to Minneapolis, a guy said «you know, you’ve got a nice style. I want to record you.» I said «really? This is a pickup band.» But those guys could sure enough play. They understood my playing perfectly. Nobody knew my songs anyway, so there wasn’t any sense in playing mine. Whatever they’d request, I’d attempt to play. He liked it. He said this and that. Some of it when it came out wasn’t as together as he wanted it, so he said «we’ll leave that out.» I said «ok.»
And then Friedman heard it (years later). He told me that he had played with me years ago. I was shocked. I’ve played with thousands of people. I’ve had jam sessions ever since I began. I started out on the porch jamming, when I was a teenager. I had a little old jam band. We were gigging and carrying on. Didn’t have enough money to join the union. So I’ve been through that jam session thing all my life. It just comes more or less natural. I can go to New York or somewhere and pick up some cats who want to jam. They don’t believe in that in New York clubs. Club owners say «I don’t want no jam session.»

But the jam session is a basic block of jazz, right?
Yeah, but it’s hard to charge money for it. Generally, guys are dressed all kinds of ways, and you generally attract people who don’t spend money, and the club owners are in the music business, making money. I understand that. Where I play now (at the New Apartment Lounge), I’ve never charged to come in the place. Of course, I’m there for just one night a week, for three and a half or four hours.

Do you get a good crowd there?
Oh yeah, it’s packed. Well, like I said, with freebies, the upside is that you get people, but the downside is that you don’t make much money. I don’t do too much of that. Just one night. A lot of young guys come in and they learn a lot from being associated with whatever I’m doing. I always try to keep guys who can play behind me. And then they may play behind some of the jamsters. So it works out, as long as you don’t do too much of it. You’re not trying to teach people how to play for nothing. But at least they learn more than they would ordinarily.
I practice what I learned from Captain Walter Dyett, the man who raised me at DuSable High. I learned a lot of what I know about being a man in music. He was a strict unionist. He was the first guy who made me join the union. He said «in order to play with me, you’ve got to join the union.» If you were in his band at school, you had to learn how to read music and to dress properly. He said «if you go on a gig, where a shirt and a tie and a clean, pressed suit. Shine your shoes.» See, that’s the school I’m from.
Boy, people used to laugh at me. They’d be dressed all kind of ways, and here I come with a shirt and a tie and a suit on. They looked at me like «where is this square coming from?» But as soon as I’d play, they’d put up with me, because I could play. That was right out of high school. That was important training. He was an old Army captain, so he put that discipline in me, and I’ve got it to this day, whether I want it or not.

You were ahead of your time. Lots of players wear suits and ties now.
Well, when I came up, I was a lover of the big bands, and they were always sharp. The better bands always wore uniforms. They were clean and sharp, and always wore ties. That’s the era that I came up in. When I got into Horace’s bands, the first thing he said was «you’ve got to save your money, because you’ve got to buy a uniform.» That’s the way it was. Of course, it’s gone out of favor with some people. But I still think a musician should look as good as he can.

Can you tell me about your earliest encounters with the saxophone, and with music?
I came up the same as everybody, fighting mouthpieces and reeds. I really couldn’t afford lessons, but the school used to invite different people. Duke Ellington came, Lionel Hampton came. Cecil Leeson, a great concert saxophonist, came three or four times. So he was always bringing in famous people. We’d have little chat sessions and you could learn a lot like that. He was not a saxophone player. He was a violinist and pianist. But he knew the fingerings and embouchures of the different instruments. Then there was Mrs. Bryant Jones. She was the vocal coach. That’s where I learned a lot of theory.
DuSable was a school where a bunch of poor people went, but now that I look back on it, you got a great musical education there. I’m speaking about the South side of town. It’s at 49th and Wabash in Chicago South, which is not that far from where I live today. He, along with Mrs. Bryant Jones, were teaching a lot of stuff. It just happens that I was paying a lot of attention, and so was my brother (guitarist) George and older brother, (drummer) Bruz. When I look back, it was really great.
It was in a district on the South side and you had to live in the vicinity of the school. But we all had these aunts and uncles and grandmamas living across the street from the school. Of course, the school knew it, but they allowed it, because he had a great name. And they appreciated him. So anything I’ve become musically, I really accredit to him and that early training.

So you think it was that environment that propelled you into music as a life?
Oh yeah. Well, he really wanted me to be a conductor, because he said I had the right qualities for that. He let me lead the groups sometimes. I got a scholarship to go to Fisk (University, in Nashville, Tennessee) to study on, but somehow or another, I think it was Billy Eckstine came through town with a big band during that era. He wanted Gene Ammons and myself to play. Of course, Gene Ammons went and I stayed in school. Of course, Gene Ammons got famous.
I went down to Fisk and checked it out, but somehow or another, jazz was in my soul. I was in the concert band, and was the principle clarinetist. He said «you’re a great clarinetist. You play the saxophone alright, but you’re a great clarinet player. You ought to go down there and be a conductor. They make a lot more money than jazz musicians.» He’d always laugh when he said it. That’s what he was, see. But I didn’t listen. I said «I’ve got to go into this jazz music.» So he helped me get into Horace Henderson’s band, wrote a letter for me. In fact, he helped me get into the service, also, because I got into the service band, off of his recommendations.

You had a very musical household, didn’t you?
Well, my mom was a church guitarist and was in the church choir, of course. My father played at trombone and he played at the piano. Nothing serious from either one of them. And neither one of them wanted me to go into jazz.

Because of the hardship of that life?
Yes. They said «wait a minute.» My father loved musicians. A few of them came by the house so I got to know them personally, when I was four or five years old. My father loved music. He had one of those wind-up phonograph machines and he used to play that all the time. And he kept the radio on a lot. At that time, you could get remotes of Count Basie, Benny Goodman, people like that. He never missed a show.
In fact, he gave me my first Charlie Parker record. He said «listen to this,» and it was Bird.

Did you like it right away?
Oh yeah. I was busy playing like Hawk and Prez. I saw the resolving of music. To me, that’s all it does: it resolves. It still does that, and I guess is always will, because it’s creative jazz.

Another way it resolves is in artists like Sun Ra and Ornette Coleman. Obviously, you sparked up to that avenue in jazz, too, right?
Oh yeah. To me, you get the part of it that suits you. I don’t put out any kind of music. I wouldn’t put out rock or nothing. There is good jazz, bad rock, good rock, bad rock, and you can say that about any type of music. I’ve got an open mind. I hope I always have it.

I was just listening to the reissue of your first album, “Doin’ it Right Now…“
Oh Lord, that really got talked against. Boy, they gave my tone and everything a fit. If you’re playing and they can’t put an immediate stamp on it, it’s either out of tune or something. I had learned that from Captain Walter Dyett because he preached that all the time. He said «if you happen to get famous, don’t sit down and read too much about yourself, because there’s always somebody ready to pan you.» You just take it and you learn to live with it. I’ve seen it almost ruin some guys. I tell them «look, man, it’s just their opinion. It can hurt in a lot of different ways, if you let it.’
They say «well, look at you. You never got anywhere.» I say «well, look at it like this. I’m at peace with myself. And that’s worth something. You’re out here waiting to get a hit record or something. It may come and it may not. Or if you get one, you might not get the second one.» So it’s hard. And they’ll say «yeah, yeah, yeah.»

Never mind what the critics: what did you think about that first album?
Oh, I thought it was tremendous. To me, I had three stars on it. John Young has been around Chicago all his life, but he’s a great piano player. Of course, I had Jimmy Cobb and that man speaks for himself. He’s got to be around my age and he’s still settled down there, keeping that time. Sam Jones died, but I always thought he was a great bass player.
They were on the record because New York told me that that’s what I had to have. Rahsaan (Roland Kirk), who was producing the record, said «well, you know you’ve got to have two guys from New York.» I said «you’re kidding. You’re going to let me play with some guys from New York?» He said «yeah, if you want to cut this record. You can bring your piano player.» So I brought along young John Young and told him the two names of the players in New York I wanted, and he had them there the next morning.
But they were very nice to play with me, because they didn’t know anything about me. Jimmy Cobb was a beautiful cat, right through to today, and of course, Sam Jones was a prince.

You just had a reunion with Jimmy Cobb on your last album, “The Great Divide“, right?
Oh yeah, after about 32 years.

How did that come together?
Well, that was because we used his trio. Michael Friedman is a very savvy guy. He’s got a lot of moxie. He said «you think you want to play with Jimmy Cobb?» I said «whoever he has in his band must be natural players, because that’s what he goes for.» Seems like about everything he’s ever been on has been some kind of a hit, because he’s in there keeping that natural energy going. He doesn’t interrupt anything.

On that session, it does sound like a band that has played together, with a good sense of dialogue between the players.
Oh yes. Of course, the bass player (John Webber) had been around me for years before he went to New York, so that was a little different. Of course, he plays differently now. When you get up there with the best guys, your playing has got to change. Not so much the best guys, but the guys that are doing something, that are able to record frequently and whatnot. I guess that’s a better way to put that. And of course, the pianist, Richard ? I’ve always dug him.
In this group, all I really had to do was to fit in. Well, that’s been my life, fitting in. It wasn’t like I was doing something new. I was just fitting in.

You joined Sun Ra in the late ’40s, as he was starting to break away from the big band sound he started out in, and moving outwardófar outward. Did that appeal to you, both his strange ideas and his musical grounding?
I found that amazing, because he was writing then in the vein of say Fletcher Henderson, that kind of shout music. That was for everybody to dance to. Then when you played in his band, you were playing avant garde. It was strange. I asked him about that one day, I said «how are you able to do that, to write this kind of music for one thing and another kind of music for your own thing?» He said «I hear in all kinds of ways.» That’s the way he put it.

Which is a situation similar to you, isn’t it?
Yeah (laughs), that’s what he told me. I asked him «why do you want me to join your band?» He said «you’ve got a singular mind, and that’s good.» When I first went with his group, I said «you know, you’ve got something going on here that’s a whole lot different. I don’t know if you can make money at it… » He would put his space uniform, and he was able to make a living at it.

Well, he was from Saturn, according to him.
Yeah. In other words, he knew how to do that.

But the difference with him was that he had such musical strength beneath all the other trappings of his act and his life as an entertainer and someone who could appeal to an audience not into jazz, per se.
Oh yeah, he was well-versed. See, some critics tried to make him out to be a sham, but the man was well-versed. And he was just strong enough to do what he wanted to do. And that takes strength, boy. It takes strength not to cave in, because you’ve got to make a living, or else go get a day job or something.

Speaking of Chicago legends, the AACM’s Richard Muhal Abrams asked you to join, but you weren’t a joiner. Is that how it went?
At the time, no. But my son, he’s second generation.

I’ve heard that you’ve had a big influence on AACM, although you weren’t officially connected to it.
Well, a lot of people are giving me credit, but I don’t think I had any influence on that. I just think that I survived, and they appreciated. Right to today, I’ve never put them down. Of course, I don’t put down anybody. I try to understand what anybody’s doing, because if you’re doing it honestly, then there’s truth in it. Maybe it’s not for the general public. But hardcore jazz is not for the general public, either.
Whenever you get over to that part where you are creating and you have that solely in your mind, sometimes you have to be real careful, because you might lose the people - I mean, the general public. And you might lose some critics, too.

But you’ve got to stay true to yourself. That’s the most important thing, isn’t it?
Oh yeah, if you’re going to be at peace with yourself. That’s the thing that helps me, I think. I’m at perfect peace with myself.

Your son Chico has had a rollercoaster career, since he first emerged on the scene in the late ‘70s. Has it been exciting to watch his musical life, through its ups and downs?
Oh, Chico’s had a hard way to go. See, he had that brand of «young lion» put on him. When they brand you, you have to be careful. The upside of it is that you get out there fast. But the second part of it is that if they happen to drop that part of it, then you’ve got a problem. That happened with him and a whole bunch of musicians. But he’s strong. I told him «just be strong.» I thought he was extremely good at what he was doing.
See, one thing about the music business, no matter how business-ified it is, it’s still life, and life is just a circle. Ain’t nobody going nowhere. Of course, a lot of people have theories about where you go afterwards. But, being practical about the whole thing, while you’re here, you do what you can do. But you have to understand that you’re not going nowhere. The music of yesterday just keeps coming back. If you can add a little something to it, hopefully good, fine. But one day, they’ll call what you’re doing old.
And it doesn’t take that long for you to go out of style.

Are the circles getting smaller?
Very much smaller. You look up now and see these guys in their early teens who can play. It’s not like you say «give yourself another ten years.» These cats are ready. They’re not ready maybe mentally, because there are a lot of things you have to go through in life that might crush you. But so far as the instrument is concerned, they’re ready to jump out there.
That’s why they need the advice of the older guys. See, the smart young ones hang out with you. Of course, the ones who say «well, he’s old hat,» well, that’s bad. Anytime you take a person with that other knowledge you think is old hat, see, that knowledge is not really new. It’s just new to you. All that stuff has been ascertained. I tell cats that making time will never grow old. Being to work on time, being a gentleman, learn how to keep your mouth shut. If people criticize you, that’s ok. Don’t just wait for something good to be said about you. If somebody says something bad about you, try to listen and read between their lines. They may be saving you by saying that you ain’t so hot.
It’s just a thing: there are some truths out there that just go on and on and on.

You have the one tune on “The Great Divide“, “Never Fear, Jazz is Here,” which is a great title, and maybe an anthem for you.
Well, you know, I cut that tune years ago. Of course, I’m playing this one outside-ish. Other than that, it’s still «I Got Rhythm,» which I say in the liner notes. I think I stated that in the notes. I found out one thing: I never try to do something and say it’s from me, especially if I know the source. Sometimes, I play things and I really don’t know the source. It sounds weird to say it’s from God. They might say, «oh oh, now he’s gotten off into that, huh?»

You’re in a position of kicking up your discography and putting out more albums now. Do you have plans to record more often?
I figured I would just take it easy. This man lets me play what I want to play, how I want to play it. He understands me perfectly. I’ll talk to him and he’ll get together with me and see. Of course, he treats me like a king or something. He says «I want you to be happy.» I say «well, I’m happy.» I’m not really interested in doing a lot of recording or anything. It’s hard enough to say something three years apart.

Do you mean that you don’t want to crank out albums just because you have the possibility?
No, not just because I’m able right now to do that. I’ve seen some guys do that, and to me, it just didn’t work.

It kind of dilutes the music?
Yeah. There are only so many things you can say at one time. I’m still growing, and trying, anyway. I’m still trying to master the saxophone and get it to where it’s like I’m talking to you. And that’s not easy.

That’s a lifelong project, isn’t it?
Oh, I think it is. Yes, it is. I think that’s what everybody wants, whether they know it or not. They think they want fame, but what they really want to do is be a master of whatever they’re really doing. That’s where the peace comes in.