Author: Jim Carlton

On a recent episode of his TV talk show, David Letterman mentioned to guest Cher that he’d just seen the new documentary, The Wrecking Crew, which chronicles the coterie of L.A. studio musicians that helped create many of her records and hundreds of other hits for more than three decades. She immediately responded by naming A-list players including Leon Russell, Hal Blaine, Carol Kaye, and Tommy Tedesco. But, the first name she mentioned was “Billy Pitman.”

Pitman’s four decades as a first-call session musician comprises a legacy that can be claimed by only a handful of guitarists. A charter member of the Wrecking Crew, he played on countless hit records; his most notable musical contributions to America’s sound track are numerous and include The Beach Boys’ “Good Vibrations,” the Pet Sounds and Smile albums, as well as the Byrds’ first hit, “Mr. Tambourine Man.” He even created the ukulele intro for B.J. Thomas’ “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head.” He worked on every West Coast record produced by Phil Spector (to whom he gave lessons when Spector was a pre-teen).

A list of popular artists to whom he lent his extraordinary talent reads like a pantheon of national music treasures: Sinatra, Peggy Lee, Nat Cole, Tony Bennett, Burt Bacharach, the Everly Brothers, the Mamas and the Papas, hundreds of rock and pop groups and jazz artists. In rock’s early days, he recorded with Ritchie Valens and Sam Cooke.

Equally impressive is his list of film and TV credits, which includes Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Goodfellas, M*A*S*H, Jerry McGuire, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Dirty Dancing, Forrest Gump, and on and on. Though his TV work included “I Love Lucy,” “Bonanza,” “The Sonny and Cher Show,” “The Glen Campbell Goodtime Hour,” ‘King of the Hill,” “Star Trek” (for which he composed scores), he is perhaps best known among peers for the cool lead lines played on the Danelectro UB-2 bass guitar, a six-string instrument with a 291/2″ scale tuned an octave below standard guitar, for “The Wild, Wild, West.”

Pitman estimates that he played about 40 percent of his sessions on the Dano, which was often used as a lead instrument. “I really enjoyed creating that theme from The Wild, Wild West on the Dano. It was a specialized instrument, but more versatile than you’d think. And with that show, I got to play the instrument the way I envisioned when I bought it. Listen to the way Glen (Campbell) used it for the lead solo on his ‘Wichita Lineman.’”

Pitman recalls the first time he picked up the UB-2. “It was out of tune, and I played a chord that sounded terrible. But, when I played high on the neck, it had a rich sound because of the heaviness of the strings. So, I bought one, and mentioned it to Ernie Freeman, who’d arranged dozens of R&B and pop hits. He asked me to bring it to a session, loved it, and instinctively knew how to use it to enhance the sound of an upright bass. Arrangers are always looking for new sounds, and this was novel enough to qualify. I always asked that any parts for it be written in treble clef. I did a couple of John Wayne movies on a Fender bass, but my real love was playing straight-ahead guitar.”

Though he long ago sold or traded the Dano bass, today Pitman keeps handy a Dano four-string and a Fender Jazz.

A typical day for Pitman would include playing sessions with Larry Carlton, Bob Bain, Barney Kessel, Dennis Budimir, Al Hendrickson, Al Viola, Howard Roberts, and other heavyweights. Of course his daily (and nightly) routine with the Wrecking Crew found him working with Glen Campbell, Tommy Tedesco, Hal Blaine, Carol Kaye, Joe Osborne, Earl Palmer, Leon Russell, Larry Knechtel, and the other usual suspects.

In a 2012 an interview with Neil Conan for the National Public Radio program “Talk of the Nation,” Roger McGuinn recalled recording the Byrds’ first hit, “Mr. Tambourine Man,” for which he was the only member the label allowed to play the session, thanks to his studio experience.

“Leon Russell, Hal Blaine, Jerry Cole, Larry Knechtel, and Bill Pitman were in the studio at the time,” McGuinn recalled. “They were the coolest guys – like James Dean, you know? They wore black leather jackets with the collar up. I was honored. And they were so tight; you could really not get anything between the beats. It was really solid, solid music.”

“Bill played the Dano bass and was amazing,” said Brian Wilson. “He played really great bass and I got the best from him because you can get the slightly higher sound out of the Dano and I’d double him with Ray Pohlman, and put Ray on the bottom and Bill on top and you’ve got two great bass parts. Bill Pitman could really cook.”

Early Years
Pitman was born in New Jersey. His dad was a staff-musician bassist at NBC for 24 years.

“He was also in demand as a freelancer, so there were times when we rarely saw him. We moved to New York because he was so busy. He’d have basses stashed around four or five studios so he could jump in a cab and run from one gig to another. He did four or five radio shows and was playing movie sound tracks and recordings, making a thousand dollars a week during the depths of the Depression. That’s how busy he was.”

“My first guitar was a short-scale instrument Dad commissioned John D’Angelico to build for me. Of course, it was beautiful and I fell in love with it. In high school, I was hanging out with two guys who went on to become major jazz names – (trumpeter) Shorty Rogers and (drummer) Shelly Manne. We’d play music all day, then go listen to Charlie Parker. I took lessons from a guy named John Cali, who used to rap my knuckles when I made a mistake. I didn’t like him, but I had to be prepared, and the stuff he gave me wasn’t easy. He told my father that I had talent but I was lazy (laughs), so my dad said, ‘Do what you have to do.’ And dammit, Cali did.”

Influences
Amongst guitarists, Charlie Christian was the one who first captivated a young Bill Pitman. “Later, in L.A., I studied with the great Allan Reuss because I loved harmony so much. Now, I try to emulate (jazz pianist) Bill Evans. I loved Charlie’s playing so much, but, harmonically, he didn’t interest me as much as Allan Reuss and George Van Eps. And when I first met Howard Roberts, I found that we both loved Van Eps’ and Reuss’ playing. Howard would play in Van Eps’ style, only using more-modern changes. That got me excited and I began investigating the harmonic structure of chords and using them to express myself when I was soloing and creating lines. It’s a fascinating study. So, Howard and I would work out wonderful things, and he could play that style better than George.

“I was also influenced by Eddie Lang, who was one of my first heroes. And I love Django – another wonderful talent with an outrageous personality. I revere him to this day.

“But, as a kid in the Bronx, Shorty Rogers, Shelly Manne and Eddie Bert, who became a noted trombone player, and I would play all the time. Shorty would get us a gig for which we’d each get fifty cents. Then we’d head to a deli and have a chocolate coke and talk about the band. It was a wonderful time and a great place to grow up.

“My first union card was from Local 802, for which you had to pass a test. They put music in front of me and I played it, then told me to play something without the music, but before I could, one said, ‘Oh, he’s Keith Pitman’s kid?’ ‘Well, okay.’ I got my card right away and started to work casuals. Then, my career was interrupted by the war.”

WWII
Pitman spent five years in the U.S. Army Air Corps, serving in India nearly four of those years, helping delivering gasoline to the Chinese. “I was a radio operator,” he said. “Finally, after I’d flown all those missions, a colonel wanted a band for the officers’ and enlisted men’s clubs, so they looked through the records of the 5,000 guys on the base and found those who’d played professionally. I wrote about 20 arrangements and was sent to Calcutta with carte blanche to purchase instruments. I had fun doubling guitar and trumpet.”

Paying Dues in L.A.
After his hitch, Pitman attended the L.A. Conservatory of Music and Art. There, he met his first wife, a singing student. They were together 18 years and had three children.

“I went on the G.I. Bill, but my wife got pregnant about six months before I finished my degree, so I had to go to work. I didn’t know anything except how to play the guitar, but I had no contacts in the business.”

Through a friend, Pitman got a job in a pipe-bending factory, where he worked for three years. A party at his boss’ house changed that.

“There was a guitar, and I began to play,” he recalled. “The boss really liked it, and he called me to his office the next morning and told me a story that changed my life. He’d always had a dream of being a farmer and said, ‘Bill, after working here for three years, you don’t know one end of a screwdriver from the other. It’s just not your thing. If I were you, I’d take a chance on your talent.’

“So, my wife said she’d get a job at General Motors if I’d promise to practice eight hours a day on what I needed to learn to be competitive. There were really no good guitar books then, so I got books for clarinet, viola, and oboe – instruments in the guitar’s range. But I sweated five and six days a week. Finally, one night I decided to go to a club and hear a group with a guitar player. I thought, ‘This guy plays well, but I think I can play better.’ I started to frequent different places and found one where Laurindo Almeida was working with Peggy Lee. He sounded so good. I went over to him and told him how wonderful I thought he sounded. Then, he mentioned going to South America in two weeks and asked if I was a good player. I said I thought so, and that I could read well.”

Almeida set up an audition for Bill with Lee’s group at her house in Coldwater Canyon. Larry Bunker played drums, Buddy Clark was on bass, and Lou Levy was on piano.

“We played a few and had a nice time, and later that evening, Peggy’s manager called and said the band would like to have me join. That was my start. It was 1951.”

After working three years with Lee, Pitman received an offer to play a five-days-per-week radio gig on “The Rusty Draper Show.” It was a steady $250 a week as well as outside work with one of the girl singers. Soon, session guitarist Tony Rizzi got wind of his ability and asked if he could hold a 2 p.m. date for him at Capitol until 2:30. The gig paid Pitman $25 and was harbinger of a career of steady session work. “I was making $400 a week just doing favors for guys – Howard Roberts, Jack Marshall, Al Hendrickson, Bob Bain, and Bobby Gibbons all called me to fill in, and that’s how I got started in the studios. And the next thing I knew I was calling guys to fill in for me. So there’s a lot to be said for being in the right place at the right time, and being prepared.”

Tedesco, Pitman, and the Studio Years
The fix was in. Pitman’s daily schedule was booked solid and indicative of a reliable, creative session guitarist. He’d realized his goal and was living a rewarding, lucrative life, artistically and monetarily. Moreover, it was an era when he and Tommy Tedesco became close friends while playing hundreds of sessions together. In fact, on occasions when union rules were bent, either could be counted on to raise the sometimes awkward issue of overtime. Tedesco was nicknamed “King Salt,” while Pitman was “Junior Salt.” “If for some reason, King Salt didn’t say something, Junior Salt certainly would,” said Pitman. Their fellow session musicians were forever grateful for one of their own standing up for the deserved compensation that so many producers would often conveniently forget.

In 1963, when Phil Spector produced the enormously popular “Be My Baby,” he titled the jam session on the flip side “Tedesco and Pitman,” honoring two of his favorite guitarists.

If you’re lucky enough to have or find a copy of an album titled Guitars Incorporated, you’ll hear Pitman put the Dano through its paces in ensemble arrangements written by Marty Paich, Dave Grusin, Johnny Mandel, and Jack Marshall. “We made those recordings featuring Tommy playing the lead parts, sometimes on a Fender mandolin tuned like a guitar. Al Hendrickson, Howard Roberts, Bob Bain, Bobby Gibbons, and Tony Rizzi played rhythm and harmony parts. I was always on the Dano bass. They’re some of the most intricate and extraordinary guitar ensemble recordings ever created. How could we miss, with those four arrangers? They were among the best in the world.”

Movies and Television
Pitman played on more that 200 film scores and still receives money from the Motion Picture Royalty Fund, especially for popular films like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and Fast Times at Ridgemont High. “That netted me about $3,200 a year for a long time,” he said. “Funny, it really did well in Russia. It’s like walking outside once a year and finding several thousand dollars in the street.”

Pitman also receives money from ASCAP because he wrote the music for a handful of “Star Trek” episodes. “I get checks because they’re playing all over the world. I shared that show with Howard (Roberts). It was originally his, but when he couldn’t make it, I’d do it.

“You don’t get paid on the back end for filmed TV. But I did ‘The Glen Campbell Show’ for three and a half years and got residuals for a couple of years afterward for summer reruns, getting 75 percent of original pay. I did ‘The Sonny and Cher Show,’ too; and ‘The Wild, Wild West” for five years, but I don’t get a dime because it was filmed. Same with ‘I Love Lucy’ and ‘Green Acres.’ And oh yeah, Tommy and I did ‘Bonanza.’ We had so much fun.

“So many guitarists can claim they played the ‘Bonanza’ theme because the union fixed it so it had to be re-recorded every season. It just happened that often a different guy would get the call every year.”

Bill was fortunate enough to get calls from the best composers and arrangers in the business. He lists a number of his favorites. “I loved Marty Paich, Dave Grusin, Johnny Mandel, and Neal Hefti. Dennis Budimir and I did ‘The Odd Couple’ for Neal and I worked on a couple of westerns with him. I loved his taste because he could say so much with just a few notes. He was wonderful. I also loved working with George Dunning, at Disney, and Jerry Goldsmith, who’s a great, great writer. He did the score for the film Chinatown.

“I have fond memories of playing ‘The Glen Campbell Goodtime Hour’ because Marty Paich had a huge orchestra. I did that show with Larry Carlton, who was basically a rock player, but could play jazz and read very well. He’s a big talent.

“I was a freelance player my entire studio career. I had an answering service and a cartage service that yanked my instruments and amps from one studio to another. In those days, the record companies picked it up because you had to have five or six instruments and amps and be ready to play whenever they wanted. And you couldn’t carry all that stuff around because sometimes you couldn’t find a place to park within 10 blocks.”

Though Pitman played hundreds of rock and pop sessions, he found relatively few of them rewarding.

“Five minutes after I was out of the studio, I couldn’t have told you which song we’d played or who the date was for. It was strictly a matter of making a living. When I got a call for the Beach Boys, I gave them what they wanted, then got the hell out. As a matter of fact, when we did ‘Good Vibrations,’ I didn’t know which tune we were doing because it took so long. Brian kept coming in at midnight and would get hungry, then order Italian food for us, and finally say he was too tired to work. He’d say, ‘Barbara, pay the guys and give them double scale and we’ll do it again tomorrow.’ So, sometimes it was hard to take it seriously. So many of the pop tunes then, except from a couple of groups like Steely Dan, weren’t rewarding. But Steely Dan is a far cry from Jan and Dean.”

Phil Spector
“I got a phone call one day, from Phil Spector’s mother, who asked if I’d take on her son as a student,” Pitman recalls. “I told her I had no time, but she began to beg. So, I took him on – Saturday mornings. He didn’t display a lot a natural talent, and he had no meter. He just couldn’t feel time. He’d be three or four beats late or come in several beats early, and had no idea where a bar would begin or end. I considered it a challenge, but knew if someone has no meter there’s just no way they can be a musician.”

“I give him credit – he worked very hard and was such a nice kid. But on the final day of the three months that I taught him, he said, ‘Bill, I need an honest answer.’ And he looked so pathetic and sincere that I knew what he was going to ask. He said, ‘Do I have any chance at all of becoming a jazz guitarist?’ I said, ‘Phil, I’m not God and can’t tell you what anyone can or can’t do, but you just can’t feel time.’ He said, ‘I know… I come in early or late and it doesn’t occur to me what I’m doing wrong.’ He said he was studying to be a court reporter, and I encouraged him to work on that.

“About a year later, when I was working on ‘The Rusty Draper Show,’ Phil asked me to pass along a demo of a song he’d written to anyone who might be interested. I asked one of the singers, who was an arranger, if he’d do this kid a favor and listen to it. The next day, he came back excited and wanted to meet Phil and subsequently had several meetings with him about raising money to produce it. But Phil had already lined up someone else. Later, I got a call from someone representing Phil and asking if I could play a session at Goldstar Studios. Sure enough, we recorded ‘To Know Him is to Love Him,’ and it was a monster hit. It was a song he wrote in memory of his dad. I did all his sessions on the West Coast and he’d also use Howard Roberts, Tommy Tedesco, Al Hendrickson, and Barney Kessel. Barney had also given lessons to Phil, and typical of Barney, he wisecracked, ‘Phil, you have no talent for music. You should become a producer.’

“Guys who can’t play well often become band leaders or contractors. I preferred playing sessions with the more-sophisticated jazz artists like Marty Paich, Dave Grusin, Johnny Mandel, or certain movie studio writers like Alex North or Jerry Goldsmith.

“I also worked with some great singers. I did [part of] ‘Strangers in the Night,’ with Sinatra. Jim Bowen produced it and Ernie Freeman was the conductor and wrote the arrangement. Dennis Budimir and I played on ‘The Way We Were’ for Streisand, and I did many Peggy Lee sessions. I did all of Karen Carpenter’s records – she played drums on those dates. I also recorded with Al Martino and played on ‘That’s Amore’ for Dean Martin. I worked with Mel Torme, with Marty Paich. I get chills when I mention that because it was so great. Marty also conducted an album I did for Ray Charles. And, like all of the guys, whenever we got a good call, we’d get excited because we could stretch a bit and it was so gratifying. I’d often get to ad lib solos, so it was wonderful being part of something excellent. I loved Dave Grusin’s playing. He has such taste and we got along very well together, which sometimes doesn’t happen between piano players and guitar players. You’re both doing the same thing in essence because they’re chordal instruments, and you’re doing the same job but trying to stay out of each other’s way.

“One of my fondest memories was working on those classic Howard Roberts Capitol albums.”

“Star Trek”
One gig that was particularly stressful, ultimately had a handsome payoff.

“We were sitting on the date, and the music hadn’t arrived. The conductor, Julian Davidson, was starting to sweat, and he approached me, saying, ‘Bill, the name of this thing today is ‘Far Out Jam.’ They’re in space and meet musicians from another planet… We don’t have any music because the composer is sick. Can you help?’ Then, he told me it would be worth my while because I’d get residuals. I took an hour and came up with something as far out as I could. Julian liked it, so we had it down by the end of a three-hour session. And even though it was filmed TV, I get royalties as a writer, not a musician.”

The King Himself
Pitman worked with Elvis Presley many times – live, on TV shows, and on three films. One indelible moment happened working in the orchestra. “I was backstage, talking with the Jordanaires, when Elvis approached and said, ‘Mr. Pitman, I want you to know how honored I am to have you working with us tonight.’ I was flabbergasted that he knew my name or that I was even alive. Then, I got the signal, and told him that I had to get to the bandstand. He said ‘Yeah, I guess it’s about time for my sexhibition.’ It was poignant, and sometimes I think he would have been happier just driving a truck.

Today
Looking at him, it’s hard to believe he’s nearly 95. He still shoots his age on the golf course and plays guitar every day, mostly his Gibson ES-330.

“I like to re-harmonize tunes in the fashion of Bill Evans. I’ll never stop doing that. I love to experiment and find out what more can be gotten out of the instrument.”

Spoken like a true artist.

This article originally appeared in VG‘s May 2015 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.

Jazz guitarist Johnny Smith died at his home June 11, 2013, two weeks shy of his 91st birthday. Arguably the most respected and revered guitarist of the modern era (1950 to present), Smith was sincerely humble and reserved about his extraordinary talent.

In 1999, his peers and friends celebrated his career with a gala at Hunter College where virtually every big-name jazz guitarist honored him, and he graciously endured the tribute’s speeches, performances, and testimonials. Typical of his sincere modesty, Smith’s reaction to the affair was, “I wish there had been a big rock onstage so I could have crawled under it.”

One endorsement of his artistic gravitas was the bestowal of the Smithsonian Institution’s James Smithson Bicentennial Award, “…in grateful recognition for your contributions to American music.”

Smith was born in Birmingham, Alabama, in 1922. The Great Depression forced his family to Portland, Maine, and, by age 13 he had struck a deal with a local pawnshop whereby he kept the store’s guitars in tune as he used them to teach himself to play. Soon, he was giving lessons and playing hillbilly music with Uncle Lem and the Mountain Boys, a group that traveled the state and paid the youngster $4 per night. He heard his first Django Reinhardt record as a pre-teen and saved his nickels so he could buy every Django 78-rpm recording that was released. His folks had a Victrola which afforded only three or four plays before it wore out a disc. Still, that was enough for the talented youngster to memorize Django’s licks.

“I drove my folks crazy because I liked to listen to big-band music on the radio,” he said. “That was my best teacher – learning to coordinate harmonies with the big bands. And I got to where I could out-guess their modulations.”

Soon, he was in the Army Air Corps in hopes of realizing his dream of becoming a pilot. But because of a vision flaw in his left eye, he was given the choice of becoming a flight mechanic or joining the marching band. He opted for the band and was given a cornet and an instruction book. His intrinsic talent and dedication (hours of practice in the latrine) saw him conquer the horn and the Arban method in a couple of weeks.

Smith also used his time in the service to develop his guitar skills.

“From having to read on the trumpet, I learned what the notes were and was able to transfer them to the guitar,” he said. “I’d read everything from Kreutzer violin books, second and third trumpet books, and whatever I could find.

“Before the war, I met Charlie Christian when he came to Portland, and later I heard that great record he made with Benny [Goodman], “Airmail Special.” It was such an inspiration.

“Years later, after I’d gotten established, I remember when Django came to New York and was appearing at Café Society. Les Paul was at the Paramount. So I’d pick up Django, who was staying at the Great Northern Hotel, and take him to the Paramount. Then I’d take him back to Café Society, where he’d go to work. I’m so privileged that I got to meet him.”

Johnny’s Jazz Gear

Smith’s involvement in guitar construction began in 1946, shortly after his arrival in New York. He entered an arrangement with Epiphone to use its Emperor model as his regular instrument, and designed the Emperor Concert – a purely acoustic instrument easily identified by its trapezoidal sound hole. Smith widened the parallel bracing and had the top carved to reduce thickness around the sound hole. The guitar was intended for production, but his own was the only one completed.

Smith had mixed feelings about his first attempts at guitar design. The features he helped devise improved the instrument’s ability to project melodies, but he found the size of its body cumbersome.

In 1950, he began a legendary relationship with John D’Angelico, who at the time produced the New Yorker and Excel. Smith’s first D’Angelico was an Excel-sized instrument with the more-ornate features of the New Yorker, and a floating DeArmond pickup. Unfortunately, it was lost in a house fire the following year, after which he used a ’30s D’Angelico lent to him by John Collins. The guitar had a notably wider fingerboard, which Smith initially found unwieldy but then came to appreciate.

In 1955, Smith took delivery of his third D’Angelico, commissioned to unique specs including a 20-fret fingerboard on a shorter 25″ scale neck that continued under the length of the fingerboard into the cross bracing. The shorter scale length facilitated his trademark stretch chords without loss of tone, while the extended neck and cross-bracing resulted in a better balance of tone and volume. Many of New York’s jazz guitarists were so enamored of this guitar that they placed orders for identical instruments.

The following year, Smith began an endorsement deal with Guild, which resulted in the Johnny Smith Award. Most of its design features appeared on his ’55 D’Angelico. The scale-length, however, was 1/4″ shorter, as he continued to search for an equilibrium that would accommodate his stretches without significant loss of tone. Famously, Smith disagreed with the factory foreman regarding the carving process, though years later he graciously admitted he had been wrong and that the Guild was a fine instrument.

In 1961, Gibson began producing its own Johnny Smith model, which manifested the results of Smith’s years of research and was, in effect, the production version of the ’55 D’Angelico with its specs, including a return to the 25″ scale length and a nut width of 1 3/4″. The cross-bracing was a return to old methods for Gibson, but it was the first guitar in the company’s line to use the PU-120 floating pickup, which permitted the instrument’s top to vibrate unhindered.

Luthier Bob Benedetto has no reservations about Smith’s influence on his own development through the Gibson.

“Johnny’s input had a profound influence on my guitar-making career,” he said. “The Gibson Johnny Smith was, in my opinion, the most-refined model in Gibson’s lineup of archtop jazz guitars. It was perfection, across the board.”

By 1989, Smith had become frustrated with certain methods at Gibson, particularly its refusal to produce consistent necks, and he awarded his endorsement to Heritage, which manufactured the Johnny Smith Rose per his original Gibson design.

Johnny also played a significant part in the development of dedicated amplification for the instrument. In the late ’40s, amplifiers were unreliable and intended for general purpose rather than specifically for electric guitars. In the early ’50s, Smith was one of a handful of test pilots for Everett Hull’s Ampeg company. Their work together resulted in the production of some of the first dedicated and respectable guitar amps.

However, Smith was never happy to rest on his laurels. He wanted an amplifier with flat frequency response, which would amplify his archtop without boosting its treble or bass frequencies. In 1955, the first Ampeg Johnny Smith model went into production. Two years later, the grandly titled Ampeg Fountain of Sound became available. The Fountain of Sound was, in effect, the Johnny Smith model fitted with four legs and turned on its back so the speaker faced upward. Virtually every studio guitarist in New York used it.
When Smith’s Gibson endorsement began in ’61, the company was eager to have him using one of its amps. Johnny was reluctant because Gibson didn’t produce a unit with a flat frequency response. So, in ’64 the manufacturer agreed to produce what would become the GA-75L Recording model, which can be heard on Smith’s three albums for Verve in ’67 and ’68.

In the late ’60s, Smith sought to re-create the tube-driven Gibson amplifier in solidstate form with the EMRAD Johnny Smith model, which he used on his tour with Bing Crosby in 1976-’77.

Smith’s prescient concept for the amplification of acoustic guitars with onboard electronics was 60 years ahead of its time, and his archtop guitar designs have remained influential since their inception. – Len Flanagan

Big-Time In The Big Apple
“After the war, I was back in Portland, working three gigs – at WCSH doing a daily show, playing trumpet in a pit band, and playing nights at a nightclub. The director at the affiliate, Arthur Owens, took a couple of air-checks to NBC in New York, and that’s how I got the call to become a staff member.”

But he still had to sweat out a Local 802 union card. “I’d work at NBC on a freelance basis because I didn’t have to have a card. I survived on baloney and stale bread for six months, but still, I was at the apex of live music in New York – not just 52nd Street, but everything. The three networks, NBC, ABC, and CBS, each had over 100 musicians on full-time staff. Everything was live music, right down to the commercials, and it was wonderful. And, of course, 52nd Street was door-to-door-to-door jazz. Then there was Birdland. I feel fortunate and grateful to have been there.”

Moonlight In Vermont
Along with Les Paul and Mary Ford, Smith’s 1952 hit, “Moonlight in Vermont” (with Stan Getz on sax), was a harbinger for the burgeoning popularity of guitar recordings. “I met Stan at a party and he mentioned wanting to get off the road,” said Smith. “I got him an appointment at NBC; at that time, there was one show with a big orchestra. The conductor, Roy Shields, asked if I could write an arrangement and form a combo for a once-a-week spot. The piano player, Sanford Gold, was a good friend of Teddy Reig, who owned Roulette Records. He took an air-check to Teddy, who said, ‘I’ll take a chance.’ So we recorded ‘Moonlight in Vermont’ and ‘Tabu.’

“Then, because I hadn’t had any time off since 1946, I headed to Florida for a few weeks. When I returned, ‘Moonlight in Vermont’ started happening – no promotion, no nothing, but disc jockeys were using it as background.”

Most of Smith’s albums were on the Royal Roost label, which in 1958 was absorbed by Roulette, which was owned by the notorious Morris Levy. “I don’t know who bought my records – jazz fans, guitar players, or perhaps sophisticated New York types – but most of them were panned by the ‘experts’ like Leonard Feather,” Smith said. “Of course, a lot of them, I hoped, would remain buried (laughs)! I did two albums with big string sections for Roost. Arranging and writing for strings was my biggest thrill – my great love. After that, I made three albums for Verve.

“The best recording group I ever had was George Roumanis on bass, Mousey Alexander on drums, and the extraordinary Bob Pancoast on piano, who had a completely different style and approach. On one of my albums, I featured Bob on Duke Ellington’s ‘Prelude to a Kiss.’ It’s one of the greatest things I’ve ever heard.”

Smith was known for not being happy with his recordings. “The truth is, the minute you record something, you look back and realize you could have done it better,” he said. “Regardless of the many gracious compliments I’ve received, mostly from guitar players, I’m truthful and honest with myself, and sometimes feel like they could have put me and my guitar in the men’s room.”

The vast majority of jazz guitarists disagree vehemently with Smith’s assessment of his playing.

“Johnny was simply pristine in his melodic attack,” said Sheryl Bailey. “He could play three-octave arpeggios with joyous ease and create the most gorgeous closed-position chord voicings that even the best of us develop a sweat over. But he played with a warmth and ease that was spellbinding to musicians of all instruments and styles. He transcended the guitar, and his pure and beautiful lines and harmonies were stunning. His influence will live on because it was honest and from the heart in its precision and perfection.”

“Johnny was so very important,” added Larry Coryell. “His playing was melodic, romantic, and economical, and his chord concept was unique. He played chords that were like piano voicings, with such close intervals. And his career as a studio musician in New York City is legendary. He loved classical music and incorporated it into his overall attitude. When I visited him once in Colorado Springs, he taught me a section of Ravel’s ‘Mother Goose Suite’ that was a real finger-stretcher. I mean a real stretcher – and painful! But I loved him. He was a gentleman and an enlightened soul. Plus, his version of ‘What’s New’ – those chords again – is unsurpassed.”

Smith said many times he never considered himself a jazz guitarist. “Let’s start with a category like Segovia,” he said. “Segovia was a dedicated classical guitarist. That was his whole life. The great jazz musicians I know have jazz as their only life. So that lets me out because I was involved with and loved so many different kinds of music that I couldn’t stay focused on one.”

Asked if he considered himself a commercial artist, he responded with, “No, I didn’t think in [those] terms. I could be commercial with the rest to a point, but I couldn’t go and play bad just for the sake of making a few dollars.”

All of the players queried concede Smith was a comprehensive player capable of delivering whatever a session needed, and was indeed a jazz guitarist of the first magnitude.

Hank Garland, the great Nashville session guitarist, played the lick on Elvis’ “Little Sister”– hardly a jazz song – though he also recorded the landmark Jazz Winds From a New Direction. It inspired a young George Benson, another noted player among many, such as Lee Ritenour and Earl Klugh, who can play superb jazz but produce music consumers desire. In fact, most any jazz-oriented session players, from Howard Roberts to Dennis Budimir to Bucky Pizzarelli, have recorded everything from klezmer to doo-wop. Carlos Barbosa-Lima, one of the world’s most-revered classical guitarists, said, “I admire Johnny immensely. He could play very difficult classical pieces with a pick, which was seemingly impossible. I think he could play anything on the guitar. His innate facility and plectrum technique was like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

Guitars, Amps, Strings – and Attitude
For someone so identified with archtop guitars, Smith had a checkered, often unfortunate, history with his instruments. When he got the letter in Portland to report to NBC, his Gibson L-5 had been stolen from a check room. So he arrived in New York with no guitar. He met Harry Volpe, a guitarist on staff at Radio City Music Hall who also owned a music store.

“Volpe had Gretsch make me a guitar, but within a couple weeks, the neck was a roller coaster,” recalled Smith. “Then, Volpe went to Epiphone and they made me a guitar. After that, I went from unconscious ignorance to conscious ignorance (laughs) when I heard about John D’Angelico. He made me a guitar that was absolutely beautiful. But the house I was renting on Long Island burned down and, unfortunately, took my guitar and my dog.”

The predicament led to a series of Smith-designed instruments – all indicative of the guitarist’s rigid standards. “Johnny created a genre of guitars,” said studio guitarist and guitar historian Mitch Holder. “I’ve read his correspondence with Gibson’s Ted McCarty, and Johnny accepted the contract but refused the JS prototype because it had 22 frets. Just like with his D’Angelicos, he wanted only 20 frets so it would facilitate his playing style, which employed long stretches and created a mellower sound.” (Ed. Note: See sidebar for Smith biographer Lin Flanagan’s overview of his impact on guitar design.)

“John Collins had a D’Angelico that he let me use while (D’Angelico) was building me another guitar,” Smith added. “It had a neck like a plow handle, but I fell in love with it. So I had D’Angelico build him another guitar.”

By this time, Smith was a recognized guitar figure. When Gibson approached him to design and endorse a guitar, he sought advice from John D’Angelico. “He said, ‘I think you should, because I can only make so many guitars in a year.’ So I did, and Gibson released the Smith model. But I became disenchanted because they weren’t doing it right.”

Heritage, a group of builders who took over the former Gibson plant in Kalamazoo, Michigan, had Smith design a guitar. “It was fine, but they lost some of their key people and the guitars just weren’t right,” Smith said. “Then, around that time, Bill Schultz, the head guy for Fender, which had acquired the Guild Company said, ‘We’ve got this Artist Award. If you’re not happy with Heritage, would you consider endorsing this guitar?’ I said, ‘Yeah, if it’s made right.’ There was dead silence until he told me that Bob Benedetto was taking over the product and moving his operation to California. So, my thanks to Bob Benedetto, whom I consider the greatest guitar builder on the planet today. He took the reins, and the guitar is really, really lovely.”

Smith was just as candid about amplifiers and what he required. He worked with Everett Hull to design Ampeg’s Fountain of Sound amp, which was subsequently used by virtually every studio (and studio guitarist) in New York, including Art Ryerson, Bucky Pizzarelli, Don Arnone, Tony Mottola, George Barnes, and Joe Cinderella. Its speakers were aimed upward, inspired by Dizzy Gillespie’s horn, with its bent bell. “It kept the sound out of people’s ears, because in those days, people complained when things were too loud,” recalled Smith. “Today’s amps look like coke machines. So I had the speakers pointing straight up.”

Smith’s model was the JS-35, available as a 20- or 30-watt amp with a 15″ JBL speaker that sat on short legs. Smith was ahead of his time, as many guitarists today use PA or piano/accordion amps because they provide a broader palette without the heavy midrange sound of guitar amps. And many players employ amp stands that aim speakers upward. “I wrote something for a guitar magazine and they wouldn’t publish it… I said the amplifier I had made, with the Bass control full on, had less bass than a Fender amp with the Bass control full off. That’s the difference.”

Smith’s strings were unique, as well. The Gibson Sonomatic JS set came with a flatwound low E because he so often used a drop-D tuning.

“A round-wound string that heavy would chew up guitar picks something terrible.” Surprisingly, he later used Black Diamond strings. “They had this hand-burnished set – the 100s… [they were] wonderful. They stopped making them, so I sent correspondence to about every music store in the U.S. and bought every set I could find. I’ve never seen a U-Haul behind a hearse, but if there ever is such a thing, it’ll be me and my Black Diamonds (laughs)! In the old days, flatwounds were terrible; I’d prop a pencil under the strings by the nut to raise them, then take a water glass, because in those days they were so susceptible to squeaks, and just take the edge off. It got me by, but you still had to play like you were walking on eggshells.”

Chet, The Ventures, and an accident in Colorado
In addition to “Moonlight in Vermont,” Smith’s other big hit was composed while he was trying to find a counterpoint melody for the jazz standard “Softly, As In a Morning Sunrise.” This time, his hit was an original, and the manifestation of his counterpoint search was “Walk, Don’t Run,” which reached the Top 10 on Billboard twice in the early ’60s. The story behind the tune has its moments.

“Chet had an arrangement of ‘Walk, Don’t Run.’ He came to me at Birdland one night and asked if he could record it. I said, ‘Sure.’ He said, ‘No, I’m not gonna do it unless I can show you how I’m going to do it in my style.’

“So, we went back to a little dressing room at Birdland, and he played his version. I thought it was terrific. So he recorded it, and the Ventures heard his, and that’s how they came to record it. It become a big hit just when I’d had an accident in an airplane and lost the tip of my ring finger, which put me out of commission for about a year. We had a music store, but we were still building inventory and it wasn’t making any money. Without the Ventures’ recording, I don’t know if I could have survived.”

But there’s more! Jim Stafford, who charted a couple of pop hits in the ’70s, was a close friend of Atkins, and he told Stafford that while playing his version of “Walk, Don’t Run” at the Birdland that night, Smith corrected him on a few notes.

“When Chet shared that story, he had a hint of rancor in his voice because he wasn’t used to being corrected, even by the great Johnny Smith,” recalled Stafford.

Today, Stafford, a superb guitar soloist who appeared onstage with both Atkins and Smith, still incorporates passages in his arrangements as a result of studying Smith’s book, Aids to Technique. “I spent hours with that book as a teenager, and its exercises have informed my playing to the extent of their truly becoming ingrained,” he said.

Open Letter to John Williams
Another interesting controversy in Smith’s career was a letter he wrote to classical guitarist John Williams.

“I had these students at my store – the very best of our guitar students. And nearby, a theater was showing film of John Williams. I insisted the students see it, and paid their way. But in the middle came this electric-guitar putdown. I was so disappointed my students saw it, and I was so upset that I wrote a letter to John. I don’t know if he ever saw it, but I got a reply back from some company in England saying John couldn’t care less about my comments. In the letter I said that were it not for amplification, we would not be privileged to hear great artists like him and Segovia.”

Of course the irony is that later in Williams’ career, he experimented with electric guitar and sound processors as a member of the rock-fusion group Skye, and with Pete Townshend – with whom he recorded a version of the Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again” for Amnesty International’s benefit show The Secret Policeman’s Ball. A press releases from the time said Williams wanted the broader attention of the rock audience.

Coda
Smith’s final tour was with Bing Crosby in 1977.

“I hated the travel and trauma of trying to get on airplanes with a guitar and amplifier,” he said of attitude by that point. “Bing died a few days after the tour finished, and I decided then that I didn’t want to do it anymore.

“I can’t think of anybody more fortunate than I am. Every dream I’ve ever had has come true. When I was young, I dreamed of playing with great musicians, and that came true. I dreamed of being able to fly my own airplane, and fishing for marlin on my own boat, and that came true. I always dreamed of living in a beautiful part of the country, and that came true. I never dreamed of getting rich, so I didn’t have to worry about that (laughs)!”
Special thanks to Lin Flanagan and Mitch Holder for their invaluable contributions to this profile.

This article originally appeared in VG November 2013 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.

Jazz guitar pioneer Mary Osborne was the only female guitarist to realize a significant impact on jazz in the 1940s and ’50s – and many aficionados agree that her swinging style earned her confirmation as one of the early architects of R&B and rock and roll.

Born July 17, 1921, in Minot, North Dakota, Osborne enjoyed a career that spanned the decades from the late ’30s until her death in March, 1992. And she called Charlie Christian her mentor; perhaps no other guitarist was more directly influenced by his genius.

The tenth of 11 children, Osborne grew up in a musical environment. Both of her parents played guitar; her mom sang and, though her dad was a barber by trade, he was also a bandleader. At the age of four, Mary was strumming a ukulele around the house. A few years later, she joined her dad’s group on banjo, then became precociously adept at singing, tap dancing, as well as playing the violin, bass fiddle, and guitar. In a 1974 interview in Guitar Player she told writer Leonard Ferris, “When I picked up that first guitar, that was it. I knew that’s what I wanted to play the rest of my life.”

Today, her son, Ralph Scaffidi, Jr., remembers how, “By her mid teens, she was good enough to play jazz and sing in an all-girl trio on radio and in the clubs around Bismarck [North Dakota, about 100 miles from Minot]. And she was really captivated by the playing of Django Reinhardt, Eddie Lang, and Dick McDonough.”

At age 17, Osborne’s life and approach to playing changed profoundly. Musician friends encouraged her to drop by a local club called The Dome to hear the Al Trent Sextet, a territory band that included guitarist Charlie Christian. “It was the most startling thing I had ever heard,” she said to Ferris in GP. Christian playing a Django-influenced version of “Honeysuckle Rose” was something she’d never forget. “I heard what I took to be a tenor saxophone,” she remembered. “I asked where the guitarist was, then realized the saxophone sound was coming from a crude amplifier attached to a guitar. I was so inspired, all I wanted to do was imitate him.”

She later recalled that some of the figures Christian was playing that night evolved into the tunes he recorded with Benny Goodman – “Flyin’ Home,” “Gone With What Wind,” and “Seven Come Eleven.” In the May ’02 issue of Just Jazz Guitar, writer Molly Cort cited Osborne’s recollection. “I watched how he played double notes… if you never had a lesson, it was clear what he was doing.” Osborne watched Christian for a few nights before approaching him, asking, “Those were Django’s chord changes on ‘Honeysuckle Rose,’ weren’t they?” She said he smiled and said, “Anyone who knows those were Django’s chords has to be a guitar player.”

That brief exchange was a plot point in Osborne’s life, as recalled by her son. “They struck up a very nice friendship and, after he listened to her play, they jammed together and he gave her pointers and musical ideas,” he said. Christian then hipped her to a store that sold the Gibson ES-150 like he played, and told her where she could get an amp. Though it would be another year before jazz pianist Mary Lou Williams would recommend him to producer John Hammond, Christian was making a name for himself in jazz’s “Kansas City School.” Osborne was nonetheless impressed to find the guitar in a window display with a sign proclaiming, “As played by Charlie Christian, featured in the Al Trent Sextet.” The ES-150 cost her $85, and the amp another $45.

The Gibson archives tell us that until the introduction of the ES-175 in 1949, all Gibson archtops were made with solid arched tops, and the ES-150, introduced in ’36, was no exception. That was probably because no one, including Gibson, was sure if the electric guitar would catch on. The ES-150 was a lower-mid-level model with dot position markers, single-ply binding, a flat back, and little adornment. It did, however, have a reasonably large 161/4″ body with a carved spruce top, and its single-coil pickup was attached to an unusually large magnet mounted beneath the center portion of the top and held by three screws. It could accommodate a bold, percussive attack and produced surprisingly good definition.

There’s no doubt that pickup helped define and shape Osborne’s sound and contributed to the consensus of her being the doyenne of female jazz guitarists. She soon joined the small coterie of late-’30s electric-guitar pioneers that, besides Christian, included Eddie Durham, who recorded with Count Basie’s Kansas City Six, Eldon Shamblin with Bob Wills, and George Barnes, who first went electric recording with Big Bill Broonzy in 1938.

Excited about her new sound, Osborne hit the road for many months with the Winifred McDonnell Trio, playing mostly dance tunes, jazz, and Andrews Sisters pop songs. Because Osborne was a minor, McDonnell, who remained a lifelong friend, became her legal guardian. The trio traveled around North Dakota and Minnesota appearing on radio shows and in clubs before landing a daily show on KDKA in Philadelphia.

After a year in Philly, the trio was hired to appear in the stage show of actor-turned-bandleader Buddy Rogers. In a 1991 interview with Karen Schoemer of the New York Times, Osborne said, “He liked us so much he hired us. He was a very good musician and… looked like a movie star. Of course I was impressed. I thought musicians were movie stars, anyway.” But after several weeks on tour, Rogers dissolved his band after an appearance in New York City, where Osborne found herself embarking on the next phase of her career.

The Big Apple, Take One

Now a seasoned performer, Osborne took advantage of her surroundings. Almost immediately, she began exploring the New York music scene and meeting other jazz musicians. Back on it own, The Winifred McDonnell Trio found a gig where they were staying – the Piccadilly hotel in the Theater District on 43rd Street, west of Broadway. The Piccadilly was among many hotels during that era that catered to musicians. It was there that singer Johnny Drake introduced Mary to trumpeter Ralph Scaffidi, her future husband. Scaffidi, who was with the Dick Stabile band, was taken with Mary’s looks and demeanor. But when she mentioned that she played electric guitar, he wasn’t at all eager to hear her play.

“My dad automatically assumed she played Hawaiian steel in the style of Alvino Rey, or some hillbilly stuff,” said Ralph, Jr. “Finally, when picking her up for a date, he heard her playing through her hotel room door and was stunned – and of course, very interested.”

As fate would have it, in the following weeks, romance blossomed for all the girls, subsequently bringing the trio’s career to a coda. All three had met their future husbands. The breakup was amicable, but no doubt bittersweet.

After an introduction from Ralph, Dick Stabile eagerly hired Osborne, but she was disappointed in not being featured. So she left for a Florida tour with yet another all-girl band led by Jean Wald. But a few weeks in the Sunshine State proved too similar to the road grind she’d already endured, so Osborne returned to New York.

She found a gig, again because of Ralph, with the Bob Chester band. But Chester wanted Mary for just four dates over a two-week period. She was puzzled because the band already had a guitarist and female vocalist. Her being hired didn’t make sense. The final date of her ad hoc employment was for prom night at Columbia University. So the event could feature continuous music, the college hired two musical acts and billed it as a “battle of the bands” contest. She arrived at the gig to find they were on the bill with Benny Goodman and his Orchestra, featuring her old friend, Charlie Christian. “She just cringed,” said Ralph, Jr. “She’d finally figured out she’d gotten the gig only because Chester wanted an electric guitar player for that appearance.” Osborne was, “…embarrassed, but Charlie was tickled about it.” It was the last time they would ever see each other.

The early ’40s in New York was a productive time for Osborne. In addition to recording with Bob Chester and Terry Shand, she worked with a number of name bands. She also landed a gig on Saturday afternoons in the house band at Minton’s Playhouse, where great players would jam. It was at Minton’s she first played with Coleman Hawkins, Ben Webster, Dizzy Gillespie, and Art Tatum, all of whom would later hire her for gigs and recordings.

Finally realizing enough stability to marry, Scaffidi and Osborne tied the knot in late ’42. By this time, Scaffidi was working with jazz violinist Joe Venuti’s stage show, featuring singer Kay Starr and the Andrews Sisters. The show had previously featured guitarist Eddie Lang, who was a big drawing card for Venuti. Lang had died and Venuti, who knew the value of a flashy guitarist, had never found a suitable replacement. Scaffidi naturally suggested Osborne. A skeptical Venuti honored the request, but probably had an agenda; a legendary practical joker, speculation had it that Venuti was going to teach the young girl how “real” musicians play. But what happened was similar to the birth-of-fire audition Benny Goodman had put Charlie Christian through by trying to lose him with the tune “Rose Room.”

After a show at the Capitol Theater, Venuti had Mary come by for an audition. “Word got around that Joe was going to humiliate some gal who plays guitar,” said Ralph, Jr. “So a crowd of musicians gathered outside his dressing room. Venuti chose some obscure tune like ‘Wild Cat’ or ‘Chop Suey’ – a tune from the ’20s. When my mom asked for the key, Venuti said, ‘I’ll just start and you follow.’ So he kicked it off at a frantic tempo but she started following him through the changes. He got to where he’d pull a key change every four bars, but she’d follow right along. This went on for 10 or 15 minutes before Venuti said, ‘You’re coming with me on the road!’”

Now in his new stage show, Venuti would have Kay Starr sing, followed by the Andrews Sisters. Then he’d call out Osborne and the two of them would duet for 20 minutes or more.

Venuti had a tour of the West Coast scheduled, and implored Osborne to join him. He said, “We’ll make records and it’ll be great. If you come with me, I’ll give you Eddie Lang’s guitar.” Osborne, however, remained in New York because she wanted to be with Ralph, who was very much in demand there.

(LEFT TO RIGHT) Osborne’s W.G. Barker was made circa 1962 with a single DeArmond pickup with Tone and Volume controls hidden under the pickguard. Osborne’s 1952 Gibson L-5, with DeArmond pickup. Osborne’s Stromberg cutaway.

The Windy City

Soon, an even better opportunity presented itself. The couple was offered a gig with the Russ Morgan Orchestra, featuring keyboardist Joe Mooney’s quartet. Mooney, a jazz guy at heart, in turn featured Osborne singing and laying down very hip lines on the guitar. Morgan had the orchestra in residence at Chicago’s Edgewater Beach Hotel. And it was there he had Osborne introduce his song “You’re Nobody ‘Til Somebody Loves You,” which would become a major hit for Dean Martin 20 years later.

World War II was raging, and Scaffidi, at 28, was still eligible for the draft. So he decided to enlist and serve in the entertainment corps at Great Lakes Naval Base in Chicago. Those few months were a rather romantic time for the young couple, with Osborne at the Edgewater Beach and Scaffidi in the Navy Band. Russ Morgan, however, wanted to move on, but Osborne elected to stay in Chicago with Scaffidi. But after a year or so, Navy brass decided there was too much talent concentrated at Great Lakes and shipped out many of the players to other venues. Scaffidi was sent to Newfoundland, where he became a bandmaster.

Osborne then began a series of Chicago club dates, including several at the prestigious Chez Paree. She also recorded sides with jazz violinist Stuff Smith including, “Blues in Mary’s Flat, “Blues in Stuff’s Flat, “I Got Rhythm,” and “Sweet Lorraine.”

Big Noise in the Big Easy

During this time, Osborne was befriended by writer and promoter Leonard Feather. She met Feather in New York circa 1940… “probably at Minton’s. So he knew how good she was,” recalls Ralph, Jr.

Feather’s far-reaching influence got her an appearance at the Esquire magazine All-Star Concert in New Orleans on a national radio network hookup. The show featured broadcasts from New York, Los Angeles, and New Orleans – a big deal in those days. Osborne was billed as a jazz newcomer. She sang “Embraceable You” and played a killer version of “Rose Room.” That broadcast got her deserved recognition from a national audience, and she was then in the rarified air of Esquire All-Stars including Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, Benny Goodman, Red Norvo, Billie Holiday, and Teddy Wilson.

Big Apple, Take Two

With the notoriety of that 1945 broadcast and the end of the war, Scaffidi and Osborne headed back to New York. “New York was the place to be… you got to play with every wonderful musician in the world,” Osborne once remarked. The couple focused on building a life for themselves and getting established enough to think about starting a family. Scaffidi began playing studio gigs and Osborne formed her first trio with pianist Sanford Gold and bassist Frenchy Couette. She also made “soundies” and took a gig for a year at Kelly’s Stables, a popular nightspot. By this time, Scaffidi was on staff at CBS, and eventually worked “The Ed Sullivan Show,” “Your Hit Parade,” and wherever else he was needed.

Osborne’s trio had signed with Signature Records and also cut sides for Decca. But after difficulties with management, booking agents, and personnel changes, the trio broke up. Osborne lamented at the time, “the better sides are still on the shelf.” Still, she was in constant demand for session work and recorded with many great artists, such as Mel Torme, Clark Terry, Tyree Glenn, Art Tatum, Dizzy Gillespie, Ben Webster, Mercer Ellington, Mary Lou Williams and Coleman Hawkins. And her hard-driving, aggressive, yet soulful style was a perfect fit for sides with early R&B artists Wynonie Harris and Big Joe Turner. Leonard Feather produced the Harris sides “Mr. Blues Jumped the Rabbit,” “Rugged Road,” “Come Back Baby,” and “Whiskey and Jelly Roll Blues,” in late 1946. And her recordings with Turner – “Roll ’em Pete” and “Ice Man Blues” – are coveted examples of early R&B.

Osborne achieved more national acclaim with an appearance on TV’s “Arthur Godfrey’s Talent Scouts” and got regular work with Godfrey’s stage shows at the Capitol Theater. Then, in ’52, she began a 10-year stretch on “The Jack Sterling Show,” a daily morning radio show on CBS.

“I remember she had a job on the Sterling show, where she had to play Al Cohn arrangements, but she was an excellent reader,” guitarist Bucky Pizzarelli told VG. “I used to listen to her in the morning on the way to work when she was at CBS. Johnny Smith was at ABC and I was at NBC. She recorded with Coleman Hawkins and Ben Webster and won a lot of jazz polls. And she’d always play clubs at night, as well. Every time she appeared, I’d go out to see her and she’d come to see me play in New Jersey. Believe me, she played like Charlie Christian. He was her main guy.”

“I hear Christian’s influence in so many great players of that era,” added Ralph, Jr. “But I think my mother had the strongest link to his style without being a copycat. She could play some of his licks if you asked her to, but she never did when soloing. Her solos were close to what Charlie did, but it was not intentional, it’s just how it was. And though her playing evolved over the years, you could always feel Charlie’s influence.”

In the late ’50s, Osborne was offered an advertising/endorsement deal with Gretsch.

(LEFT) Osborne onstage at the Concord Jazz Festival, July, 1973. (RIGHT) Osborne onstage with Arthur Godfrey in 1949, when Osborne was part of the “Godfrey’s Talent Scouts” revue.

“Gretsches weren’t her favorites at all – she usually played a Gibson L-5 or her Stromberg on gigs,” said Ralph, Jr. “In fact, her custom Stromberg is supposedly one of only seven cutaway models ever made.” She had an unwritten agreement to never be photographed with anything but a Gretsch even though she wasn’t necessarily playing one. Osborne was usually seen with a Country Club or, later, a White Falcon. This was before she opted for a Bill Barker custom guitar in ’64. Barker, from Chicago, was a Stromberg protege who built Osborne an instrument. After she started to use the Barker, she ended her ostensible exclusivity with Gretsch.

In addition to a full schedule, Osborne gave birth to three children between 1955 and ’59. In fact, A Girl and Her Guitar, her first non-78-rpm album, was recorded while she was expecting the third. The cover shows a very attractive Osborne posing with a Gretsch White Falcon.

When the Sterling show was finally cancelled, Osborne felt the need for a change. She had become bored with playing, and from 1963 to ’68 studied classical guitar with Albert Valdes Blaine. “She bought a Velazquez guitar but never used it professionally. She studied classical just for her personal enrichment,” said her son, Pete. Perhaps it was symptomatic because Osborne and Scaffidi had both become disenchanted with the music scene in the ’60s, and began looking for opportunities away from New York. Scaffidi knew the days were numbered for staff musicians.

(LEFT) The Osborne Sound Laboratories guitar has a maple body, rosewood fingerboard, and rosewood inlay running vertically across the body. It boasted fine touches including mother-of-pearl fretboard markers, Schaller tuning machines, two Hi-A humbucker pickups, and a Leo Quan Badass bridge/tailpiece combination. (RIGHT) The Osborne Sound Laboratories looked much like the production version, but had rosewood edges on its headstock, a wider fingerboard (with binding), and chrome Ibanez humbuckers.

Bakersfield

In September of 1967, Scaffidi got a call from Phil Brenner, a musician acquaintance who was working for the Mosrite Guitar Company. Brenner thought that Scaffidi’s personality and knowledge of music would make him a good sales rep. So, after a trip to Bakersfield to get acquainted with the Moseley brothers, Scaffidi took the job. Glen Campbell, Buck Owens, the Ventures, and a few other major artists were playing Mosrites and Scaffidi thought the opportunity might be what he was looking for. Plus, both Scaffidi and Osborne believed they could rejuvenate their playing careers on the West Coast, and they joined the Professional Musicians Local 47 union in Los Angeles, though the Moseleys preferred Scaffidi live closer to the factory. Consequently, the Scaffidi family reluctantly settled in Bakersfield.

“Mosrite had a lot of internal management problems and it became apparent the company wasn’t functioning as well as dad had been led to believe,” Ralph, Jr. said. At the 1968 summer NAMM show in Chicago, Scaffidi indeed saw trouble developing and stayed on only until early October. His assessment was astute. In ’69, Mosrite filed for bankruptcy.

Rosac Electronics

Scaffidi did, however, glean an idea from the Mosrite electronics division. Eddie Sanner, Mosrite’s electronics engineer, wanted to develop a better fuzz box, but the company wouldn’t go for it. So Scaffidi found investors Morris Rosenberg and Ben Sacco to fund a new company, Rosac Electronics. Scaffidi and Sanner developed the Nu-Fuzz, and it did well. But their best product was the Nu-Wah, a cast-aluminum pedal with sturdy steel gears. It was the Nu-Wah that created the famous guitar sound on Isaac Hayes’ recording, “Shaft.”

The company also made amplifiers and PA gear, but market competition was fierce, and Rosac simply couldn’t hang on; it closed in the mid ’70s. According to Ralph, Jr. his parents then founded the Osborne Guitar Company with the intent of building solidbody electric guitars and basses. “They hired guitar builders with many years in the industry,” he said. “And Mom was involved with the design of the neck and the fingerboard, as well as the overall balance and feel of the instruments.” Unfortunately, much like Mosrite, they had trouble cracking the market, in part due to Fender’s domination at the time.

The Mary Osborne Trio in August ’91, playing its final New York City appearance, at the Village Vanguard club, joined for a night by her sons, Peter Scaffidi (bass) and Ralph Scaffidi, Jr. (drums). For most of that week’s gig, Osborne was accompanied by Dennis Irwin (bass) and Charlie Persip (drums).

Undeterred, Scaffidi looked to use his years of experience selling musical instruments, as well as building and marketing amplifiers and PA systems. So the company became Osborne Sound Laboratories, and focused on electronics. Scaffidi purchased a huge lot of Phillips and Eminence speakers to use in their newly designed Osborne amps. Mary personally tested each.
“Their plan, though, was to eventually refocus on guitars,” said Ralph, Jr., and they did indeed, try.

“Dad hired Kerry Savie, who’d been with Rickenbacker, to design a solidbody guitar,” added Pete. “It looked similar to a Les Paul Junior and sounded great. And electronically, it still holds up. I have one.”
Ultimately, though, the venture wasn’t to be, and Osborne Sound ceased operations in 1980.

Coda

All the while the couple lived in Bakersfield, Osborne was gigging locally, teaching, and creating a career for herself. She landed a position on the faculty of Cal State Bakersfield, developed a close relationship with the local symphony, taught guitar at a school for blind children, and became a very visible and integral part of the city’s music scene.

In 1977, she was asked by friend/jazz great Marian McPartland to a make a live album for McPartland’s Halcyon label. The performance, released as Now’s The Time, was also filmed for public television in Rochester, New York. Just Jazz Guitar writer Cort talked to McPartland, who called Osborne “…very gifted” and said, “It’s a shame we didn’t hear more from her.” In ’78, Osborne was invited to the first Women’s Jazz Festival in Kansas City. On the bill was her’s old friend, pianist Mary Lou Williams, and McPartland. In 1981, after Williams had passed away, Osborne, McPartland, Dizzy Gillespie, and Clark Terry played during a tribute to her at Carnegie Hall.

But another decade passed before Osborne joined Lionel Hampton onstage at the 1990 Playboy Jazz Festival, held at the Hollywood Bowl. And later that year, she played her last major concert at the Los Angeles Classic Jazz Festival. Her final public performance was at New York’s Village Vanguard in August of ’91. Afterward, Osborne was quoted in the New York Times saying, “I thought, ‘Gee, it would be great to get to New York.’ It was fun just thinking about it. Just in our little world of music, New York seems the same to me… There are a lot of jazz clubs where the musicians are still appearing, and you see the same names…”

Reviews of the Village Vanguard show were excellent, and on closing night she got to play a set with her sons, Pete and Ralph, Jr.

At the time, few knew Osborne was suffering from liver disease, a consequence of leukemia, which had been diagnosed years earlier.

“It was a type of cancer that progressed slowly, and she just maintained,” said Pete. After her death in March of the following year, a scholarship was established in her name at U.C. Bakersfield. And shortly after that, Mary Osborne: A Memorial was released on Stash Records.

Osborne’s legacy comprises more than her body of work. Her memory serves as a monument of artistic and personal integrity. Her tenacity and talent manifested into an unusually high degree of artistic development. And she exuded the dignity and courage of one who refused to abide sexism and racism in an era when such attitudes were all too common. She was a cultural and musical pioneer who will forever remain in the pantheon of our greatest jazz artists.

This article originally appeared in VG February 2011 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.

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Billy Bauer’s career was so steeped in tradition that he is often thought of as one of the first jazz guitarists. And while that’s true, his pioneering, progressive attitude and contribution to the artform endured for decades. His big-band time with Woody Herman’s First Herd was a precursor to his association with jazz visionary Lennie Tristano. He was in-demand for recording with the greatest jazz artists of his era, including Benny Goodman, Lester Young, and Charlie Parker. And he held a prestigious and coveted staff guitarist gig at NBC in New York.

Though he emerged during the bebop era, Bauer quickly became prominent in the “cool” movement of the ’50s. Later, as one of the architects of modern jazz and the avant-garde, he helped liberate jazz from the servitude of its prosaic ii-v-i chord structure. Many jazz aficionados place his importance within the evolutionary lineage of Django Reinhardt, Charlie Christian, Tal Farlow, Jim Hall, Larry Coryell, and Wes Montgomery. In 1992, on his weekly radio show, “Jazz Profiles,” Grammy-winning producer and jazz archivist Phil Schapp said, “Billy Bauer was both a participant and earwitness to the history of jazz.”

Bauer was born in 1915 in the Bronx. “My father was a song-and-dance man,” he said in a 2004 interview [with VG contributor Jim Carlton] for classicjazzguitar.com. “He used to bill himself as ‘Harry Nelson: He Says He Sings’ and he’d play amateur nights.”

And while his father’s profession may have played a role in Bauer’s means of making a living, fate and pop culture were greater factors.

“When I was nine years old, I broke my leg, so all summer I was in a cast up to my knee,” he said. “My dad got me a ukulele and I learned to play. The comic strip and movie character Harold Teen was big then, and Ukulele Ike (real name, Cliff Edwards), the guy who became the voice of Jiminy Cricket, was really big back then, too. So I learned ‘Five Foot Two’ and all those songs.

“The banjo player Harry Reeser was also a big star at the time. So Dad got me a tenor banjo when I was 12. He was always pushing me, and by the time I was 14, he got me a 15-minute radio show for several weeks. Many years later, in the ’50s, ‘The Jackie Gleason Show’ asked me to come on and play banjo for some production number with 15 other banjo players. I stood right next to Harry Reeser! Later, I found out he recommended me for a Paul Newman film, The Hustler, in which I was onscreen all of eight seconds!”

At 15, Bauer quit school and started gigging in the Borsht Belt of upper New York state before being hired to play the banjo in Far Rockaway (Queens), at the Palm Inn. “I worked in a speakeasy owned by the mobster Waxy Gordon. Sometimes we’d just drink and yap it up, but then they’d pull a job and we’d play for three days straight. They paid me $16 a week, which was great money! But I didn’t even think about that. But I had a girlfriend, and that’s where the money went.”

While Bauer held the gig at Far Rockaway, prohibition was repealed. So, he was sent to play in Broad Channel, still playing only banjo. It was the first in a series of gigs that served as catalysts for the creation of the musicians union.

“Anyway, the girl followed me to Broad Channel. I was just 15 and she was 21, but she used to go with a detective who she was going to marry. One night, we were playing and there was a big ruckus at the bar – the detective came in with his gun and was going to shoot me. But they pinned him down and took it.”

After that incident, Bauer moved to another gig at the Pelham Heath Inn, in the Bronx, where he began to make the transition to guitar. “It had a floor show with a seven-piece band, and you couldn’t hear a guitar. We had no mics or amplifiers, so I got a Dobro with a metal resonator and I learned a couple of chords and kept it next to me – pick it up and strum. But most of the job was banjo.

“When that job finished, I went to the Nash Tavern. We had piano, drums, saxophone, banjo and guitar. By this time, I’d gotten an electric guitar – [Rickenbacker] with a plastic neck, or Bakelite maybe. It looked like a frying pan with a little round thing on the end that looked like a banjo. I think it had a solid body. There was a little amp with it.”

Bauer kept the gig at Nash Tavern for a couple of years, and for a time he worked with Harry Raab, who was breaking in an act called Harry the Hipster – a charismatic, entertaining barrelhouse piano player many consider an antecedent of R&B and rock and roll.

“Harry and I moved to the Naughty Naught Cafe on East 55th in New York and became The Domino Twins, [billed as] ‘White Boys With Black Rhythm.’” Soon, Bauer’s reputation as a player secured him gigs at the Essex House and, later, Goldies on 52nd Street, where he scored his first review in Downbeat magazine. “Most of the guys in the dance field I knew who were playing swing went toward Django,” he recalled. “But I took the Charlie Christian route. I had heard him with Benny Goodman, and Benny was tops.”

In 1939-’40, he joined clarinetist Jerry Wald’s big band, where his role was to play rhythm guitar. For the gig, he purchased an Epiphone DeLuxe, but it wasn’t around for long. “It got crushed by the band bus,” he said. “It didn’t break, but it had a crack in the top. I took it to Eddie Bell, who had a music store on 6th Avenue. He got it fixed and asked if I’d like to sell it for $200.’ At that time, Guild wanted me to advertise for them, and Gretsch gave me a cherry-colored guitar, too. So I sold the Epiphone and used a Guild for a little while before I went to John D’Angelico’s shop to order a guitar. A couple of months later, he called and said, ‘Come down about six o’clock.’ When I got there, he locked the door, opened a bottle of wine, and said, ‘Play my guitar for me.’ I played some and he said, ‘Okay, you can have the guitar….” Not for nothing, but he meant he’d sell me the guitar!

“Years later, I was doing a gig with Barry Galbraith, helping him on a session, and the guitar fell over. The neck broke; I felt like I’d broken my arm. So I took it back and asked John for a zero fret. Boy, I had to argue for that! Another thing I had to argue for was for him to take a little off the headstock, because the guitar wouldn’t fit in my gig bag.”

Woody’s First Herd

In 1944, Bauer joined Woody Herman’s First Herd, billed as “The Band That Plays The Blues.” Herman was signed with Columbia Records and was making the transition from swing to what was called progressive jazz.

In 1945, the band had a major hit with “Caledonia” and recorded Igor Stravinsky’s “Ebony Concerto,” conducted by Stravinsky himself. A year later, the Herd walked away with the Metronome, Downbeat and Esquire awards for the best band. In addition to Bauer, many of the First Herd’s alumni went on to become major figures in jazz. Dizzy Gillespie, who often wrote arrangements, was succeeded by Ralph Burns and Neal Hefti. And drummer Davy Tough, saxophonist Flip Phillips, and trumpeter Pete Candoli all became major jazz stars. When Bauer left, he was replaced by the great Chuck Wayne.

The Lennie Tristano Years

In the fall of 1946, Bauer joined Lennie Tristano’s small group. Phil Schapp pointed out the key transition in Billy’s career – leaving Woody Herman, who had the most popular band in the world, and going with a relatively unknown trio. Tristano, a piano player, was an innovator and pioneer of the “cool” jazz movement, and the avant-garde. Schapp called Tristano, “One of the more striking individuals that music has ever presented.” Bauer was an integral and influential part of Tristano’s creations, which were noted for their complex grasp of harmony. “Even though it was complicated, I just felt at ease with it,” said Billy. “For the first couple of weeks I didn’t know what I was doing, but it didn’t matter.”

Schapp calls Bauer’s association with Tristano “a very important dimension of music,” and says Tristano obviously saw something special in Bauer and his musical vision. “His ability to create improvised passages on solo guitar show him to be one of the pioneers of the instrument, and its uses in jazz. He was part of a breakthrough in jazz and Tristano, who had devastating technique, a keen ear and a great mind, would rely on him in so many different ways. That automatically shows you that there’s something major within Billy Bauer.”

Tristano’s awareness was endorsed by having written an arrangement for the Woody Herman band that showcased Bauer. “It actually had ‘Billy’ written on the piece. I was looking though my old music and there it was with my name on it. There are a couple of lines that say, ‘read as written,’ then ‘ad lib on these changes,’ and back to ‘read as written.’”

In a 1972 interview in Guitar Player, Bauer said, “We’d put six men together and [Tristano would] say, ‘Here’s the start,’ and we’d keep playing. He called it ‘collision-type’ playing. No tempo, no key, no nothing.”

It was from this experimental playing that Bauer is often credited with developing the concept of comping on guitar. Strict 4/4 time was obviously not hip under such circumstances, so Bauer learned to fit in with chords and riffs when it felt right. “When I got with Lennie, there wasn’t much choice,” he said. “I figured if there was a hole I’d throw in something. So I guess I just listened. Lennie’s instructions were ‘Don’t play the melody. You can indicate it and that’s it. And don’t play rhythm,’ so that’s what became comping. Tristano’s avant garde and complex harmonies were so progressive that his record company didn’t release the group’s 1949 recording of “Intuition” for 10 years.

“Lennie had so much music education and I had none formally,” Bauer once told Schapp. “So, he kept asking me to study with him. And I did go over there two, maybe three times. He’d say, ‘Next week, know all your scales.’ I’d say, ‘I know my scales. I may not know them the way you mean, but c’mon.’ I’d been playing with him for a year and I know how fast he was and how he’d play one scale against another. Some nights, I’d play something and he’d play it in another key with me in harmony. But he kept after me saying, ‘You’ve got a great record inside you.’ Some people thought he played in too intellectual a way, but he really knew what he was doing.”

Jazz pianist and composer Dick Hyman was immersed in the era’s 52nd Street jazz scene and was a music director/conductor at NBC when Bauer joined him. Perhaps most famous for scoring the Woody Allen films Sweet and Lowdown, Stardust Memories, The Purple Rose of Cairo, Hannah and Her Sisters, among others, Hyman avoided Tristano’s tutelage at the time. “While it was a free type of jazz, Tristano still imposed a number of rules,” he said. However, in retrospect, as recent as last year, Hyman revisited Tristano’s compositions and methodology and found it “quite valid, legitimate, and fascinating.”

“A few years later, Ornette Coleman would edge toward an emancipation from much of the music’s rule book, but pianist Lennie Tristano and his small circle dove deeper into the rule book, working obsessively with a small group of standard tunes until they could take them in any direction,” added jazz critic Paul Wells.

“Bauer found a way to divert from Christian’s methodology, and leaving a very new tradition in order to do it,” added jazz guitarist and musicologist Skip Heller. “He becomes this hidden giant. And it’s very easy to forget how profound the influence of those Lennie Tristano records were.”

By 1949, Bauer’s visibility and prominence was rewarded. During this era, he was always among the usual suspects chosen for the yearly all-star selections from Metronome and Downbeat magazines. He won the Metronome Best Jazz Guitarist honors five consecutive years from (’49-’53) and the same award for Downbeat in ’49 and ’50.

His recordings from that time with saxophonist Lee Konitz, another Tristano disciple, showed off Bauer’s ability to complement virtually any other musician.

Critics were uniform in their praise for Bauer’s playing being integral in that small-group sound. Norman Mongan, in his book, The History of the Guitar in Jazz, wrote, “Bauer developed a highly original guitar style with solos moving across, rather than with, the chord sequences. He brought the guitar into the world of the ‘cool’ with its glacial ambience, where it remained for most of the 1950s.”

Perhaps the most famous jazz club ever, Birdland, opened December 15, 1949, and Bauer was there along with a stellar lineup of jazz all-stars. “I opened Birdland, which was named after Charlie Parker. They’d have five bands including Charlie’s group, Art Tatum, Bud Powell, and Lennie Tristano. So I was hearing all these great players every night. And we’d all get together as Charlie would come up and jam with us.” Among those jazz luminaries were Dick Hyman, Lester Young, Stan Getz, Roy Haynes, and curiously billed as “the great young vocalist,” Harry Belafonte. “Harry was a very hip jazz singer long before he became a big folk music star,” said Dick Hyman.

Billy and Bird

Issuing “all-star” recordings with so many great artists of the day was lucrative for record labels and certainly of historic importance. Once, when Bauer was riding home from one of those dates with baritone saxophonist Serge Chaloff, Chaloff said, “Billy, do you realize we were just playing with the best musicians in the whole country? You don’t seem too happy about it.” Bauer said, “You know what would make me happy? If Charlie Parker called and said, ‘Billy, do you want to do a record date with me?’

“One day, I picked up the phone and heard, ‘B.B.?’; that’s what he called me. He asked, ‘Are you working Thursday? I got a record date.’ (The Charlie Parker Quintet, on Verve, 1954). I got there early; all the lights were dim and there were no engineers. I took out my guitar and was going over the tune – I think it was ‘Love For Sale,’ because I wanted to get familiar with what I was gonna do. So I’m playing, and in walks Charlie. I said, ‘How does it sound?’ He says, ‘B.B., It sounds like music.’ We had no charts, but he’d say, ‘Okay, you guys do this, and he’d sing a riff – no rehearsal, no nothing. That’s how a lot of dates were in those days.”

The Studio Years

While Bauer was at Birdland, Johnny Smith, who was on staff at NBC, came in with pianist Sanford Gold, “Probably to see Lennie,” said Bauer. But Smith, who is now 90 years old, is emphatic about Bauer’s playing. “Billy was one of my very favorite players,” he said. “He was a superb jazz guitarist and I always loved hearing him. I did what I could to help Billy get a job at NBC.”

After the Birdland gig folded, Bauer ran into Gold at the local musician hangout, Jim and Andy’s, on 49th St. There, Gold mentioned that Johnny had just given NBC his notice. Tired of life on the road and with a wife and two kids to support, a “studio job” had appeal.

“Sanford told me to see this guy, Dr. Shields, who ran the music department at NBC,” said Bauer. “Well, I introduced myself to the secretary and found out that Johnny had told this Dr. Shields all about me. Shields said, ‘Come around and play next week.’ So I did the routine wherever they needed a guitar player. We backed Connie Francis and even (comedians) Bob and Ray. Then, on Friday, I rehearsed with the big band on ‘The Big Show,’ which starred Talulah Bankhead. Then I saw Shields, and he told me I had the job. He said, ‘You know who did it? Meredith Wilson. He came down after the show and told me you were the best rhythm guitarist he’d ever heard.’”

Bauer stayed at NBC for eight years and also worked staff gigs for CBS, in the incipient days of television broadcasting. He was a regular on “The Today Show,” “The Tonight Show,” and what, in retrospect, staff players facetiously refer to as “the days of silent television.” During that time, he honed his reading skills and, like so many staff players, worked hundreds of record dates.

“I was busy all the time with a lot of recordings then,” he recalled. “You’d get called to a date and you were in the band with whoever was there. Sometimes, I’d have five dates a week, often with big names.”

Appearing on TV frequently meant Bauer had to wear a toupee, which humored Johnny Smith and Bucky Pizzarelli. “When Billy got a toupee, his personality just lit up. Sometimes, he’d hang his rug on the hat rack at Jim and Andy’s,” said Smith.

“Once, after not seeing Billy for a while, I hugged him so hard that it came right off his head,” added Pizzarelli. “We just laughed. He had such a great attitude about it.”

Later in his career, while gigging with Benny Goodman, Bauer experienced a common event among Goodman’s musicians; Goodman was notorious for being a moody and often-difficult leader, and for giving his sidemen “the ray” – a glowering look at anyone with whom he was displeased. Asked if he’d ever gotten on Goodman’s bad side, he said, “One time, he came up and put his hand on my shoulder kind of heavy, not hitting me, but I could really feel his weight. I told him, ‘Watch out, or I’ll flip my wig (laughs)!’ After that, he never bothered me.”

In 1950, Bauer began a stint teaching at the prestigious New York Conservatory. It lasted nearly four years, and though the conservatory and studio gigs were steady and lucrative, he still needed a jazz fix, so he continued recording with Tristano alumni tenor sax man Warne Marsh and alto player Lee Konitz. His 1951 recordings (with Konitz) of “Indian Summer” and “Duet for Saxophone and Guitar” were landmark records. In The Jazz Book, Joachim Berendt writes, “Konitz’s playing was a perfect match for Bauer’s guitar. The two musicians’ dialogue crossed styles from bop and cool to the avant-garde. The pairing redefined the role of jazz guitar.” And that’s true; Bauer’s comping complemented Konitz’s inventive improvising with rhythmic, melodic, and engaging counterpoint chord lines. “Konitz finally got what he needed from Tristano and had found his own voice,” Bauer said. “He really became himself.”

The Plectrist

In 1956, Bauer finally recorded his own album as a leader, The Plectrist. With it, he expressed himself in a new role. Critic David Adler’s review of its re-release explains that: “Billy, too, had moved away from Tristano’s influence and was playing more in the mode of such peers as Jimmy Raney.” Now a leader, Bauer could solo, express himself, and manifest what had lain too dormant. All About Jazz’s Andrew Hovan writes that “[The Plectrist] demands the attention of anyone even remotely interested in jazz guitar.”

Heller, who also writes for All About Jazz, posits, “Of course, Charlie Christian was as profound as any player, ever, and would have been profound during any given era. But certain players challenged the notion that jazz had to swing in the traditional quarter-note sense the way Basie did. The language had to be an immediately traceable by-product of the American Songbook. And one of the first places we hear a departure, not entirely, but a viable pass at it was with those Tristano recordings. And interestingly enough, there are two chord instruments in the group – guitar and piano.”

Perhaps the only two trios of the era with that instrumentation were the very popular King Cole Trio with Oscar Moore on guitar and Art Tatum’s group with Tiny Grimes on guitar.

“Lennie told me that he studied Tatum extensively and could play everything Tatum did,” Bauer said. “You didn’t hear it much in his playing because he’d take every phrase and interpret it a different way, so he wouldn’t be copying. ” Heller added. “Bauer’s tone was a bit leaner than Christian’s and we hear that spidery tone again with Jim Hall and then Larry Coryell. He was a precursor to such players as Coryell (with his breakthrough work on Duster with Gary Burton), Bill Frisell, Kurt Rosenwinkel, and even John Scofield. You can really trace the roots of all of them back to Bauer.”

Bauer, primarily known as a rhythm player, wasn’t held to the straight-ahead 4/4 structure as much as Freddie Green, who was in essence the engine for Basie’s band. But he was nevertheless happy with sideman was a role – he even titled his autobiography Sideman, an overview of a career that has too long been overlooked. But anyone who was lucky enough to study with Bauer, such as Joe Satriani, knew his prevailing philosophy was, “I teach you to be you.”

“A lot of people copy, and they copy exact,” he said. “Another guy listens, to say, Lester or Charlie Parker, but he doesn’t play like them. Charlie listened to Lester, but he didn’t play like him. What’s the use of copying a lick? You can hear that. Some guys just seem to flow. I heard Gene Bertoncini and Mundell Lowe; everything they play you don’t think you’ve heard before. It isn’t just a run. There’s a phrase to it.”

Bauer died in June of 2005, and Schapp’s 1992 tribute radio show provides a fitting epitaph. Schapp said to him, “When Neal Hefti put his arms around you and said, ‘You’re the guy,’ he had it right.”

This article originally appeared in VG June 2013 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.