Phil Woods died today, at 83. I wrote the NY Times obit in a hurry, hopefully doing him some measure of justice.
My relationship with Woods’ music began with the fine 1981 album Birds of a Feather, which I kept in fairly heavy rotation during my high school years. I saw him a handful of times in New York City, either on his own steam or as a featured soloist on one of Bill Charlap’s concerts at the 92nd Street Y. I reviewed him in 2009, leading what had become his go-to band.
I also had my only conversation with Woods that year, in search of insights about Thelonious Monk’s historic Town Hall concert in 1959. This was for an Arts & Leisure story about the Jazz Loft, W. Eugene Smith’s spot in the flower district of Manhattan, where Monk and the arranger Hall Overton rehearsed the material for the concert. Though we spoke only briefly, Woods was a great interview; looking back over the transcript this afternoon, I was struck by how vividly his character comes across on the page. So here is that transcript in full, offered in fond tribute to Phil.
It’s been fascinating to revisit Monk’s Town Hall concert, and consider how it came together. What do you recall of the experience?
You should have been at those rehearsals. I went to Juilliard, that’s where I met Hall Overton. So we did a couple of projects together before the Monk thing. I just loved the challenge. It was hard as hell. Especially in the beginning, because Monk was rehearsing. Hall was just sitting there. We’d hit the notorious Letter F, where the Monk solo starts, and it sounded like a fire in a pet shop. Monk said, “No, no, back to the top.” He didn’t mean back to the top of Letter F. It was back to the top, with the solos and everything. He never rehearsed, it was all very (how can I say it) by rote. All the band members would show up to his house and he would show them the tune. It’s the best way, but it doesn’t really work for nine pieces. So Hall finally decides he’s got to take matters into his own hands. “Monk, we could start at Letter F.” Monk kind of sat there for a minute and pondered the reality of that for a second, and then he said: “Bold thinking.” A cryptic moment.
Can you describe the scene at Gene Smith’s loft?
Rehearsals always started at the bar. Monk would say, “OK, let’s get a taste.” They were morning rehearsals. 11 o’clock, noon. We’d go to work. It was thrilling. We knew that this was a momentous occasion. And the night of the concert, there was magic on the bandstand. We knew. Everybody was soloing great, we worked very hard, felt great. We did an encore of “Little Rootie Tootie.” The next day, in the New York Times, John S. Wilson called it “pipe and slipper music.” The tour was canceled on the strength of that New York Times review. It went out on the wire sources and all the promoters balked — on the word on this cretin, who had perfect ears, with no goddamn holes. Talk about missing the boat! That’s happened quite a bit.
Your work on that concert is very strong.
I got lucky that night, I played pretty damn good. That’s one of the few records I listen to myself and say, “OK man, you did something that night.” When you listen to yourself, all you hear are the seams and stitches.
What was your preparation like?
Overton gave me extra copies of all the piano reductions. Ever since I was a kid I would learn a song on the piano before the saxophone. I took Monk’s music home and before I even took my horn out I studied the harmonic structure. A G7th – Monk’s would maybe be just two notes. The overtones may spell out G7th but what are the notes? I always tell my students that the piano gives you all the answers.
Did it make sense to you that Overton was the guy writing the arrangements?
Absolutely, made all the sense in the world. He was a perfect choice. He was a jazz piano player. He was lucid and bright and fun to work with.
What about the rest of the band?
Everybody brought something to the table. Some of the guys might not have had the fastest eyes in the world but they had ears and they could blow. I could sight-read it, some of the guys took a little longer. The orchestra did its thing, that’s what makes it so special. Hall didn’t just orchestrate a bunch of piano solos. He reached down deep and got down the center of what Monk was all about. It was a collaboration on the highest level, and everybody in the band realized we were dealing with some very serious music from some very serious musicians.
And the music has obviously lived on.
I don’t think we even realized how deep it was until the night we were onstage and we took it to an audience. Those moments where everybody’s on the same page on the bandstand, they’re very rare. That’s magic, man. Everybody got struck by the same bolt of lightning. We knew we were onto something of musical importance.
What else can you tell me about the loft, independent of these Monk rehearsals?
Here’s a story. Zoot Sims was in Stan Kenton’s band, and he came back and wanted to have a jam session, so every saxophone player went to the loft. There had to have been 35 saxophonists there. So Gene [Quill] and I went down there, had a few beers, played for six or seven hours, went to the bar, had something to eat, got some sleep, and the next afternoon we could still hear Zoot playing. There was Zoot sitting behind a set of drums, playing a hi-hat, a bass drum and some tenor, and all around him were the bodies of other saxophone players all knocked out. It looked like Genghis Khan had wiped out the hordes. He was the champion. That was a loftian moment.
