From: leclaire@cernvax.cern.ch (bruce leclaire)
Newsgroups: rec.music.bluenote
Subject: Re: blues walk? (Coltrane did the Walk, and other ramblings)
Date: 7 Apr 92 03:20:44 GMT
Organization: CERN

In article <17570267@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM> mjs@hpfcso.FC.HP.COM (Marc Sabatella) writes:
>In rec.music.bluenote, guy@b11.ingr.com (Guy Streeter) writes:
>
>> A friend recently asked me for the definition of the terms "blues
>> walk" and "walking bass", and if they are related. [...]
>
> [...]
>
>As for "blues walk", other than being the name of an album by (Lou Donaldson?),
>I would guess it refers to the practice of R&B tenor saxophonists of "walking
>the bar" - literally getting off the stage and walking along the bar while
>soloing - to excite the crown, and possibly for tips, I would imagine.
>

I don't really think the "blues walk" is referring to the practice of
"walking the bar", but while we're on the subject...

This reminded me of something I read in "Chasin' the Trane", J.C. Thomas'
book on John Coltrane. I can't help but quote some of it for r.m.b
readers. I should apologize for the length, but the passage really
can't be shortened without doing an injustice to the author. Besides,
not only is this a matter of historial interest about Coltrane,
I think it also serves to give you a definite favor of the Thomas' writing
style (it really is illustrative).

From "Chasin' the Trane"
      The Music and Mystique of John Coltrane

      by J.C. Thomas

      A Da Capo Paperback
      233 Spring Street, New York, N.Y. 10013
      Reprint of the 1975 ed. published by Doubleday
      ISBN 0-306-80043-8


From pages 55-57.

   During those rhythm-and-blues days of the 1950's, currently being loinized,
a custom prevailed that was exquisite in its quaintness, congenial in its
straightforwardness, and entertaining in the extreme. Club owners and
bartenders favored it as a proven crowd-pleaser and a sure way to bolster
sagging buisiness. Customers applauded it as the best example of dramatic
vaudville since Fred Allen or the most elegant terpichorean fantasy since
Fred Astaire.
    If the musicians' opinion had been solicited--it wasn't; they were
usually the last to be informed about basic working conditions--they would
have said, "Jive". Or any of several similar four-letter words. But they
were not asked, and this practice became in many cases a prerequisite of
their employment.
   No one knows the exact origin of this custom, but it may have resulted
from a fusion of Lionel Hampton's tenor-saxphonist-playing-while-lying-on-
back and Bill Haley's Comets dancing-like-drunks-while-playing-loud-and-
fast.
   It was called: Walking the Bar.
   It was primarily performed in those clubs with bandstands built behind
the bar, or with sufficient space on top of the bar itself so that the
musicians walking the bar wouldn't step into customers' drinks or onto
their hands. The musicians were required to tramp from one end of the bar
to the other. The more bizarre the body English used, the wilder and
weirder the gesticulations and gyrations they could demonstrate, the more
unmusical and nauseous the sounds they could coax from their horns, the
greater the goon show they could put on for the patrons--that was Walking
the Bar with >style<.
   Pianist Ray Bryant remembers watching John Coltrane walking the bar
in such Philadelphia clubs as Cafe Society, Joe Pitt's Musical Bar, and
the Zanzibar. Bill Barron recalls Coltrane once asking him during
intermission at a club where both were playing "What do I have to do
please people?" when the club owner, standing nearby, said, "Honk more
than you play, you're not honking enough".
   John Coltrane walked the bar.
   To him, as to any other sensitive and creative musician, it was like
walking the plank, and the sharks were the club owners, their teeth
chomping down on the musicians' dignity and the customers' pocketbooks
with one sharp slash.
   Take the Snake Bar, for example; a joint located at Columbia and
Ridge, no better and no worse than its predecessors and/or competitors.
Like its namesake, the bar coiled along the length of the place itself,
expanding here, contracting there.
   There Coltrane is, dressed in suit and tie, his tenor saxophone
strapped to his neck and positioned between his fingers. He walks slowly,
almost shuffling, weaving his horn from side to side, bending, almost
crouching, then coming up again as if for air, the smoke thick, the
whiskey aroma filtering into his lungs and fueling the tenor sax.
   He blows into the horn; a series of upper-register squawks spill out.
Honking and squeling, walking and shaking; it goes on and on. Walking
the Bar.
   Walking in the door one night came Benny Golson and a few friends; not
to gawk at John Coltrane but simply to hear how was sounding. Just friends,
dropping by to catch a few sets by a fellow musician and to say hello.
   They arrived just as John was going into a right-angle crouch, his
head almost between his legs, his horn sputtering ot a flattened,
frustrated note of near-defeat.
   Benny said, "Oh >no<!".
   John said nothing.
   But he saw Benny, and the next note died in his diaphragm.
   As if rehearsed, or simply an intuitive, visceral reaction, John quickly
stood erect, placed the saxophone's neck over his shoulder, and walked
the bar again.
   Walked to the end of the bar, the end closest to the door.
   Walked right off the bar--some say he jumped--and right out the door.


From Pages 66-67.

   John and I worked a date in Cleveland in 1954 backing Big Maybelle.
   The club owner wanted John to walk the bar, but John just looked
   down and patted his stomach, saying, "Sorry, I've got ulcers." We
   cracked up and the club owner got hostile, until our guitarist,
   Junior Walker, offered to walk the bar because he had an extra long
   chord from his guitar to the amp. He did it while John played some
   wailing blues behind Big Maybelle. She was so pleased she told the
   audience, "John Coltrane is my favorite musician, and you'd better
   believe it, because that's the truth!"
						    Steve Davis



------

Warning: Some personal, slightly philosophical, rambling follows.


  I have a couple thoughts about the above. First of all, I think that
Coltrane was a master at playing the blues. His blues are penetrating
and rich in emotion, just consider the statement that the first few bars
of "Blue Trane" makes. Of course Coltrane's solos and harmonies are the
subject of great study by many, many jazz musicians (and others). But
he often was able to construct very powerful blues statements from
very simple riffs. That he could do so, I believe, is partially due
to his days as an R&B player. Of course this is just speculation on
my part, but I really think that part of the reason Coltrane could
play the blues so well was because he played in the R&B joints in
Philly. I also think Parker absorbed the riff-oriented blues culture
of KC and adapted it to his wonderful blues style.

  I also think that Thomas is being a bit of a purist about the entertainment
side of music. Certainly, some musicians (many) are forced to compromise
their preferences in order to please the crowd. This could be as simple
as playing someone's request, or it could be doing some "pyrotechnics"--
such as walking the bar, or burning one's guitar at the end of the gig.
In my book, nothing is really wrong with this, within limits. Especially
if the musician has some showman in them. I can't help but think of Hendrix,
who really was an amazing showman. Just watch any of his live performances.
Doesn't detract one bit from the music; if anything, it's an intimate part
of his music (e.g. sliding the guitar across the mike stand, or humping
it into a stack of Marshalls). And I love to watch the emotions of a
player in the middle of their solo, as well as the skill which they work
their instuments. Take Monk; Miles said you could always tell when he
was into the music by watching his feet. After watching "Straight, No
Chaser", I realized how right that was. And what was his dancing all
about? I loved it though, because it was Monk, and it was sincere. That's
really the keyword for me, if the performer is up there, and doing
something that's a part of them, then so much the better (although, I
may not necessary like it in particular). Even when not playing, I
often enjoy the presence of the musician on the stand. Take Barney Wilen,
who I caught in Paris. When he sitting out he really sits out; he sits
down on a little stool, closes his eyes and lets the other's music flow
though him. When he gets up to take his solo he has a store of extra
energy which pores out of his horn, truly. Everyone has their style,
Coltrane's wasn't walking the bar apparently, someother cat's might.

This is part of how it should be, because jazz is a living music.
This is something I always missed in big bands or orchestras, the
feel of the individuals that are making the music. Besides, I
like to have a beer or a whiskey when I listen to music (or play).
Of course, jazz doesn't necessarily have to be in a smoke filled bar;
check out the Douglas Beach House some Sunday afternoon in Miramar,
Calif., just south of Half Moon Bay. (Despite the fact that I think
that somehow the night lends something magical to the creation of music,
jazz on a Sunday afternoon can be quite good).

Well, I guess I rambled on for a million miles. I warned you at least.

--Bruce