By this time, Al had been playing tenor virtually full-time for five years and had reached a level surpassing even the remarkable work he did in the 1950s. In person and on recordings, he was formidable. Consider the examples of his Xanadu recordings for Don Schlitten in the second half of the ‘70s. Heavy Love, the 1977 duo album with Jimmy Rowles, is a perfect album, a masterpiece. From the Texas Monthly article about the Midland party: “He has never played with more intensity, conviction, or lyricism. It seemed to me in Midland that, chorus for chorus, Cohn was examining the innermost possibilities of the music with more consistent profundity than any other player. A lingering image is Cohn looking over Terry Gibbs’ shoulder during the vibraharpist’s brilliant solo on ‘After You’ve Gone,’ studying the keyboard as intently as a Talmudic scholar searching for revelations, then launching into his own solo as if he’d
found them.” I left Texas for New Orleans, San Francisco and Los Angeles – a typical gypsy itinerary for a television news director. Over the next decade, I seldom saw Al. During the holidays toward the end of 1987, Lou Levy called to report that he was going to do a couple of nights with Al at The Money Tree, a small club in Toluca Lake, not far from Universal Studios. He said that Monty Budwig would be on bass, with a drummer to be named. I had been listening to Al’s Concord album Nonpareil, another perfect LP, the one with the definitive version of the tune Johnny Mandel named for Al, “El Cajon.” It had Levy, Budwig, and Jake Hanna on drums. Maybe Jake would be on this gig. My wife and I arrived early in hopes of getting a good seat. That turned out not to be a problem; attendance was light. The drummer wasn’t a problem, either; far from it. He was Nick Martinis, as withdrawn as Hanna
Doug Ramsey
Al Cohn with Al Porcino’s Band of the Century, Roosevelt Hotel, New York City, c. 1973.
was outgoing, but one of L.A.’s most reliable timekeepers. Al blew us away, almost literally. Since the last time I had heard him, his tone had taken on depth, body, and darkness. He was swinging with ferocity and a flow of invention that was at once relaxed and passionate. He seemed compelled to play as intensely as possible on each tune. Levy, Budwig and Martinis responded to the energy. Al had been Lou’s hero since their days on Woody Herman’s Second Herd. As he comped, he was fixated on what Cohn was creating. Lou played a beautiful gig. It was one of four or five evenings of music that remain on call, preserved in my memory. During breaks, Al sat with us. Lou joined us from time to time. We chatted about this and that, swapping stories, remembering Zoot, laughing a lot. Less than three months later, Al was gone. I am grateful for that evening at The Money Tree and thankful that I knew him.
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Fall 2008 • The NOTE
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