Talking Jazz: Ingrid Jensen

Jersey Jazz Interview with Ingrid Jensen By Schaen Fox

Trumpeter Ingrid Jensen is part of Artemis, an all female septet founded in 2018 by pianist Renee Rosnes. The group played at the Newport Jazz Festival in 2018, drawing raves from Rolling Stone Magazine, which described its set as playing “like an expertly crafted mixtape, moving from a knotty version of Thelonius Monk’s ‘Brilliant Corners’ to a surprisingly dramatic arrangement of the Beatles’ ‘Fool on the Hill’.”

In November 2019, Artemis signed with Blue Note Records for an album to be released in 2020 and on December 7 performed at Carnegie Hall. The other five members of the band are: tenor saxophonist Melissa Aldana, clarinetist Anat Cohen, drummer Allison Miller, vocalist Cecile McLorin Salvant, and bassist Noriko Ueda.

JJ: Who came up with the name, Artemis?

IJ: I did. My husband and I found it. We were looking for Greek goddesses and powerful women. (The Greek Goddess Artemis was regarded as a patron of girls and young women). JJ: What were some of the highlights of 2019:

IJ: Well, recording for Blue Note with Artemis was super exciting. I closed out the year by playing Carnegie Hall with Artemis. That was a beautiful gig: full house and two standing ovations.

JJ: Is there anything you wish to talk about? IJ: I found a video of me playing with Lionel Hampton and Clark Terry from back in 1993 on YouTube. It’s called “Lionel Hampton and the Golden Men of Jazz – Hey Baba Re-bop.” It’s a big piece of my history and a fun point to start from. Clark Terry was a darling to me. Since he heard me play, I was in his entourage of young people that he mentored. It was a membership I had for life. No matter where he was or I was, when we met each other it was like no time had passed. It was all about playing some music, having some

laughs and positive vibes together. He was truly the essence of positive energy and inspiration.

I met him in 1991 when I was living in the city. I had been living in Copenhagen before that, and Ernie Wilkins and I became dear friends. I would hang out with him every day and played in his big band. Ernie was one of Clark’s best friends from when they were in the Basie band together. They were really like brothers so much so that Ernie’s adopted daughter Charlotte was Clark’s god-daughter.

I stayed in Copenhagen for three or four months. I had family there so I was able to live for free and practice eight hours a day. When I went back to New York, Charlotte was living there. She brought me into the Vanguard one night and introduced me to Clark. He said, “Oh, Ernie told me about you.” Charlotte said, “Yep and he said you have to let her sit-in.” He said, “Okay.” It was his 60 th birthday, a big night. I didn’t have my trumpet, but I was living across town. At the break, I jumped in a cab, went home, got my trumpet came running back and sat in with Clark Terry.

That Hampton video was about a year and a half later when I had moved to Austria. I was offered a teaching job I couldn’t turn down. It was for a lot of money and I wasn’t making any money in New York at the time. We used to write each other letters and Clark said, “I’m going to be in Munich, come sit in with the band.” That was a live TV show and the producers were like, “What? What is this person doing? Who is this girl?” If you notice, there is no mention of my name in the credits. I’m the mystery girl who gets up at the end of the concert and blows a couple choruses of the blues. [Chuckles] JJ: I assumed you were in the band’s trumpet section sitting in the dark. IJ: No. I came by train from Vienna where I was living. I was hanging backstage dying of nervousness, and they brought me out for the last tune as a surprise. You can actually hear the audience going, “What?” They were half excited and half shocked. What is this person?

The manager of that band, Aleksander Zivkovic, is a great guy who was a real catalyst to my career. He lives in France and insisted on getting me a record deal. He got me a great deal with Enja records. He fought me on one issue: letting the record companies know that I am female. I said, ‘I don’t want them to know, because that will sway the way that they listen. They will listen differently.’ He didn’t. He sent the tape to Blue Note and several different big labels of the time saying, “Here is the new trumpet player I’m promoting. What do you think?” None of the labels got back to him except Enja which was the one I wanted to be on. JJ: When did music really come into your life? IJ: In the womb. Our mother was very much into swinging music, jazz and classical music -- Debussy, Chopin, some Mozart. Music was everything around our house. It is what directed our dinner conversation. We had a record player, and everyone had to choose a record. Every night you’d get your turn choosing. It had to be good. If it was too far out, too crazy we had to put something else on. She didn’t like Woody Shaw or the more modern Miles Davis stuff. For the most part, she was very open minded and encouraging us to try Everything was really about the piano, the record player, and radio. We had really great radio. CBC had two jazz stations when I was growing up, and we had stations from the States as well. There was no shortage of amazing sounds coming into the house. She played classical piano and was quite obsessed with jazz when she got to the university. She became friends with all the jazz musicians in town. She got into stride piano hanging out with certain great piano players in Vancouver. Her classical technique made it easier for her, and she had huge hands. So there was that sound in our home, and all of us got into music. We [also] had great band teachers in our area that encouraged us to keep going. JJ: How many sisters do you have? IJ: Two, an older and a younger. The older one played trombone, but doesn’t play much

Artemis, clockwise from top left: Noriko Ueda, Melissa Aldana, Ingrid Jensen, Renee Rosnes, Cecile McLorin Salvant, Anat Cohen, and Allison Miller.

any more. The younger one is Christine, the famous one (Montrealbased saxophonist/composer). JJ: How did your family react to your decision to make music your career? IJ: They said, “Oh my God. This isn’t a good idea. There are no women that can do this. We know because we don’t see them.” It was

a little bit of a drag in a way, but in another way it caused me to keep going to prove them wrong as much as to be happy at the same time. JJ: Was your time at Berklee in Boston your first time in the eastern United States? IJ: Yeah. I went to Seattle a lot for the jazz scene there, but coming east was a big difference. I moved to Boston on a whim and two or three weeks before school started I decided to go to Berklee. I didn’t plan things that well in my life sometimes. I tested out of a bunch of classes and was able to transfer credits from my other college. It saved me a whole year, and I graduated in three years. It was incredible. I met a ton of people who affected my life, some I still play and record with, like (pianist) Maggi Olin, (bassist) Peter Herbert, (bassist) Richie Goods, (drummer) Jim Black, and (vocalist) Lauren Kinhan. I learned a bunch about living in the States, and I was able to get a work visa so I could stay longer. You have to graduate to get the work visa. That was motivation for me. That is why I ended up living in New York and working at the Waldorf-Astoria as an audio-visual technician. I made some money and was able to take lessons with the great Laurie Frink, overall, an epic experience. JJ: Please tell us about your years with Maria Schneider’s band. IJ: It was a long run from 1999 until 2012. I sat in with the band at Visiones. It paid 25 bucks for a Monday night, but it was great. I subbed for Tim Hagans a lot. He is an amazing musician. From then on, Maria and I struck up a very good relationship with a lot of sharing of ideas. I’m on quite a few of her records and did a lot of touring and playing. Then, as many relationships can in life, it changed. I became happier just doing small group stuff. I’d been waiting to play in small groups, and my career seems to be flourishing more than ever since the break. JJ: How did the ban on smoking in clubs affect you? IJ: It made playing a wind instrument a lot easier and allowed me to wear my gig clothes more than once before sending them to the cleaners. JJ: Has anything of importance in your career taken place in New Jersey? IJ: The experience of working with Geri Allen and all those young women at the Geri Allen camp for girls at Rutgers in Newark. Seeing how that changed Geri’s life, changed my life more than anything that’s happened in a long time. Getting these young girls going and watching the community support in that week-long camp of people reminded me of myself when I was that young; but I was without the vast building full of mentors encouraging them to go for it. That camp, I think, is still going on; and it is crucial to whom I am today and to all the young girls that got to do the first two years with Geri. JJ: Would you go into more detail of how the camp changed Geri and you? Did she say anything to you? IJ: Geri was also lifting me up in everything I did, from playing to writing to teaching. There was a concert in DC with the Monk Institute a few years back. It was an all-star cast, and Chris Botti and Herbie Hancock played a duo together on “Embraceable You”. I played a few choruses in a larger jam type format which I appreciated at the time. A few weeks later we were on a gig, and Geri said afterwards, “That should have been you playing duo with Herbie”. It was not a snide remark in any way, it was meant to make me understand my worth as far as my ability to contribute to the music.” Geri was the Sage, the Yoda, and more…

JJ: That was a shock when she died. IJ: A massive one that I can only compare to the loss of my mother in her mid-60s and the loss of the great Michael Brecker, another stellar human who always went out of his way to lift people up, including me. JJ: Do you have any career souvenirs people visiting you can see? IJ: Pictures of me with Dizzy and Dr. Billy Taylor. I have a huge black and white picture of me and Clark Terry looking at each other like we are dating, but we were not. We just loved each other. Most of my souvenirs are pictures of my daughter and her childhood art thus far. It may change every month. JJ: Would you pick just a few of your jazz heroes and say why you find them interesting? IJ: I don’t hang out with Herbie Hancock that much, but when we cross paths at the airports or at festivals, there is always a deep discussion about something that he is passionate about that seems to relate to where I am at. Maggi Olin is similar in this way. Her roots in who she is are very solid, yet she is ever evolving in her life and, thus, an ever expanding musician. I can easily put these two pianists in the same category as interesting and stimulating human beings. Michael Brecker was a similar energy, always listening, always digging and checking everyone out. Humble, yet strong!

I spent a day with Freddie Hubbard. He was amazingly kind and wonderful to me, but he definitely had some demons. He knew I was a serious trumpet player when he met me, and he respected me just the way Clark Terry and those other guys did. Some women say they were womanizers, but to me they were always incredibly respectful, and never hitting on me. It was all about the music. I’m slightly frustrated now, because now all these women have a cause. I’m all for the cause, if it is justified; but if it is to satisfy a need for drama and stemming out of a lack of self-confidence and self-worth, I find it quite frustrating and annoying. Now jazz has its “feminist movement,” and it is very important that it happens, but it is also distorted at this point. JJ: Would you explain how you see it as distorted? IJ: In that video of those guys and me sitting in with Clark Terry and Al Grey in 1993 it isn’t about anything besides the music. When you are around people who are educated and fairly together as humans, it is never an issue. We have a new generation of young people who are very entitled, and also very talented musicians. There is now a new wave of the music taking second place to the issue. As someone who paid her dues and went through the process of earning the respect of all of her elders through her playing, I find this a little odd. It is also a different time. With all the publicity, you can buy a career now, but if you can’t hold water standing next to Freddie Hubbard or Clark Terry, there is a problem. What I’m trying to communicate to some of these younger players, who, as I said earlier are from a generation of instant everything, is that it takes a really long time to get good at this.

What we all strive for in the music business is to show up and let the music soar. Younger players, and maybe some audience members, today, get the impression that it is not so hard to do, but it is not so much about difficulty as it is about having a trunk full of tools that help you communicate with all these other players. And it is a different set of tools depending on who is at the piano. You are listening in a different way to each one.

Cool’s Blues (Columbia: 1995) with Wynton; and Loved Ones (Sony Legacy: 1996) with Brandon.

Joe Cool’s Blues consisted of music composed for the Charlie Brown television specials -- some written by the late Vince Guaraldi, and others written by Wynton. Some tracks featured Wynton’s septet, and others featured Ellis’ trio. The album, wrote Billboard’s Jeff Levenson, “not only showcases the brass man’s compositional talents writing for children, it also features another individual who is clearly responsible for the primacy of the Marsalis name -- father Ellis Marsalis.” The elder Marsalis, Levenson pointed out, was a big fan of Guaraldi.

“Guaraldi was almost courageous,” Ellis Marsalis told Levenson, “because he was given a certain kind of freedom, and he went with it. Jazz was never welcome on network television. He took a jam-session approach, which was far more characteristic of jazz musicians than the typical approach taken by Hollywood composers. Those guys might have used jazz techniques within compositional structures, but Guaraldi featured jazz in its most natural form.”

Loved Ones was called “one of the most appealing CDs of the year,” by Los Angeles Times critic Don Heckman. “Give part of the credit,” he wrote, “to the simplicity and the directness of Ellis Marsalis’ concept: an album dedicated to ‘the romantic effect of ladies upon American songwriters via a compilation of such tunes as ‘Laura’, ‘Stella by Starlight’, ‘Sweet Lorraine’, ‘Lulu’s Back in Town’, etc.” Another of the songs on the album was “Dear Dolores”, written by Ellis Marsalis for his wife.

Ellis Marsalis retired from teaching in 2001, continuing to appear regularly at New Orleans’ Snug Harbor jazz club, often accompanied by one or more of his musical sons. In 201l, the National Endowment for the Arts presented its Jazz Masters award to the Marsalis family.

In addition to Branford, Wynton, Delfeayo, and Jason, Ellis Marsalis is survived by his

Wallace Roney, a Protege of Miles Davis, Dies from COVID-19

When Gerry Mulligan thought about recording a Re-Birth of the Cool album for GRP Records in early 1991, he hoped that Miles Davis would join him for that reunion. Unfortunately, Davis died before the recording could take place. The natural choice to play the trumpet part was Roney, a protege of Davis who had participated with Miles and Quincy Jones at a 1991 Montreux Jazz Festival re-creation of some of the music Davis recorded with the late Gil Evans.

I had been trying to reach Roney for an interview in connection with my book, Jeru’s Journey: The Life and Music of Gerry Mulligan (Hal Leonard Books: 2015), and I had almost given up when my phone rang around 11 p.m. on a Friday night in October 2014. It was Roney, calling from Europe.

“I had been following Miles around and hanging with him since 1983,” Roney told me. “He was my idol since I was a kid.” As for Re-Birth of the Cool, “We got together to rehearse, and it was funny because we played ‘Boplicity’. I didn’t play it the way it was written. I played it the way Miles taught me to phrase it. And Gerry was amazed. He said, ‘How did you know that?’ and I looked up to the sky and said, ‘Thanks’ to Miles. Miles had told me that he loved Gerry.”

Roney died October 31 at St. Joseph’s University Medical Center in Paterson, NJ, a result of complications from COVID-19. He was 59 years old. Born May 25, 1960, in Philadelphia, he started trumpet lessons at As a teenager, Roney was recruited by Art Blakey to play trumpet in the Jazz Messengers, succeeding Terence Blanchard. After that, he played with drummer Tony Williams, a veteran of Davis’ quintet. The New York Times’ Jon Pareles, reviewing a 1988 concert by Williams’ quintet, wrote that Roney was “the standout soloist, bitingly articulate at fast tempos and lucidly melodic in gentler passages.”

In 1979 and ‘80, Roney received DownBeat’s award for Best Young Jazz Musician of the Year. His first album as a leader, Verses, was recorded on the Muse label in 1987. Throughout his career, he recorded more than 20 albums as a leader. Reviewing his most recent release, Blue Dawn-Blue Nights (HighNote: 2019), Chicago Jazz Magazine’s Hrayr Attarian wrote that, “trumpeter Wallace Roney has put together an outstanding quintet consisting of up-andcoming talent. Together, they interpret eight lesser-known compositions with sensitivity and panache . . . Blue Dawn-Blue Nights is more than another uniformly superb Wallace Roney album. It is also an outlet for his proteges to demonstrate their skills. With his youth spent learning from greats like Miles Davis, Roney knows the value of mentorship in the success of his art. Furthermore, he excels at it.”

In 1994, Roney won a Grammy Award, filling Davis’ trumpet chair in A Tribute to Miles (Qwest/Reprise/Warner Bros.). He was joined by Davis alumni, Williams on drums, Wayne Shorter on saxophone, Herbie Hancock on piano, and Ron Carter on bass.

Tenor saxophonist Mike Lee recalled to Jersey Jazz the first time he was invited to play with Roney’s quintet. “I asked him what I should prepare,” Lee said, “and he said, ‘everything’. He wasn’t being flippant. He knew all the music. He could hear so much nuance on any instrument and played with beauty and thoughtfulness on every note. He was a musician’s musician. A true genius of our music.”

On Facebook, alto saxophonist Vincent Herring wrote that he was “stunned and completely speechless . . . a dear friend who

left us in the middle of this craziness . . . Wallace Roney, you and your music will always be with us. R.I.P.” Added trumpeter Randy Brecker, also on Facebook: “Total sadness and shock. We’re in for a long haul in the music world. So, everyone, do your part. R.I.P., Wallace. I loved listening and getting the occasional chance to play next to you.”

Roney is survived by a daughter, Barbara, and son, Wallace, Jr., from his former marriage to the late pianist Geri Allen; his fiancee, Dawn Felice Jones; a stepdaughter, Laila Bansaiz; his grandmother, Rosezell Roney; two brothers, Antoine Roney and Michael Majett; and three sisters, Crystal Roney, Marla Majett, and April Petus.

Jazz Pianist Mike Longo, 83, Dizzy Gillespie’s Musical Director

Mike Longo was born in Cincinnati on March 19, 1937, and died Sunday, March 22, 2020, at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City. The cause, confirmed by his wife, Dorothy, was COVID-19. Admitted to the hospital on Tuesday, March 17, Longo had pre-existing medical conditions.

Growing up in Fort Lauderdale, FL, Longo played in his father’s dance band as a teenager.

His playing was noticed by Julian Cannonball Adderley, who was then band director at Fort Lauderdale’s Dillard High School. As a result, Longo became Adderley’s protege and would fill in when the alto saxophonist’s regular pianist was not available.

When Schaen Fox interviewed Longo nearly six years ago (Jersey Jazz, April 2014), the pianist recalled an incident when Adderley was hired to play in his father’s dance band at the Plantation Country Club in Plantation, FL. “We showed up with Cannonball and played the first set,” Longo recalled. “Then, the maitre d’ said, ‘We have a table over here for the band to eat.’ We all went and sat down. A few minutes later, he came over and said, ‘We had some complaints about the colored guy. He is going to have to go in the kitchen and eat.’ My dad threw down his napkin and said, ‘Come on. We will all go in the kitchen and eat.’ After that, Cannonball loved my father.”

Another early hero of Longo’s was Oscar Peterson whom he first heard at a Jazz at the Philharmonic concert in Fort Lauderdale. Later, in his 20s, Longo studied at Peterson’s Advanced School of Contemporary Music in Toronto.

In the ‘60s, Longo moved to New York and was discovered by Dizzy Gillespie while playing as part of the rhythm section at the Embers West jazz club. Gillespie hired him, and Longo eventually became Musical Director of Gillespie’s band that also included saxophonist/flutist James Moody. His tenure lasted from the late ‘60s through the mid-’70s, but he would occasionally return after that.

When Fox asked Longo about some of his memories of Gillespie, he responded that, “There were actually three Dizzy Gillespies. There was Dizzy the screwball that the public knew. Then, there was the serious side, musically. And then there was John Gillespie, a very spiritual man. I was fortunate enough to have a relationship with all three.”

After leaving Gillespie, Longo pursued a career as both pianist and bandleader. “If Longo had a flagship group,” wrote WBGO’s Nate Chinen the day after Longo’s death, “it was the 18-piece New York State of the Art Jazz Ensemble, which released a studio album called Explosion in 1999.” Reviewing the album in the May 2000 issue of JazzTimes, Doug Ramsey wrote that, “This stimulating big band recording by the pianist and arranger Mike Longo is a reminder that the best jazz in New York these days is not necessarily made by marketable youngsters promoted by major labels. Longo’s ensemble is salted with seasoned musicians who share his long and balanced view of the bop and post-bop Bassist Paul West, who played with Longo in Gillespie’s band, described him to Chinen as “a consummate musician, a dedicated musician and instructor.” In recent years, West and Longo played together in smaller groups, either a duo or trio. “We depended on each other, so to speak,” West said. “He depended on me to be supportive and in tune with his playing. So, we played as if one person was playing two instruments.” Longo also played weekly jazz sessions at the New York City Bahai Center in honor of Gillespie. Both he and Gillespie were members of the Bahai faith.

In addition to his wife, Longo is survived by a sister, Ellen Cohen, and several cousins, nieces, and nephews.

McCoy Tyner, 81, Last Living Member Of Classic John Coltrane Quartet

In 1960, John Coltrane asked Tyner to join his new band as the pianist. Tyner was the last living member of that quartet, which also included bassist Jimmy Garrison and drummer Elvin Jones and was, according to the Los Angeles Times’ Don Heckman, “one of the definitive jazz ensembles of the 20th century.”

NPR’s Nate Chinen, writing two days after Tyner’s death, said, “Few musicians have ever exerted as much influence as a sideman [as Tyner]. His crucial role in the group’s articulation of modal harmony, from the early 1960s on, will always stand as a defining achievement: The ringing intervals in his left hand, often perfect fourths or fifths, became the cornerstone of a style that endures today.

Staying with Coltrane for five years, Tyner left when Coltrane began to add extra percussionists and horns. He told Lewis Porter, author of John Coltrane: His Life and Music (University of Michigan Press: 2000), there were strong differences of opinion regarding the direction the music was heading. “I didn’t see myself making any contribution to that music. All I could hear was a lot of noise.”

Even after he left Coltrane, though, Tyner found it difficult to separate himself from his association with the tenor saxophonist. “The influence was so great,” he told Chinen in 1997, “and the roles we all played in that group were so powerful; you couldn’t divorce yourself from it just because you weren’t physically there. For a while there, all the horn players that were with me wanted to sound like John. So, I deliberately started using alto sax instead of tenor, and other instruments, because I wanted to try something different.”

Tyner, who was born on December 11, 1938, in Philadelphia, died March 6, 2020, at his home in New Jersey. He was named an NEA Jazz Master in 2002 and received five Grammy Awards, the latest for his 2004 Telarc album, Illuminations.

Shortly after leaving Coltrane, Tyner recorded several albums that are considered classics today. Among them is The Real McCoy, his first album on the BlueNote label, released in 1967. In a 2008 interview with JazzTimes’ Bill Milkowski, Tyner said he considered that album important because he was making “a personal statement. It was the first album I had done as a leader since leaving John’s band . . . I learned so much from playing with him. He was like my teacher. And, a lot of what I learned from him transferred to that recording. So, I was sort of inspired when I wrote tunes like ‘Search for Peace’, and ‘Passion Dance’, and ‘Blues on the Corner’ . . . And I had some great guys with me on that date: Elvin [Jones], Joe Henderson, Ron Carter. You can’t lose with that lineup.”

Tyner remained with BlueNote for five years, moving to the Milestone label in 1972. One of his best known Milestone albums was Enlightenment, recorded at the Montreux Jazz Festival in 1973. AllMusic’s Scott Yanow described it as “one of the great McCoy Tyner recordings. The powerful, percussive and highly influential pianist sounds quite inspired throughout . . .” JazzTimes’ Thomas Conrad called it “one of the most engulfing 25 minutes in 1970s jazz.”

After leaving Milestone in 1981, Tyner formed two bands in 1984, a trio and a big band. The latter earned him two Grammy Awards -- for The Turning Point (Birdology: 1992) and Journey (Birdology: 1993).

Reviewing Tyner’s 2004 Grammy-winning Telarc album, Illuminations, for AllMusic, Ken Dryden wrote that Tyner “signals that he still has a few surprises up his sleeve. One thing apparent right away in his opener, ‘Illuminations’, is that he is willing to stay in the background a good deal of the time, focusing the spotlight on band members Terence Blanchard, Gary Bartz, Christian McBride, and Lewis Nash . . . Perhaps the greatest surprise among his own works is the playful strutting ‘New Orleans Stomp’, in which his down-home piano will lift a few eyebrows . . . This is yet another essential release by the always enjoyable McCoy Tyner.”

Upon news of his death, BlueNote Records issued the following statement: “We’ve lost a titan . . . Words fail when trying to express how important McCoy was and always will be to our music. The amount of beauty he gave the world is simply staggering. R.I.P. to one of the greatest of all-time.”

Survivors include his wife, Aisha; his son, Nurudeen; his brother, Jarvis; his sister, Gwendolyn-Yvette; and three grandchildren.

Ray Mantilla, Latin Percussionist/Bandleader

Mantilla’s closest childhood companion was drummer/bandleader Ray Barretto, who introduced him to flutist Herbie Mann in the early 1960s. That had a huge impact on Mantilla’s career as a percussionist and bandleader. He and Barretto recorded several albums with Mann, and Mantilla was noticed by such prominent jazz musicians as drummers Art Blakey and Max Roach and bassist Charles Mingus.

As a result, Mantilla appeared on such legendary recordings as Mingus’ Cumbia & Jazz Fusion (Atlantic: 1977) and Roach’s M’Boom (Columbia: 1979). He joined the M’Boom drum collective, co-founded by Roach and fellow drummer/percussionist Joe Chambers. That band continued after Roach’s death, and its most recent version featured Mantilla, Chambers, Bobby Sanabria, and Warren Smith.

Sanabria, writing on WBGO’s website two days after the 85-year-old Mantilla’s death, on March 21, 2020, in New York, recalled Mantilla’s “funny anecdotes, deep storytelling, and, of course, his priceless musicianship -- all things that I always looked forward to . . . But it is the friendship I will always cherish more than anything.” Mantilla was born June 22, 1934, in the South Bronx.

Chambers told Sanabria he first noticed Mantilla “when I saw him with Art Blakey . . . I was impressed because I liked the way he navigated his role in the group. He demonstrated the drummer’s philosophy, as it was taught to me, to accompany. He never overplayed.”

Smith recalled that, “Ray understood the subtle nuances in African, Latin, and jazzbased music, and he adapted beautifully. The first time he played with us, it was seamless. What also impressed me was the variety of solo contexts he could do. He could play solo on bongos, congas, whatever and hold the audience.”

After performing with Dizzy Gillespie in 1977 as part of the first band to play in Cuba after the travel embargo of 1962 was lifted, Mantilla went on, in 1978, to become a bandleader. He made nine albums as a leader. The first, in ‘78, was Mantilla on the Inner City Records label, and the most recent was High Voltage (Savant Records: 2017). Another album, Rebirth, was scheduled for release this year by Savant.

Cause of death was complications from lymphoma. He is survived by his brothers, Kermit and Lisandro Gilberto; sisters, Irma Ogden and Sara Kelly.

‘Lean on Me’ Songwriter Bill Withers

Growing up in West Virginia coal mining country, Withers was mostly a country music fan, but he once said that he was also aware of “the old Frank Sinatra-Nat King Cole genre type music.”

Withers, who was 81, was born July 4, 1938 in Slab Fork, WV, and died March 30, 2020, in Los Angeles.

His biggest hit, of course, was “Lean on Me”, a single from his second album, Still Bill (Sussex: 1972), but toward the end of his career he collaborated with alto saxophonist Grover Washington, Jr., on the Grammywinning “Just the Two of Us” from Washington’s 1981 Elektra album, Winelight. In a review of Withers’ “10 Essential Songs” on April 3, Rolling Stone’s Elias Leight pointed out that “Just the Two of Us” was originally written by Ralph McDonald and Bill Salter, but Withers didn’t like the lyrics. He apparently said, “They sent me this song and said, ‘We want to do this with Grover. Would you consider singing it?’ I said, ‘Yeah’, if you’ll let me go and try to dress these words up a little bit.”

Withers won three Grammy Awards and released eight albums before retiring from the music business in 1985. “Lean on Me”, Rolling Stone’s Andy Greene pointed out, “emerged once again in recent weeks as an anthem of hope and solidarity in the time of COVID-19.”

After spending nine years in the U.S. Navy, Withers released his first album, Just As I Am on the Sussex Records label in 1971. It contained another of his biggest hits, “Ain’t No Sunshine”. Inspired by the 1962 movie, Days of Wine and Roses, it reached No. 3 on the singles charts. Death was due to heart complications. He is survived by his second wife, Marcia, and their children, Todd and Kori.

Eddie Davis Banjo Virtuoso By Scott Robinson I’ve just lost one of the dearest friends I’ve ever had in music. Eddy Davis was a highly significant and influential presence in my life. He was a fiercely individualistic performer… a veteran of the old Chicago days when music was hot, joyful, exuberant and unselfconscious. A character and a curmudgeon, who could hold court for hours after the gig. And a loving mentor who helped younger musicians like myself learn and grow in this music. I had only played with Eddy a handful of times when he called me in late 1998 to say that he was forming a new band to fill a weekly Wednesday spot at the Cajun on Eighth Avenue. He wanted me to play lead on C melody saxophone, in a little group with two reeds, and no drums. This by itself gives a clue to what an original thinker he was. I already knew that Eddy was a proficient and highly individualistic stylist on the banjo, who sounded like no one else. What I didn’t know, but soon found out, was that this man was also a walking repository of many hundreds, if not thousands, of tunes of every description, ranging far beyond the standard repertoire… with a fascinating background story at the ready for nearly every one. I quickly learned that he was also a prolific and idiosyncratic composer himself, with a wonderfully philosophical work ethic: write original music every day, keep what works, and throw the rest away without a backward glance. Eddy was also what used to be called a “character”: affable, opinionated, hilarious, and irascible all in one, and above all highly passionate about music. What I learned over the ensuing 7 ½ years in Eddy’s little band, I cannot begin to describe. I came to refer to those regular Wednesday sessions as my “doctor’s appointment” -- for they fixed whatever ailed me and provided the perfect antidote to the ills of the world, and of the music scene. Over the years we were graced with the presence of some very distinguished musicians who came by and sat in with us, including Harry Allen, Joe Muranyi, Bob Barnard, Howard Johnson, and Barry Harris. Eddy was generous with his strong opinions, with his knowledge and experience, and with his encouragement. But he was a generous soul in other ways as well. When he heard that I was building a studio (my “Laboratory”), he had me come by the apartment and started giving me things out of his closets. A Roland 24-track recorder… three vintage microphones… instruments… things that I treasure, and use every single day of my life. When my father turned 75, Eddy came out to New Jersey and played for him and wouldn’t take a dime for it. When I got the call [on April 7] that Eddy had passed [at the age of 79] -- another victim of this horrible virus that is ruining so many lives, and our musical life as well -- I hung up the phone and just cried. Later I went out to my Laboratory, and kissed every single thing there that he had given to me. How cruel to lose such an irreplaceable person… killed by an enemy, as my brother commented, that is neither visible nor sentient. One night at the Cajun stands out in my memory, and seems particularly relevant today. It was the night after the last disaster that changed New York forever: the World Trade Center attack. There was a pall over the city, the air was full of dust, and there was a frightful, lingering smell. “What am I doing here?” I thought. “This is crazy.” But somehow we all made our way to the nearly empty club. We were in a state of shock; nobody knew what to say. I wondered if we would even be able to play. We took the stage, looked at each other, and counted off a tune. The instant the first note sounded, I was overcome with emotion and my face was full of tears. Suddenly I understood exactly why we were there, why it was so important that we play this music. We played our hearts out that night -- for ourselves, for our city, and for a single table of bewildered tourists, stranded in town by these incomprehensible events. They were so grateful for the music, so comforted by it. The simple comfort of live music has been taken from us now. We must bear this loss, and those that will surely follow, alone… shut away in our homes. I know that when the awful burden of this terrible time has finally been lifted, when we can share music, life, and love again, it will feel like that night at the Cajun. My eyes will fill, my heart will sing, and the joy that Eddy Davis gave me will be with me every time I lift the horn to my face, for as long as I live.