Bossa Nova: The Story of the Brazilian Music That Seduced the World by Ruy Castro
Authors: Ruy Castro
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be, with the fuss being created by Luís Serrano’s program on Rádio Globo, and by Paulo Santos’ Hit Parade on Rádio Guanabara, which was instigating the establishment of more clubs. There weren’t enough members to go around. The Glenn Miller Fan Club was quickly formed, which was boycotted by jazz enthusiasts. Another gang in Tijuca, in Rua Pereira Nunes, quickly counteracted with the formation of the Stan Kenton Progressive Club. Its founder, Silvio Wander, was a salesman at the record store Suebra, in Cinelândia, and received Kenton discs “hot off the press” from the United States. This club definitely annoyed the neighbors.
The club’s name was a reference to Kenton’s self-denominated “progressive jazz” style, over which the opinions of jazz fans and critics worldwide were violently divided. The controversy provoked the kind of reaction instigated by Miles Davis in 1970, when he electrified jazz and created the specter known as “fusion.” Musically, the comparison could not be applied because what Kenton promoted was a strange—but for many, a brilliant—type of swing with a symphonic accent, which those with a contradictory spirit classified as a cross between jazz and “The Firebird” by Stravinsky, with whom Kenton had studied.
Conservatives grumbled that Kenton’s bombastic band did not “swing”—which was unfair, because it “swung” far more than that of Stravinsky, although not as much as that of Count Basie. Besides, Kenton and his fans were not geared to dancing. Stan attracted a different audience of young people, although very similar among themselves, regardless of whether they were Brazilian, Cuban, or American. They were thrilled by his bold harmonics and by the veritable wealth of rhythms he crammed into the extremely short three minutes that comprised each recording. Kenton was like a variation on Midas; everything he played sounded like his own compositions to the ears of his fans.
And he had no preconceptions; he recorded everything, from great hits like “Begin the Beguine” and “The Man I Love,” which all the bands played, to certain types of music that they wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole, like tangos, waltzes, and boleros. Kenton was fascinated by Latin, primarily Cuban, rhythms; but he even recorded Brazilian songs, such as “Tico-tico no fubá” (Tico-Tico Bird in the Corn Flour) by Zequinha de Abreu and “Delicado” (Delicate) by Waldir Azevedo, which he learned from his guitarist Laurindo de Almeida, who was born in Miracatu, São Paulo. It didn’t matter what Stan played. Any song that was subjected to the pen of his arranger, the Sicilian Pete Rugolo, emerged with the stamp of the Kenton style.
All of his musicians were respected (but you had to step lively to keep up with the changes in the composition of his orchestra), but the boys had a particularly soft spot for percussionist Shelly Manne, trumpeters Shorty Rogers and Maynard Ferguson, saxophonists Bill Holman and Lee Konitz, trombonists Frank Rosolino and Bill Russo, and especially for Pete Rugolo. They were the stars. But there was also Kenton’s vocal ensemble, the Pastels, revolutionarily harmonized by Kenton and Rugolo. And his vocalists? First, it was Anita O’Day, then June Christy, followed by Chris Connor. One would leave, another would join, and each was better than the one before. The man was a whiz at discovering them. And what other orchestra had a band leader with such personality? Kenton was a thirty-seven-year-old pianist with an explosive temper who would periodically threaten to leave the jazz scene, throw everything away, and change professions from band leader to psychiatrist (!). Never in a million years would such an idea have occurred to Harry James, Betty Grable’s husband.
The creation of the Kenton Progressive in Tijuca did not change the dollar rate at the Sinatra-Farney Fan Club, because the two groups were equally enthusiastic about “Blues in Riff,”
The club’s name was a reference to Kenton’s self-denominated “progressive jazz” style, over which the opinions of jazz fans and critics worldwide were violently divided. The controversy provoked the kind of reaction instigated by Miles Davis in 1970, when he electrified jazz and created the specter known as “fusion.” Musically, the comparison could not be applied because what Kenton promoted was a strange—but for many, a brilliant—type of swing with a symphonic accent, which those with a contradictory spirit classified as a cross between jazz and “The Firebird” by Stravinsky, with whom Kenton had studied.
Conservatives grumbled that Kenton’s bombastic band did not “swing”—which was unfair, because it “swung” far more than that of Stravinsky, although not as much as that of Count Basie. Besides, Kenton and his fans were not geared to dancing. Stan attracted a different audience of young people, although very similar among themselves, regardless of whether they were Brazilian, Cuban, or American. They were thrilled by his bold harmonics and by the veritable wealth of rhythms he crammed into the extremely short three minutes that comprised each recording. Kenton was like a variation on Midas; everything he played sounded like his own compositions to the ears of his fans.
And he had no preconceptions; he recorded everything, from great hits like “Begin the Beguine” and “The Man I Love,” which all the bands played, to certain types of music that they wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole, like tangos, waltzes, and boleros. Kenton was fascinated by Latin, primarily Cuban, rhythms; but he even recorded Brazilian songs, such as “Tico-tico no fubá” (Tico-Tico Bird in the Corn Flour) by Zequinha de Abreu and “Delicado” (Delicate) by Waldir Azevedo, which he learned from his guitarist Laurindo de Almeida, who was born in Miracatu, São Paulo. It didn’t matter what Stan played. Any song that was subjected to the pen of his arranger, the Sicilian Pete Rugolo, emerged with the stamp of the Kenton style.
All of his musicians were respected (but you had to step lively to keep up with the changes in the composition of his orchestra), but the boys had a particularly soft spot for percussionist Shelly Manne, trumpeters Shorty Rogers and Maynard Ferguson, saxophonists Bill Holman and Lee Konitz, trombonists Frank Rosolino and Bill Russo, and especially for Pete Rugolo. They were the stars. But there was also Kenton’s vocal ensemble, the Pastels, revolutionarily harmonized by Kenton and Rugolo. And his vocalists? First, it was Anita O’Day, then June Christy, followed by Chris Connor. One would leave, another would join, and each was better than the one before. The man was a whiz at discovering them. And what other orchestra had a band leader with such personality? Kenton was a thirty-seven-year-old pianist with an explosive temper who would periodically threaten to leave the jazz scene, throw everything away, and change professions from band leader to psychiatrist (!). Never in a million years would such an idea have occurred to Harry James, Betty Grable’s husband.
The creation of the Kenton Progressive in Tijuca did not change the dollar rate at the Sinatra-Farney Fan Club, because the two groups were equally enthusiastic about “Blues in Riff,”
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