By Preston Love
Preston Love's resume reads like a who is Who of yank tune: member of the count number Basie Band in the course of its heyday within the 40s, studio musician in l. a., cohort of Jo Jones, Lester younger, Ray Charles, and Dizzy Gillespie, and back-up participant for Marvin Gaye, the enticements, Smokey Robinson, Aretha Franklin, Gladys Knight, and Stevie ask yourself. during this autobiography Love indicates that, whereas the track facilities of latest York, New Orleans, Chicago, and Kansas urban nurtured the improvement of these uniquely African American varieties, jazz and the Motown sound, major contributions have been additionally being made through territory bands tirelessly appearing in outposts like St. Cloud, Minnesota, Guthrie, Oklahoma, and Honey Creek, Iowa.It was once within the latter city the place Love, a 15-year-old from the black ghetto of Omaha, made his musical debut. Captivated by way of the candy alto sax sounds of Earle Warren, Love took up the device and inside of a decade was once sitting in Warren's chair. yet Love's own odyssey is greater than a chronicle of never-ending bus rides, undesirable crowds in backwater golf equipment, and feast-or-famine funds continued en path to the pinnacle. In a particular and passionate voice he outlines major aspects of African American historical past: the critical significance of the kin in musical improvement, institutional racism in American pop culture, and the interracial nature of the track international. He additionally describes the expansion of the track undefined, specially Motown, what he calls "the strong colossus from Detroit." Love's tale, informed with uncanny reminiscence and unfailing honesty, presents an immense view into the profession of a musician and the evolution of a huge musical shape.
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Extra info for A thousand Honey Creeks later: my life in music from Basie to Motown-- and beyond
In very recent years, however, the word "jazz" has become an even more elastic wordstretched by certain people and certain instrumentalists to cover any kind of musical garbage that couldn't be given any other musical label. The newest elasticity of the word has almost made it unacceptable to me all over again. I haven't become so much of an anachronism that I can't appreciate even the most far-out jazz if it is sincerely performed and has any real value. But I could never pretend to give my approbation to any of the charlatans who happen to become famous as "jazz" players simply because they happen to catch hit records or because they happen to receive more publicity and public attention than some of the true giants of jazz.
Many of the black players of that era had a characteristic natural warmth to their sound, but they were more mindful of the "bluesy" or what is now called "jazz" sound, so they usually imitated the famous jazz names of the day. Dude's was more of a so-called "legitimate" sound, with very little of the jazz inflection. Within a very few weeks, as his lessons progressed, Dude set out to make musicians of nearly every boy or young man that frequented the Mansion. Each was assigned to some instrument or other; and although he knew only the saxophone, Dude patiently instructed every kid who arrived at the Mansion with a horn.
Suddenly, the front door burst open into the small hallway, and then the door to the front room was flung open, and into the room exploded Dude. Mama and all the gang in the room went wild with glee as they pounced upon Dude with hugs, kisses, and shrieks. The cab driver who'd brought Dude from the railroad depot brought in bag after bag, plus Dude's footlocker. Dude was a fastidious dresser and now he looked very prosperous and healthy. He was dressed in the height of fashion. He was beautiful.