SOUND PROJECTIONS
AN ONLINE QUARTERLY MUSIC MAGAZINE
EDITOR: KOFI NATAMBU
SPRING, 2019
VOLUME SEVEN NUMBER ONE
WADADA LEO SMITH
CINDY BLACKMAN
(March 23-29)
RUTH BROWN
(March 30-April 5)
JOHN LEWIS
(April 6-12)
JULIUS EASTMAN
(April 13-19)
PUBLIC ENEMY
(April 20-26)
WALLACE RONEY
(April 27-May 3)
MODERN JAZZ QUARTET
(May 4-10)
DE LA SOUL
(May 11-17)
KATHLEEN BATTLE
(May 18-24)
JULIA PERRY
(May 25-31)
HALE SMITH
(June 1-7)
BIG BOY CRUDUP
(June 9-15)Wallace Roney
(b. May 25, 1960)
Artist Biography by Matt Collar
Trumpeter Wallace Roney
is a forward-thinking, post-bop musician with a healthy respect for the
jazz tradition. Blessed with a warm yet plaintive trumpet tone and a
lithe improvisational style, Roney's distinctive playing bears the influence of such legendary predecessors as Miles Davis, Clifford Brown, and Woody Shaw.
While many of his albums display his talent for swinging and
harmonically advanced acoustic jazz, others reveal his love of
genre-bending, electrified funk, hip-hop, and soul.
Born in Philadelphia in 1960, Roney grew up alongside his younger brother, saxophonist Antoine Roney,
and first displayed an interest in playing the trumpet around age four.
As an adolescent, he enrolled in Philadelphia's Settlement School of
Music where he studied trumpet privately with Sigmund Hering of the Philadelphia Orchestra.
From there, he attended the Duke Ellington School of Music in
Washington, D.C., where he gained further tutelage under Langston
Fitzgerald of the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra.
At the same time that Roney was receiving formal music training, his father was encouraging him to transcribe jazz solos of artists like Clifford Brown, Dizzy Gillespie, and others. Consequently, by his teens, Roney
was an accomplished performer appearing regularly with both classical
chamber groups and jazz ensembles. During this time, he took lessons
with several trumpet luminaries including Gillespie, Clark Terry, and Woody Shaw. He also had the opportunity to play with pianist Cedar Walton's group.
After high school, Roney attended both Berklee School of Music in Boston and Howard University before relocating to New York City in the early '80s. Although he had already played with such luminaries as drummer Art Blakey's Jazz Messengers, replacing Wynton Marsalis, who was touring with Herbie Hancock's V.S.O.P. Quartet in 1981, Roney's initial time in New York was a struggle that also found him taking jobs in Latin dance and other kinds of bands to make ends meet. His break came in 1985 when he toured with Miles Davis alum/drummer Tony Williams, appearing on two Williams' albums -- Foreign Intrigue in 1985 and Civilization in 1986. Also around this time, he returned to Blakey's Jazz Messengers, this time replacing trumpeter Terence Blanchard. These esteemed gigs helped launch Roney into the upper echelons of the jazz scene.
As a solo artist, Roney made his debut in 1987 with the album Verses on Muse, featuring drummer Williams, saxophonist Gary Thomas, pianist Mulgrew Miller, and bassist Charnett Moffett. Several more Muse albums followed, all of them sophisticated showcases for Roney's adventurous, post-bop and modal-influenced style.
While Roney had long admired Miles Davis, an admitted influence who had mentored him on and off since first hearing him play at Davis' Carnegie Hall birthday gala in 1983, it was during Davis' famed 1991 tribute concert to Gil Evans at Montreux (later released as Miles & Quincy Live at Montreux) that he cemented his image as the heir apparent to Davis' legacy. Invited by Quincy Jones to participate in the concert, Roney sat next to Davis, trading solos on various Evans arrangements culled from such classic Davis releases as Birth of the Cool, Miles Ahead, and Sketches of Spain. Tragically, Davis, who was gravely ill at the time, died roughly a month after the Montreux concerts.
Following his high-profile show with Davis, Roney
had established himself as a rising jazz star. He built upon this
renown, signing a major-label deal with Warner Bros. and releasing
several well-received albums with his brother, saxophonist Antoine Roney, and wife, pianist Geri Allen, including 1993's Misterios, 1995's Wallace Roney Quintet, and 1996's Village. Conversely, during this period Roney appeared on several of Allen's albums including 1997's Eyes in the Back of Your Head and 1998's The Gathering.
In 2000, Roney took a creative turn toward funk, hip-hop, and experimental post-bop with the album No Room for Argument on Concord. It was a direction he stuck with through several more albums for Highnote, including 2004's Prototype and 2005's Mystikal. Roney
never fully retreated from straight-ahead jazz, though, and generally
incorporated a variety of jazz styles on his albums. This varied
approach is represented on such releases as 2007's Jazz, 2010's If Only for One Night, and 2012's Home.
In 2013, Roney delivered Understanding, his sixth album for Highnote. Also in 2013, he premiered his live version of saxophonist Wayne Shorter's "Universe," a long-form orchestral composition originally written for the Miles Davis' quintet in the late '60s. Abandoned for decades, "Universe" was eventually given to Roney,
who spent much of the next several years touring the piece, which
included playing an NPR broadcast performance at the 2014 Detroit Jazz
Festival.
In 2015, Roney appeared as a member of the ensemble Powerhouse on the album In an Ambient Way, which also included saxophonist/producer Bob Belden, drummer Lenny White, keyboardist Kevin Hays, guitarist Oz Noy, and bassist Daryl Johns. A reworking of Miles Davis' 1969 recording In a Silent Way, In an Ambient Way was the brainchild of Belden, who died a month before its release. After Belden's passing, Roney took time off from his "Universe" activities to tour with Powerhouse.
Wallace Roney is from Philadelphia, PA, born May 25, 1960. He began his musical studies at the age of five, learning rhythmic dictation and sight-reading. He began playing the trumpet at age six. He was identified as a prodigy and was awarded a scholarship to the Settlement School of Music at the age of seven. It is there that Wallace received private trumpet lesson with Sigmund Herring at the age of ten. As a child prodigy, by the age of 12 Wallace became the youngest member of the Philadelphia brass ensemble which was comprised of members of the Philadelphia Orchestra.
During his affiliation with the brass ensemble Wallace met jazz great Clark Terry who became a major influence, teacher, mentor and friend. Clark Terry taught him more about the trumpet than previous classical trumpet teachers had. He taught him technique, articulation and breath control. Clark Terry was the first of Wallace's three greatest mentors.
Wallace's moved to Washington, DC where he attended the Duke Ellington School of the Arts. While at Ellington he studied the trumpet with Langston Fitzgerald, trumpeter with the Baltimore Symphony. Fitz, as he was fondly called by Wallace, taught him to strive for excellence in spite of obstacles.
Wallace sat in with Art Blakey's band at the age of 15 and was offered the job to replace trumpeter Bill Hardman. A car accident that happened the day after he was offered the gig caused Wallace's father not to let him take the job. Wallace did, however, continue to sit in with a lot of great musicians including Cedar Walton, Sam Jones and Billy Higgins all of which led to Wallace playing several gigs with Cedar Walton.
At the age of 16 he met another trumpet player who would become the second greatest influence in his musical life, Dizzy Gillespie. Dizzy taught Wallace even more advanced techniques that enhanced his ability to play intricate improvisational phrases. During this time he also went to NY and sat in with the great Philly Joe Jones which caused a stir. It wasn't long before he met the great trumpet player Woody Shaw who also became a close friend and mentor. During this time, Wallace graduated from Ellington and began studying with Dr. Donald Reinhart, a world renowned brass specialist in the Brass community, while at the same time attending Howard University and studying with Fred Irby. Wallace remained at Howard University for a year only to be called away to become a member of Art Blakey's Big Band. He also played with Joe Henderson, Dollar Brand and then studied for a year at Berkele School of Music before leaving there to rejoin Art Blakey's Jazz Messengers.
Since playing with the “Messengers” the list of people that Wallace has played with is a veritable who's who of jazz. Too numerous to name, he likes to say that he has played with everyone from Jay McShann to Herbie Hancock.
In 1983 he met the greatest influence in his life, the person that was his idol and his greatest teacher, Mile Davis. Wallace's relationship with Mile was similar to Louis Armstrong's relationship with Joe (King) Oliver. Being with Miles gave him insight and tutelage on being a melodist, being on top of the most creative music, and uncompromisingly taking it further.
At one point Wallace rejoined Art Blakey's Band and at the same time was invited to play with Tony Williams' quintet. He elected to play with Tony's ground breaking band. In 1984 Wallace also met and hung out with Ornette Coleman and premièred his symphony “The Sacred Mind of Johnny Dolphin”. He also played gigs with Ornette in his “Classic Quartet”, taking Don Cherry's place when he died.
All of the time spent studying under and hanging with Miles Davis led Miles to ask Wallace to play with him on the Historic Miles at Montreux Concert. This was historic because it was the first time Miles had played straight ahead jazz in 30 years. The concert was recorded and it received a Grammy. When Miles died in 1991, Wallace joined what he considers to be the greatest group in history, VSOP, which included Herbie Hancock, Ron Carter, Tony Williams, and Wayne Shorter. It is with VSOP that Wallace won his second Grammy. In 1996 he joined Chick Corea's “Special Quintet”. Wallace also played on Michael McDonald's record for which he won a Grammy for his solo in “Like a Child”.
Wallace formed his own group in 1993. Other than periodic special projects and playing intermittently with other all-star groups, he has been leading his band and is dedicated to continuing to add to the jazz music legacy.
https://www.allaboutjazz.com/wallace-roney-fulfilling-the-promise-wallace-roney-by-paul-olson.php
Wallace Roney
Wallace Roney is from Philadelphia, PA, born May 25, 1960. He began his musical studies at the age of five, learning rhythmic dictation and sight-reading. He began playing the trumpet at age six. He was identified as a prodigy and was awarded a scholarship to the Settlement School of Music at the age of seven. It is there that Wallace received private trumpet lesson with Sigmund Herring at the age of ten. As a child prodigy, by the age of 12 Wallace became the youngest member of the Philadelphia brass ensemble which was comprised of members of the Philadelphia Orchestra.
During his affiliation with the brass ensemble Wallace met jazz great Clark Terry who became a major influence, teacher, mentor and friend. Clark Terry taught him more about the trumpet than previous classical trumpet teachers had. He taught him technique, articulation and breath control. Clark Terry was the first of Wallace's three greatest mentors.
Wallace's moved to Washington, DC where he attended the Duke Ellington School of the Arts. While at Ellington he studied the trumpet with Langston Fitzgerald, trumpeter with the Baltimore Symphony. Fitz, as he was fondly called by Wallace, taught him to strive for excellence in spite of obstacles.
Wallace sat in with Art Blakey's band at the age of 15 and was offered the job to replace trumpeter Bill Hardman. A car accident that happened the day after he was offered the gig caused Wallace's father not to let him take the job. Wallace did, however, continue to sit in with a lot of great musicians including Cedar Walton, Sam Jones and Billy Higgins all of which led to Wallace playing several gigs with Cedar Walton.
At the age of 16 he met another trumpet player who would become the second greatest influence in his musical life, Dizzy Gillespie. Dizzy taught Wallace even more advanced techniques that enhanced his ability to play intricate improvisational phrases. During this time he also went to NY and sat in with the great Philly Joe Jones which caused a stir. It wasn't long before he met the great trumpet player Woody Shaw who also became a close friend and mentor. During this time, Wallace graduated from Ellington and began studying with Dr. Donald Reinhart, a world renowned brass specialist in the Brass community, while at the same time attending Howard University and studying with Fred Irby. Wallace remained at Howard University for a year only to be called away to become a member of Art Blakey's Big Band. He also played with Joe Henderson, Dollar Brand and then studied for a year at Berkele School of Music before leaving there to rejoin Art Blakey's Jazz Messengers.
Since playing with the “Messengers” the list of people that Wallace has played with is a veritable who's who of jazz. Too numerous to name, he likes to say that he has played with everyone from Jay McShann to Herbie Hancock.
In 1983 he met the greatest influence in his life, the person that was his idol and his greatest teacher, Mile Davis. Wallace's relationship with Mile was similar to Louis Armstrong's relationship with Joe (King) Oliver. Being with Miles gave him insight and tutelage on being a melodist, being on top of the most creative music, and uncompromisingly taking it further.
At one point Wallace rejoined Art Blakey's Band and at the same time was invited to play with Tony Williams' quintet. He elected to play with Tony's ground breaking band. In 1984 Wallace also met and hung out with Ornette Coleman and premièred his symphony “The Sacred Mind of Johnny Dolphin”. He also played gigs with Ornette in his “Classic Quartet”, taking Don Cherry's place when he died.
All of the time spent studying under and hanging with Miles Davis led Miles to ask Wallace to play with him on the Historic Miles at Montreux Concert. This was historic because it was the first time Miles had played straight ahead jazz in 30 years. The concert was recorded and it received a Grammy. When Miles died in 1991, Wallace joined what he considers to be the greatest group in history, VSOP, which included Herbie Hancock, Ron Carter, Tony Williams, and Wayne Shorter. It is with VSOP that Wallace won his second Grammy. In 1996 he joined Chick Corea's “Special Quintet”. Wallace also played on Michael McDonald's record for which he won a Grammy for his solo in “Like a Child”.
Wallace formed his own group in 1993. Other than periodic special projects and playing intermittently with other all-star groups, he has been leading his band and is dedicated to continuing to add to the jazz music legacy.
https://www.allaboutjazz.com/wallace-roney-fulfilling-the-promise-wallace-roney-by-paul-olson.php
Wallace Roney: Fulfilling the Promise
by
AllAboutJazz
AllAboutJazz
Trumpeter
Wallace Roney has been working in jazz for over thirty years. He made
his recording debut at age fourteen and played in the bands of Tony
Williams, Art Blakey, David Murray and Herbie Hancock—just to name a
few. A bandleader on his own for many years, Roney has dazzling chops
and has composed some classic songs. He's never led a bad group, and
when I saw him at Chicago's Green Mill in late August, the band was dazzling—powerful but supple, densely layered but capable of immediate transition.
Roney's most famous mentor was, of course, Miles Davis. It can't be
denied that Davis' work and example still color Roney's music. His
mentoring has also been as much curse as blessing, having forced Roney
to endure years of facile, simplistic comparisons to Miles. None of this
should obscure the fact that Roney has a fine body of recorded work as a
leader. In recent years—to some extent under the radar—he's produced a
run of especially superlative recordings. 1996's Village was the end of his long assocition with Warner Bros., but his 2000 album No Room For Argument (Stretch Records) was, to these ears, his finest album to date; 2004's Prototype and the new Mystikal
(both on HighNote Records) have continued Roney's streak of great CDs. I
spoke with Roney about the new record, his bandmates (including wife
Geri Allen and brother Antoine Roney), his ideas about jazz and life in
general, and his struggles to make his music heard.
And yes, about Miles.
All About Jazz: Let's jump right into talking about your great new CD Mystikal. I love the playing of your bassist Matt Garrison and your drummer Eric Allen. They both also appear on your last album, Prototype. Tell me how you got involved with them and what you like about their playing.
Wallace Roney: Okay. I met Matt—first of all, you know Matt's the son of Jimmy Garrison—years ago. I was getting ready to open up at the Vanguard and he just came up to me and introduced himself. He said he would love to do some playing. That was 1994. And then in the year 2000, I did a gig with him; I played with Herbie Hancock and Herbie had Matt on bass. And when Matt started playing, I was just floored. Terri Lyne [Carrington] was the drummer, and I thought those two had a great, creative chemistry. But Matt—what I heard in Matt was a person with creativity and chops and a boldness that's rare among musicians. And that's on acoustic bass. When he plays electric bass, he's able to play the same things. I met Eric in 1976; we went to high school together. Even then, Eric was one of the best young drummers that was coming out. We had a chance to listen to a lot of music together, a lot of great musicians. Eric's actually been on the scene since 1981, but I think he was eclipsed by the media blitz on, you know, the other people. It had nothing to do with his playing; it's just the media focussed on whoever was playing with whoever they considered popular.
AAJ: So you did this new album in one day—actually, one day in May just a few months ago. It must be nice that HighNote could get this record out so quickly in a world where musicians often see their records released at least a year after they're recorded. Were these mostly first takes? Did you do a lot of takes of this material?
WR: These were mostly first takes. Yeah, I am happy that HighNote is able to do that. I've been through a lot of record companies and before, I didn't understand what [label head] Joe Fields' commitment to the music was. I see it now after being around other companies. I realize this cat is really serious; he'll do what he can to help make your record—you know, the record you're trying to do. In the beginning, when I was making records, I was in a different place than I am now.
AAJ: Let's talk about the title track of the CD, "Mystikal. I think it was of your best new compositions; it has a lovely, expansive theme that's been playing in my head for the last few weeks. You and your brother really cook on your solos, and I like how the six minutes of the tune pack so much emotion and drama. Tell me something about this song, how it was composed.
WR: Well, you know, it's funny—how things are composed is less important to me. What's more important is that it finally becomes a fruition and it's there. What I was trying to do was play something that had the embodiment of sweeping, soaring spirit; something that is tangible that can't be explained. That's what the word is. You're trying to make the music be the embodiment of what you're trying to say.
AAJ: A song like "Mystikal feels like it's exactly as written as it needs to be, meaning it has a framework and some melodic content, but it's not overwritten. I never hear composition overwhelm playing on your records.
WR: That's good; I'm hoping what you're saying is that the composition serves as inspiration to what we're going to play. So they become one.
AAJ: It's not free improvisation; these are tunes, but the tunes are not straightjackets. They're structures for human beings to embody.
WR: Well, when we approach it, we approach it totally from a free point. We're reacting. We're reacting to what we just announced musically.
AAJ: On the CD, "Mystikal follows your version of Wayne Shorter's "Atlantis and I think the two work well together. There's a restlessness and sweetness to them both—a spiritual quality. "Atlantis is all layered sound: there's Fender Rhodes and, I think, Clavinet—it has that Stevie Wonder sound.
WR: Herbie. Herbie was before Stevie.
AAJ: Well, Herbie Hancock was before everyone when it comes to all that gear, wasn't he? There's also acoustic piano, in any case. I think these layered keys are a real trademark of your sound. "Shadow Dance from Prototype has a similar layered blend of keyboards. Tell me what you like of that kind of recorded blend of electric keyboards and piano.
WR: Well, your focus is the piano. But the piano doesn't have everything. But it has enough to inspire everything. But then you've got an actual Clavinet or an electric piano to warm it up a little bit, to make it shimmer like a jewel. You're using the keyboards as an extension of the piano instead of as a pop sound.
AAJ: Speaking of "Shadow Dance, to me there's something accordion-like in its head with that harmonized blend of you, Antoine Roney and Don Byron.
WR: Well, don't think there's anything wrong with that. I don't know if that's what we were going for. It doesn't matter. I think what matters is what it conjures up in people's heads—your head or anyone else's. Just the fact that it can conjure up something is a blessing.
AAJ: Another thing about that layered sound is that these instruments appear and disappear on one track. On your cover of "Just My Imagination, for example—there's this beautiful interplay between you and Geri Allen's piano. She accompanies you to the point where it's really a sort of duet, and then she plays a solo that, because of the way the record's mixed, seems to turn into a Fender Rhodes—the acoustic piano's gone and in its place is the Rhodes. Do you think about this when you're arranging? Do you say, "I want the piano to be prominent here, and fade away here?
WR: I think she does. And I think that's why I asked her to be there: because she does think like that. Because I think like that, but I don't have to say much, because there are people there that are just really that expansive on their instruments.
AAJ: Val Jeanty is all over this record on turntables, whether she's playing vocal samples, cutting or just adding sounds to the overall blend. She was pretty prominent when I saw you live as well. You also worked with DJ Logic on the Prototype album, and I think you were working with turntablists way before you ever recorded with any.
WR: That's right, with Val.
AAJ: Tell me what turntables add to your music and what you like to hear from them: what sort of things you like them to play in your group.
WR: Turntablists are what's happening in pop music today, in pop culture. It's what people are hearing, and I always try to stay open to what they're hearing—what's being felt today. Because you can't help but be influenced by that; you walk down the street and you're hearing sounds. So she and Logic were very important. Val's the one on No Room For Argument as well.
AAJ: Right, she did the vocal samples that are on that record.
WR: Yeah, and the chants. We've got African chants on there; there's a lot of things going on there. With that one, she was a good way of vocalizing what we were trying to say musically; she was able to put in messages of spirituality, things that are relevant that are in our music. So as we're playing it, as you feel it, she feels it and expresses it that way through the turntable. She became an important aspect of what you're doing.
AAJ: Everything she's doing sounds so musical to me. Not to suggest turntablists aren't musicians—I think they are—but she's really good. She's always listening.
WR: Well, she's Haitian, and she's a drummer.
AAJ: "Stargaze is another great new tune. It's pretty funky, has a little of that old Chic "Good Times riff in it, and a typically searching Wallace Roney theme. I love how the rhythm section shifts and changes in it—it's not just straight groove. During your solo, the whole band, especially Matt, gets freer, gets away from that riff, and then things tighten up for Geri's piano break. Songs like feel like they'd be different every time you play them. Do your tunes always change in each night's performance?
WR: Yeah, yeah, they do shift and they do make different turns. That song has, again, another searching quality through the melody. And we got a rhythm going on with the bass playing this groove, and I got Eric almost playing an almost straight-ahead beat against it—you know, like "Papa Jo [Jones] playing on a sock cymbal [imitating the sound], "tett-a-ttuu, tett-a-ttuu, tet-a-ttuu. Only he doesn't go with the "tett-a-ttuu, he just does the last part, the "tttuu, ttuu, ta-ttuuu against the bass, and it's killin'! It sounds great! The thing that I do is I tell them that I don't care what we play. We're going to approach it from the best of what our music has. We must have interplay with each other. It must groove, or it must swing. Whatever. People say "swing, but I interpret "swing to mean it feels good, it grooves. That's no different from what funk players do when they're funky.
It's got to sound good. I don't even care if you're playing as free as you want. In terms of the rhythms, we've been given the lessons of Elvin Jones and Tony Williams. And Max [Roach], Art Blakey, Roy [Haynes]—how you can be creative rhythmically. Then we as artists, as melodic players, must be as creative as we can. So that makes "Stargaze no different than playing "Nefertiti. We're playing off the groove, whatever it is, whether it's a straight-ahead groove, ostinato, an African groove—well, they're all African grooves anyway. African bass grooves.
AAJ: We have to talk about your Slick Rick cover on this CD, "Hey Young World, with its reggae pulse. Once again, Eric Allen has fantastic time on this one and your solo's got a perfect mixture of slow, medium and fast licks. But this is Antoine Roney's greatest moment on this CD to me; he nails his solo on tenor. He's such a great player, and a good writer, too: his tune "Then and Now on Prototype is a great song. Tell me about Antoine; what are his greatest strengths as a player?
WR: Well, Antoine is, again, another musician who's overlooked, probably because people want to be spiteful. But he's one of the best creative musicians out here, and he always has been. He's a great musican and great artist; those are different things. A great musician is a musician who can do anything they're supposed to do. A great artist is someone who can go beyond that. It's possible to be a great artist and not a great musician. and it's possible to be a great musician and not a great artist. He's both. Matt Garrison is both. These guys, you put them in a professional situation, they can easily be first call. But they can go way above that. Antoine is definitely one of those artists that never plays the typical thing. He's always reaching for another side, and it's not by accident; he can play the typical thing, but so many other people play it too—that's why it's called "typical. That's what Antoine brings to this music. He's a creative artist and a great writer—I wish he would write more. I think he is doing a lot of writing again.
AAJ: Speaking of his song "Then and Now —that song demonstrates another side of what you do, the more so-called straight-ahead bop or post-bop stuff, without any electric touches. Sort of like your version of Kenny Dorham's "Poetic on the new CD. On "Then and Now, you and Antoine seem to really savor playing through those changes. Do you enjoy playing that stuff as much as it seems?
WR: Well, here we go again. It's the same thing! That's why I do it. I'm trying to say it's all the same thing. It's the same approach. People might not understand it, but if, in the middle of my solo, Geri or [keyboardist] Adam [Holzman] put a splash of electric keyboard on it, it might easily sound like "NiceTown or "Shadow Dance. To me, I'm not not playing what you call straight-ahead jazz when we're playing, say, Slick Rick's tune. I'm playing the same thing! It's the same prerequisite. It's just the melody or the bass line might be different than straight 4/4. But straight 4/4, walking bass, doesn't mean it's not creative jazz. So the bass can be walking, the bass can be playing a groove like in "A Night in Tunisia or a groove like something Parliament played. It's what you do with it—that's what I'm trying to say. And in terms of the instrument you use, it's how creatively you use it; sometimes it's not appropriate to hear something where the bass is walking all four notes and the beat is electric. Sometimes it's more appropriate to have a more acoustic wash to it. Sometimes you can do that on a tune like "Cyberspace and it'll have a different feel, but that's why you have these options! They're called options.
AAJ: It's all just music. I think the problem is that in jazz writing, we writers are stuck with the vocabulary we have, so you end up with declarations like "this is a bop tune. This is a funk tune. It might be helpful to the listener, but it does compartmentalize everything to the point where it must be exasperating to the artist to read that sort of statement.
WR: Well, it's interesting you say that because I halfway agree. I agree that it bores us when you say, "this is a bop tune, "this is a such-and-such tune. But if you say it's funky or it swings, "this tune swings, you can describe it that way instead of saying defiantly that it's this kind of tune. Because all the tunes have aspects of what you say about that one tune. They all swing! They're all funky. They're all advanced. They're all spiritually based. But you can say that this one has this kind of feel to it. It does get funny to me when people have to explain a song in terms of something else that they heard before. "This sounds like such-and-such. We know those things; let's see how creative the writer can be—let's see him go deeper and say what it sounds like to him instead of who it sounds like.
AAJ: Well, I personally don't have much interest anymore in reviewing a record and saying, "oh, it sounds like Herbie. It sounds like Herbie's Mwandishi band. Because of course it does, because anything that follows that would; we're talking about an enormous vocabulary that he established. It's like saying someone playing rock with minor sevenths and a middle eight section sounds just like the Beatles.
WR: Right, or like saying Mwandishi sounds like Bitches Brew. Yeah, it's like that—but what does it sound like past that to you? Do you hear the instrumentation? That to me is better than putting it in a bag and saying it's like, ah, Weather Report. Fine, what about it? Did you a get a soprano soaring over the texture?
AAJ: Yeah, or it's like, "oh, here's the Miles part; no, wait, now it sounds like Bird. And that's jive.
WR: Yeah, it's there, but who cares? You care because those guys mean something to you. But you know, when I met you at that show [a Roney Chicago gig in late August] and I said to you, "don't write nothin' jive, the reason why was that the band is out here starting to try to do something. And you get marginalized so much anyway. And then you don't get written up, and then after five or six years, people start to understand what you're trying to do. And when someone says to a writer, "go and cover it, the first thing people do is want to squash it by writing something. And I'm thinking, "man, we haven't even gotten off the ground yet! I'd rather have someone write nothing than to squash the first efforts.
AAJ: Well, I don't want to write nothing but nice things. But I don't see showing up at a gig just to write something off. It's not like there are many millionaires in this business.
WR: Thank you. And I dug what you just said: you don't want to write just nice things. If we went up there and we're sloppin' all over the place, shit wasn't happening, or even if you didn't like it—it's cool. And, you know, the industry doesn't really like artists that are trying to do something other than what they put you in a box about.
AAJ: I think you are one of the luckiest and unluckiest musicians. Because it's great you had an association with Miles Davis. We'd all like to have met him, and any musician would like to have learned from him. But this man looms so large that people who have never heard a jazz record knows who he is, and you've had to spend a lot of years being compared to him. The idea being that if you ever knew him, if you ever played with him, you must sound just like him. And people write what is easy to write. So it's something you've had to cope with; how do you do it?
WR: The funny thing is you're right: I was lucky. I got a chance to study with—or be mentored by, or hang with, however you want to say it—one of the greatest artists of all time. And to be around him—it was just too cool. You say, "okay, this is what life is all about, right here. You're listening to the greatest music in the world, you're hanging with the greatest artist ever—everything he does, when he just opens up the door [laughing], you know what I mean? And then on top of that, you're watching all this stuff, and he says [adopting Miles' raspy whisper], "come here, come here, Wally. And you come, and you're just hanging, and he's showing you stuff. He'd take time from being superhip to be ultrahip with you, you know? And you're learning all this stuff, and he's showing you stuff that you could never get from anyone else, because no one thinks like that. Except you! Because that's why you're around him. That's the other part; the reason why I was allowed to be around is because, out of all the musicians around—and he definitely heard what was around—he felt that I was a kindred spirit. He said that to me; he said, "you remind me of me so much. The why you look at me remind me of the way I used to look at Dizzy. You want it—and if you want it that bad, I got to give it to you.
remember Tony Williams said that about Miles' nephew Vince: "I could tell by the way he looked at me that he was going to be a drummer. So I just hung, and Miles would say, "listen to this, and he'd play me something and explain it, or he'd tell me stories. And man, I'd get back on my gig with Tony, and even with Art [Blakey] at the time, and I'd be trying it, what Miles had taught me. And the stuff'd be so bad! Everybody'd be like, "wow! Where'd you get that from? Sometimes I'd be like, "what? It didn't even dawn on me. Not like I didn't know, but it was natural.
AAJ: You were absorbing stuff very quickly. How to play and how to be.
WR: Tony just loved it. After a while, it became like a three-way dialogue between me, Tony and Miles. It was too hip. Miles was telling me how to play between the phrases, all these things, and Tony was responding to it. I was taking my phrases and reworking them these ways and man, we were having a ball. Miles would then say [doing that Miles rasp again], "what did Tony do? What did Tony say? Then he'd just laugh. We had a good time, man, and I thought life was going to be like that forever. And technically, it should have. But it all came to a head when the people who were jealous of that kind of interaction found a way to make the people feel that was not necessary or shouldn't be honored—because after he died, I kept going. I kept going in the creative way that I was dealing with from being in that environment.
I think Miles felt that maybe I had the ears or the heart or the creativity to try to take what he did and expand it, take it further. And that's what I'm trying to do: I'm trying to take his ideas further. Put my own signature on it, but take it further. I think when people hear advanced artists like Miles Davis, or John Coltrane, or Tony Williams, or Max Roach, or Herbie—I think their ideas shouldn't be thrown away. I think they should be utilized. I don't think you should just copy it and only pay that homage to them. I think you should use it! You should use the ideas, and try to do something, especially when they're gone. It's not like they're dead and so it's over. That's a good way to kill them.
AAJ: Well, their ideas are so revolutionary at the time, but in their wake the vocabularies they create are like air: if you try to avoid it, you suffocate yourself. It should become a part of everyone's vocabulary.
WR: It should be. And we should be trying to add more words to the vocabulary, we should be extending it. But we should definitely use it. I think some people get hung up on that; they pay homage by just playing someone's solo. I'm not talking about that—I think you should do that at home. I think you should take what they do, then take it further; let's keep this building growing. I'm determined that I'm going to do that. And other people will do some other things, and maybe you can utilize that too. But maybe by my doing this, I'm doing some other things—and finding new things in a way that is more natural and deeper than just by cutting off what went before.
AAJ: I think it would be hard for a creative musician to try too hard to not play something; it's not very natural to think about avoiding things while playing.
WR: Well, it's easy for some of them not to play certain things because they didn't have to work at it to figure out what it is. That's the other thing. Work is always something that people run from and that some people are encouraged to run from. Seems like the journals encourage you to be lazy. And sometimes the lazy way is to try to be completely different. I know that's a word that people like to use, but I think instead of being different, they should try to be better. I think better is better than different! Trying to be better, trying to take something further. Even if you can't go any further with something, what comes out of trying is the next thing. Or the next logical extension of what's happening.
AAJ: Well, we all like a new sound, but a self-conscious novelty doesn't tend to last long.
WR: No, I don't think so. It doesn't have any place. But I do think there are always new sounds that come out of developing. That's what life's about. It's not about destroying something—if you keep destroying what was before, you don't have anything. You're starting over all the time. At least that's the way I see it. I was reading something Herbie was saying. He was saying that it's taken him a long time to remember that he's a human being first, not a musician. That's great, because he's talking about the evolution of people—but on the other hand, he wouldn't be the Herbie that he is now if he hadn't been what he's criticizing people for being now. He said, "I used to be the person that was music all day, every day, and had these musical goals. But if he didn't feel that way before, then he wouldn't have sounded like he did, say, with Miles Davis.
AAJ: That's a common way for a person to feel, though, at two different ages of his life.
WR: Yeah, but I think he's influencing people to not work very hard, and if he didn't work so hard, he wouldn't have been in those situations. And that part has to be honored. Miles Davis, it seems to me, was a person who lived life with a purpose. John Coltrane was a person that lived life with a purpose.
AAJ: Yeah, well, sure! Coltrane might have had the greatest, most focused purpose of anyone I can think of offhand.
WR: Maybe. Maybe Miles was just as focused. Maybe people just didn't see it that way.
AAJ: I can't even compare them in way where I think less of one of them. Coltrane got sick and died, so his whole work seems like one marathon burn towards a certain point, and then it was cut short.
WR: Ain't that what life is, though?
AAJ: Yeah. But some lives are longer than others.
WR: But I'm talking about life itself, and evolution of the world, and universe; it's one long evolution towards something. That's what I'm starting to figure out.
AAJ: Actually, after getting this philosophical, I always feel stupid getting back to mundane questions. It's that larger stuff that blows my mind.
WR: But that's what it is to me in music. I think you're trying to honor a purpose. If you're just going to play, wake up and do a job and be proficient, that's cool. That's your mission, I guess. But I think that if you want to make your music, make what you do mean something, or achieve something that's more than something marginal—even if most of the world won't hear it, you would like that it has some sort of effect on the universe.
AAJ: Yeah, especially when life seems so short and music seems so precious.
WR: There you go. So that's what you're waking up in the morning to do. To keep trying to upgrade what you have in your life. And in your life, music—if you're an artist, that's one of the best parts of what you have to offer! It's not that you get up, and walk, and go to the bathroom—your contribution to this life might be a universal, sonic thing! And you're going to try to make it the greatest in the world. You're trying to make it honor something.
AAJ: Well, otherwise, as a musician you're sort of a mere timekeeper. Either way, you're playing for two hours that night on a bandstand.
WR: Well, we should keep encouraging that kind of thing. And we should discourage the ones that are just jiving around—if they're jiving around. I always think, what if one day we all set aside two minutes and asked the whole world to sing one pitch at the same time for thirty seconds? Everybody included. All over the world, everybody get up and go, "hmmmmmm —whatever the pitch is. Maybe it'd have to be at a certain amount of decibels, so everyone would have to sing this loud. Everyone, the person next to you, people driving—you know what I mean? Put it on the air; what would that sound like?
AAJ: Everyone would simply ascend.
WR: You dig? And that's what you're trying to make your music do!
AAJ: Unfortunately, the cynic in me says that people would spend the next ten years fighting each other on what that pitch should be. But if it could happen, the human race would grow angel wings and we would float away.
WR: Yeah. That's what the music's about and that's what you're trying to do with your music. That's it.
AAJ: Again, it all seems so trivial now to get back to smaller matters. Here's one you might disagree with. I would never accuse you of making easy listening music. There's nothing smooth about your jazz. But I think there's a sense of serenity, a sense of hope and optimism on this new record. I don't think you've ever made negative music, but No Room for Argument sounds urgent to me almost to the point of being pissed off. Is there a difference? Are you feeling more hopeful?
WR: I think there's everything in music, again. With No Room for Argument, I'm very proud of what we were trying to do. And that's on Mystikal, actually, too. Let's say you're pissed off because the people do not accept the fact that this world is not fair. That's an opening statement. Well, the following statement might be, what should we do about it? Maybe that's the next record. And then the third statement might be, what would the results be if we saw it in a fairer way? And you say, well, we'll feel a lot better. So maybe that's what this is saying. One record says, this isn't right; the next record says we're trying to evolve to be a higher people, and the one after that says, if you let us evolve, we can operate like this, and it'll be beautiful. You still retain all the strength of a revolution. Every record can't be the same yelling—but it can have the same message. Coltrane's A Love Supreme sounds different from Crescent to me. But it's the same intention.
AAJ: And that's what you want in record albums, anyway. A body of work that holds together but isn't remaking the same thing over and over. Which I think sometimes is what people want musicians to do.
WR: But then they wouldn't be happy with that. It wouldn't say anything.
AAJ: Your albums often feature a great blend of other people's compositions with your own. Besides the Roney tunes, there are jazz compositions like Kenny Dorham's "Poetic, Wayne Shorter's "Atlantis, Slick Rick's "Hey Young World, the Temptations' "Just My Imagination, Al Green's "Let's Stay Together, and maybe best of all, André "3000 Benjamin of Outkast's "Prototype. You've got good taste in songs. Tell me what motivates you to do a song for an album. What attracts you to it?
WR: Well, here I go with my thing again: because we don't live on this world alone. So you hear someone else's stuff, and it's a reflection and it inspires you. If I started to play only my own songs, unless I really had a mission, for me it would all start to sound the same. It's more reflective of the world to step outside my writing. So I'll ask Antoine to bring something in and I'll shape it. I'll do a ballad, but sometimes you don't want to do the pop ballads of the Tin Pan Alley era. You might want to do the pop ballads of this era, and do the same thing that Bird did with 'em. And that's what I tried to with "Just My Imagination and Al Green tunes. Not all those tunes are going to be great for the way I hear music, but I try to pick tunes that have a certain kind of feeling or mood—then I can shape and put my feelings to it harmonically and rhythmically. It's no different from what Bird did with "Embraceable You. That's a pop tune—Gershwin.
AAJ: Those tunes that jazz musicians are supposed to do—now players do them because other jazz musicians have done them. It's sort of a jazz rule. But initially, it was just doing a song you liked.
WR: And those songs I do speak to me in a certain way, probably the way "My Funny Valentine spoke to Chet Baker or "It Never Entered My Mind spoke to Miles. They're relevant in that way. Not that you'd never do those other tunes as well, but now, as you would say, the vocabulary has broadened. You can't say, "well, they'll never write another tune like that, not since 1939 —that's not true. They kept writing; people wrote tunes outside of what we do as jazz artists. It's just whether you find it worthy enough to do something with it; some people might not, some might.
AAJ: No one I interview ever even listens to their own records. But I still want to ask: do you have any favorite albums you've done?
WR: These two are my favorite.
AAJ: The last two, Prototype and Mystikal?
WR: Yeah. Right now. But what I'm thinking about doing next is going to take things forward further, to expand. If they allow me to do something else—because the reality is if the record doesn't do anything, then the record company will say, "why should we put money behind doing it? We're not just benevolent, not just handing out money. I understand that now. It's a cruel thing, and I wish that jazz musicians could be subsidized so they can let their art be pure—but, you know, it's always art versus commerce. And I'm on art's side.
AAJ: You're doing a lot of shows lately, and when I saw you recently, I was so impressed. You've got such a listening band. Are you enjoying playing out live? Do you ever surprise yourself with what you play?
WR: I always enjoy playing live. The problem is there's a lot of clubs that don't want to take a chance on me, on what I'm doing. That's the problem. So you sit around trying to convince people that this music should be played, should be heard. And then sometimes you can come in and you can pack the joint! But then you come around after doing a European tour and they forget that everyone had a good experience listening to the music and the place was full. They forget, for whatever reason. And that's what makes it hard to keep working. But I've been dedicated to keep working, to try to fulfill what Miles saw in me, what Tony Williams saw in me. After you play with those guys, and they give you what it is they're going to give you—it's your chance to try to do something with it.
A guy was asking me something a couple weeks ago. He said, "Miles gave you this stuff; don't you think it's your duty to find someone else to hand it off to? I said, "no, not yet, because I have to do something with it! You have to take it and start using it! The first thing people want you to do is hand it off, get rid of it. No, man, I got to play, I got to utilize this! Miles didn't just grab anybody off the street. He didn't hear nobody that he liked! Because he was taking it further. But he heard somebody one day, he said, "wait a minute, this cat is trying to go for it. I'm going to help him. He didn't just pick me off the street or just pick somebody. Tony Williams used to tell me Miles didn't give it up easily. There were a lot of guys that wanted to be there. So the mission is trying to take what it is he had faith in me to do and try to do it, like "Papa Jo did for Tony. I remember there was a young bassist who the world thought was great. And he probably was great. And they wanted Ron Carter immediately to mentor him. Ron Carter said, "well, I don't think he's as great as you all think he is. That doesn't mean he wasn't great, but he didn't think so, so he wasn't going to waste his time.
AAJ: I don't care anyway, because while there aren't words for what Ron Carter could teach a bassist, if you're going to be great at something, you'll find some route to accomplish that. No one's life can be dependent on one person that way. If it is true, I feel sorry for everyone, because then life is either one opportunity you get, or one that gets away forever. But that's crazy.
WR: That is true. I definitely agree. If you didn't get this one person as a teacher, that doesn't mean your mission ends. Everybody's part of the whole. I do think, though, people should go out and try to be up under the Oscar Petersons and the Herbie Hancocks or the McCoy Tyners. Even if they can't be around them personally, there is so much to get from a Benny Golson or a Wayne Shorter! Or Johnny Griffin or Mulgrew Miller or Geri Allen. Just try to be around them, and if they don't want you around, just listen to them. Just watch them. That's part of this music too, just being up in the music.
AAJ: Yeah, well, every guy I've ever interviewed says, "I was lucky enough to have this teacher, and so on.
WR: That's the problem with the young scene anyway, today. Some of them trivialize what we do. They say, "well, John Coltrane's dead. Well, what about the people who played with John Coltrane? I see young guys coming to the music thinking all they've got to do is show up. When I played with Art Blakey, or Tony Williams—I never felt like that. I always felt that you had to try to come up to the music. I didn't know whether what I had was enough! And people like Tony Williams will let you know, either by the way he's playing, or by coming to you and saying, "I need you to do this. The cats in my generation were smart enough to think, "oh man, if I want to keep this gig, I need to do this. They could hear when they weren't coming up to that level. You play with Art and you finish the first gig, and if you messed up, you run to your room and grimace about it [laughing].
Some of the young musicians don't do that. First of all, they're all leaders, so they don't know if their talent is really good enough to play with someone else. They never go that far, they're just playing with themselves and thinking that's it. But if they do tokenly play with somebody, and their talent isn't enough, they don't go upstairs and say, "man, I messed up. The first thing they do is go chase girls, or chase guys. Run out, run off the gig. They don't have enough respect for the music or the musicians to say, "man, it wasn't good. I got to work harder. And the most convenient thing for people to say is, "well, such-and-such isn't an Art Blakey. Well, yes we are. Mulgrew is the Art Blakey of the day. Geri might be where Herbie was. And I'm sure when Art was leading the band, some young guy was saying, "he's no 'Papa' Jo. He's no Chick Webb.
AAJ: That's just the old fanboy bullshit. It suggests that those older players were a different species—like Superman.
WR: Well, I might disagree. They were Superman! But I believe they picked other people to be with them in their legion of superheroes! So you got to start digging what Mulgrew or Geri can do. And respect it.
AAJ: Well, yes. And while everyone should own as many Miles records as they can, you can't just sit with your Miles records and declare nothing else is happening. It's not reality.
WR: And you're actually killing the world of music by saying not enough's happening since then. Instead of honoring what is happening.
AAJ: Well, if nobody goes to any gigs, I guarantee there will be nothing happening out there.
WR: Dig that. If you want to cultivate it, encourage it.
AAJ: With the experiences you've had, the trouble getting enough gig—I would be so frustrated and upset. But you don't sound discouraged; you sound positive. How do you keep your attitude?
WR: I've got heroes in this business. Of course, Miles is the ultimate hero. Roy Haynes is a hero to me. Tony Williams—Tony was a guy who spoke the truth. He played the truth and he spoke it. He didn't let politics enter in to it. Tony was like that and I appreciate him for it. But Roy Haynes did something that was beautiful. One night I was playing with Chick Corea's band with Roy and these Down Beat guys came up to Roy. They wanted to do an article on Roy. And Roy said, "what? I don't want to do an article. You want to do an article on me now when I'm 72 years old—where were you then when I needed you? Back when I was younger, y'all wasn't doing nothing on me! I don't need an article; I know how to survive and live at this point. Interview Wallace and Kenny [Garrett].
I said, "Roy, you're a hero. [laughing] Of course, they went on to do Kenny! But that was cool! Another hero was Dizzy Gillespie. They were doing his 75th birthday thing for Dizzy, and they had everybody mapped out who they wanted to use. And Dizzy said, "wait a minute! Where are these people? And he made them put on the musicians he wanted! And guys like Dizzy are the heroes of the business, and they know. Dizzy played with Bird! He knows what it's like for a musician that is trying to go forward, that is playing truth. Tony was that way, too. Just because someone said some guy's great—Tony would say, "well, back then, in the era everyone thought was so great, that musician wouldn't have been working with us! Nowadays, they're pushing a guy like that, but he wouldn't have got on Herbie's record Maiden Voyage. Funny thing is, maybe now he would! But Tony always talked that way, even to the end.
Visit Wallace Roney on the web.
Selected Discography:
Wallace Roney, Mystikal (High Note, 2005)
Calhoun, Native Lands (Half Note, 2005)
Meshell Ndegeocello, Spirit Music Jamia: Dance of the Infidel (Shanachie, 2005)
Wallace Roney, Prototype (High Note, 2004)
The Lenny White Project, Tribute to Earth, Wind & Fire (Trauma, 2004)
Terri Lyne Carrington, Jazz is a Spirit (ACT, 2002)
Vince Herring, Simple Pleasure (High Note, 2001)
Wallace Roney, No Room for Argument (Stretch, 2000)
Bill Evans, Touch (Zebra, 1999)
David Sanborn, Inside (Elektra, 1999)
Makoto Ozone, Three Wishes (Polygram, 1998)
Dizzy Gillespie, Triple Play (Telarc, 1998)
Geri Allen, Gathering (Verve, 1998)
Wallace Roney, Village (Warner Brothers, 1997)
Chick Corea, Remembering Bud Powell (Stretch, 1997)
Freddie Hubbard, Hub Art: A Celebration of the Music of Freddie Hubbard (Hip Bop Essence, 1996)
Wallace Roney, The Wallace Roney Quintet (Warner Brothers, 1995)
Geri Allen, Eyes in the Back of Your Head (Blue Note, 1995)
Wallace Roney, Mysterioso (Warner Brothers, 1994)
Lionel Hampton, For the Love of Music (MoJazz, 1994)
Wallace Roney, Crunchin' (Muse, 1993)
Wallace Roney, Munchin' (Muse, 1993)
Randy Weston, Volcano Blues (Antilles, 1993)
Herbie Hancock, Dis is Da Drum (Mercury, 1993)
Antoine Roney, Traveler (Muse, 1992)
Tony Williams, Tokyo Live (Blue Note, 1992)
Wallace Roney, Seth Air (Muse, 1991)
Tony Williams, The Story of Neptune (Blue Note, 1991)
Miles Davis/Quincy Jones, Miles & Quincy Live at Montreux (Warner Brothers, 1991)
Wallace Roney, Obsession (Muse, 1990)
Joey DeFrancesco, Where Were You? (Columbia, 1990)
Wallace Roney, The Standard Bearer (Muse, 1989)
Marvin "Smitty" Smith, Road Less Traveled (Concord, 1989)
Tony Williams, Native Heart (Blue Note, 1989)
Wallace Roney, Intuition (Muse, 1988)
James Spaulding, Brilliant Corners (32Jazz, 1988)
Tony Williams, Angel Street (Blue Note, 1988)
Wallace Roney, Verses (Muse, 1987)
Kenny Barron, What If? (Enja, 1986)
Tony Williams, Civilization (Blue Note, 1986)
Art Blakey & The Jazz Messengers, Feeling Good (Delos, 1986)
Tony Williams, Foreign Intrigue (Blue Note, 1985)
Related Articles:
Wallace Roney Sextet at the Green Mill (2005) Wallace Roney Quintet: The History of Jazz (2004)
Homage and Acknowledgement: A Conversation with Wallace Roney (2001)
Photo Credits:
Top Photo: Michael Kurgansky
All others: Adrian Buckmaster
https://www.allaboutjazz.com/wallace-roney-in-the-realm-of-anti-gravity-wallace-roney-by-rj-deluke.php
"The unknown means to stretch your ability," he explains. "Say Art Tatum has technique like this. You can try to dare to equal what Art Tatum did, but put it in a modern context, not the way he did it. Or what John Coltrane did with Charlie Parker. Trane took Bird's ideas further. But the only way you do it is you have to go through it to have it. You don't just wake up one day and say, 'I'm going to play the saxophone.' or 'I'm going to play like Miles Davis.' You have to understand how to develop a sound. Why do these lines make sense? Once you understand that, then have the audacity to see if you can take it further. Blend it with something else."
His current musicians are on that mission, he feels.
They do light a fire, particularly Abadey on the drums, cooking, dropping bombs, switching gears but not losing place. Whether cooking on Duke Pearson's "Is That So" and Roney's "Combustible," or floating through the McCoy Tyner ballad "You Taught My heart to Sing," this band is exciting. Tyner's "Song for Peace," is superb, both serene and majestic in Roney's rich trumpet statements, and dangerous with Solomon's intense sax solo. Solomon's "Kotra" seems like it could fit on Miles Smiles.
"My band just keep evolving. People, fortunately, like some of the things we're trying. They feel they want to play with the band and consequently play with me," says Roney. "The guy I'm on the lookout for is one that has no hangups about trying to be as creative as he can be... Some people's creativity is to ignore some of the great things that happened. Mine is to be able to have all the great things in your back pocket, or as your language, then see if you can take it further. You have something to work with. A lot of guys come to me and see there's a chance for them to try to do things they weren't allowed to do in other situations."
The group hasn't played together that long, but became a band quickly. Roney says with glee, "They were hounding me. 'Can I bring a tune in? I got something for the band.' I'm like: Hold on. Slow down. They didn't slow down. They were like: We're ready. I was like, 'You want to be a band? Y'all are ready all ready?' So Ben [Solomon] brought out a tune and Arnold [Lee] brought a tune. Everybody wanted to bring out their tunes. They started sounding really good. I shaped those things to take on another kind of life. Instead of the way they originally intended it."
He says the title cut, by drummer Roy Brooks, "I knew from when I was a kid. I knew Roy. He was a beautiful cat. Complex guy. This song 'Understanding' just made sense to me. I always wanted to do it to honor Roy. It reminds me of when I first turned on the radio on my own. I think that song was the first thing that came on. I've been listening to jazz radio since I was a kid, all my life. My father turned it on and I loved it. It wasn't like he turned it on and I had to hear it. When my mother and father broke up and there's a period of adjustment and you find out who you are. I was 10 years old and I wanted to reclaim my sanity. I found a radio and I said, 'Man, I don't want to listen to that rock and roll crap. Where is the jazz station?' I switched around and looked for the jazz station, at that time it was WRTI in Philadelphia."
Roney is rightly proud of his band and glows when he says, "Nobody else can really play like these guys; the combination of things I put together in assembling those guys. When I first heard Ben, he really was going into Trane's space. Not Trane's space from being another person. Not Trane's space and this one part of it. He wanted to go all the way in and see how he'd come out of it. And I loved it. And then you have Kush, he was going all the way into Tony's [Williams] space. He's trying to. That's a hard one. Well, Trane is even harder. But Kush is going in there and understanding Trane and Elvin Jones. I told him remember Art Blakey and Max [Roach]. So he put all that stuff together in that kind of way. And Victor is up there playing everything from Nat Cole to [Thelonious] Monk to Herbie [Hancock]... Then I'm floating up on top with my stuff that I got from Miles and the things that I liked and it all comes together. Everybody is of like mind at that point. I insist everybody listen to everything and everyone."
He adds, pointedly, "Those are young men with fertile energy. They have the chops that everyone is scared of. It's called creativity... That's where I live."
The band sounds better the more it plays, he says, but the problem is getting gigs. Unfortunately, that is a common problem.
"The problem is getting people to trust. To bring these kids out to play. When we get out to play, people seem to feel what they're trying to express. But the club owners, they just want names that they recognize, which is a drag. You try to fight this thing, but it's hard. But I'm fighting it. I ain't stopping. That's the only way the music can grow. Then you look up and those are the cats with the names," he says. "You want the rest of the road to be smooth, so you can contribute. But are you kidding me? How I've been able to stay relevant is a blessing."
Relevant, indeed. Roney, whom Shorter has called "a musical astronaut," is one of the outstanding creators in the business. He started playing the trumpet at the age of seven and never got sidetracked. He had formal instruction from teachers. "I just loved it. You pick up and instrument; you can't play it. How are you gonna learn? If you love it as much as I loved it, you want to get good, so you start studying. At eight years old, I was trying to go through my books as fast as I can so I can sound like I want to hear. I doesn't work like that, but it gives you the blueprint of discipline."
Sigmund Herring from the Philadelphia Orchestra was his first teacher and there were others, but encounters with Terry and Gillespie made an immeasurable impact. "I'm talking about as far as legitimate understanding of the instrument. Clark had been through it all and he would show me things maybe my teachers wouldn't. Teachers just get you to study and if you played the right note, it was fine. Clark would teach you things like articulation and breath control. And different ways to develop your fingers. Dizzy was good for that too. He was always talking about curving your fingers like you're playing the piano. Dizzy knew all the different scales and different fingerings to play major scales. Dizzy was something else. Those guys were better than the conservatory teachers, legitimately."
He had a scholarship to the Settlement School of Music at the age of seven.
He left Philadelphia to attend high school at the Duke Ellington School for the Arts in Washington, D.C. While in school, he sought out gigs. In a brash move, he asked a nightclub owner about bringing in a band for a night each week. Roney was an unknown, so even trough little attention was paid to his request, he gathered a group together and got them playing standards. After a while, he approached the club again and got the weekly gig.
"At that point, you couldn't tell me anything. I was going to do this and I need to study every day because people are coming to hear me and I need to get up to the level of Clifford and Blue Mitchell and all them," he recalls. "I felt like I was playing Birdland or something every Monday. Fifteen years old. For the rest of my time in Washington, I was doing those kinds of things."
He auditioned for the Berklee School of Music and was accepted, but Roney's father was against him leaving home and he was persuasive. Roney attended Howard University in Washington, DC. While at Howard, he was gigging with a band and also went to New York to play on a record by his friend guitarist Rodney Jones.
"The first band I ever played in was Cedar Walton's band with Bob Berg and Billy Higgins and Sam Jones. That's the first band I ever played in. I was 15 or 16. The first person I ever played in New York with was Philly Joe Jones," says Roney. "I went to sit in with Philly at 16. We played 'Confirmation,' and when I got through it, Philly grabbed me and said 'I got a new partner. Here's the partner.' But Cedar was the first one to hire me back then."
And yes, about Miles.
All About Jazz: Let's jump right into talking about your great new CD Mystikal. I love the playing of your bassist Matt Garrison and your drummer Eric Allen. They both also appear on your last album, Prototype. Tell me how you got involved with them and what you like about their playing.
Wallace Roney: Okay. I met Matt—first of all, you know Matt's the son of Jimmy Garrison—years ago. I was getting ready to open up at the Vanguard and he just came up to me and introduced himself. He said he would love to do some playing. That was 1994. And then in the year 2000, I did a gig with him; I played with Herbie Hancock and Herbie had Matt on bass. And when Matt started playing, I was just floored. Terri Lyne [Carrington] was the drummer, and I thought those two had a great, creative chemistry. But Matt—what I heard in Matt was a person with creativity and chops and a boldness that's rare among musicians. And that's on acoustic bass. When he plays electric bass, he's able to play the same things. I met Eric in 1976; we went to high school together. Even then, Eric was one of the best young drummers that was coming out. We had a chance to listen to a lot of music together, a lot of great musicians. Eric's actually been on the scene since 1981, but I think he was eclipsed by the media blitz on, you know, the other people. It had nothing to do with his playing; it's just the media focussed on whoever was playing with whoever they considered popular.
AAJ: So you did this new album in one day—actually, one day in May just a few months ago. It must be nice that HighNote could get this record out so quickly in a world where musicians often see their records released at least a year after they're recorded. Were these mostly first takes? Did you do a lot of takes of this material?
WR: These were mostly first takes. Yeah, I am happy that HighNote is able to do that. I've been through a lot of record companies and before, I didn't understand what [label head] Joe Fields' commitment to the music was. I see it now after being around other companies. I realize this cat is really serious; he'll do what he can to help make your record—you know, the record you're trying to do. In the beginning, when I was making records, I was in a different place than I am now.
AAJ: Let's talk about the title track of the CD, "Mystikal. I think it was of your best new compositions; it has a lovely, expansive theme that's been playing in my head for the last few weeks. You and your brother really cook on your solos, and I like how the six minutes of the tune pack so much emotion and drama. Tell me something about this song, how it was composed.
WR: Well, you know, it's funny—how things are composed is less important to me. What's more important is that it finally becomes a fruition and it's there. What I was trying to do was play something that had the embodiment of sweeping, soaring spirit; something that is tangible that can't be explained. That's what the word is. You're trying to make the music be the embodiment of what you're trying to say.
AAJ: A song like "Mystikal feels like it's exactly as written as it needs to be, meaning it has a framework and some melodic content, but it's not overwritten. I never hear composition overwhelm playing on your records.
WR: That's good; I'm hoping what you're saying is that the composition serves as inspiration to what we're going to play. So they become one.
AAJ: It's not free improvisation; these are tunes, but the tunes are not straightjackets. They're structures for human beings to embody.
WR: Well, when we approach it, we approach it totally from a free point. We're reacting. We're reacting to what we just announced musically.
AAJ: On the CD, "Mystikal follows your version of Wayne Shorter's "Atlantis and I think the two work well together. There's a restlessness and sweetness to them both—a spiritual quality. "Atlantis is all layered sound: there's Fender Rhodes and, I think, Clavinet—it has that Stevie Wonder sound.
WR: Herbie. Herbie was before Stevie.
AAJ: Well, Herbie Hancock was before everyone when it comes to all that gear, wasn't he? There's also acoustic piano, in any case. I think these layered keys are a real trademark of your sound. "Shadow Dance from Prototype has a similar layered blend of keyboards. Tell me what you like of that kind of recorded blend of electric keyboards and piano.
WR: Well, your focus is the piano. But the piano doesn't have everything. But it has enough to inspire everything. But then you've got an actual Clavinet or an electric piano to warm it up a little bit, to make it shimmer like a jewel. You're using the keyboards as an extension of the piano instead of as a pop sound.
AAJ: Speaking of "Shadow Dance, to me there's something accordion-like in its head with that harmonized blend of you, Antoine Roney and Don Byron.
WR: Well, don't think there's anything wrong with that. I don't know if that's what we were going for. It doesn't matter. I think what matters is what it conjures up in people's heads—your head or anyone else's. Just the fact that it can conjure up something is a blessing.
AAJ: Another thing about that layered sound is that these instruments appear and disappear on one track. On your cover of "Just My Imagination, for example—there's this beautiful interplay between you and Geri Allen's piano. She accompanies you to the point where it's really a sort of duet, and then she plays a solo that, because of the way the record's mixed, seems to turn into a Fender Rhodes—the acoustic piano's gone and in its place is the Rhodes. Do you think about this when you're arranging? Do you say, "I want the piano to be prominent here, and fade away here?
WR: I think she does. And I think that's why I asked her to be there: because she does think like that. Because I think like that, but I don't have to say much, because there are people there that are just really that expansive on their instruments.
AAJ: Val Jeanty is all over this record on turntables, whether she's playing vocal samples, cutting or just adding sounds to the overall blend. She was pretty prominent when I saw you live as well. You also worked with DJ Logic on the Prototype album, and I think you were working with turntablists way before you ever recorded with any.
WR: That's right, with Val.
AAJ: Tell me what turntables add to your music and what you like to hear from them: what sort of things you like them to play in your group.
WR: Turntablists are what's happening in pop music today, in pop culture. It's what people are hearing, and I always try to stay open to what they're hearing—what's being felt today. Because you can't help but be influenced by that; you walk down the street and you're hearing sounds. So she and Logic were very important. Val's the one on No Room For Argument as well.
AAJ: Right, she did the vocal samples that are on that record.
WR: Yeah, and the chants. We've got African chants on there; there's a lot of things going on there. With that one, she was a good way of vocalizing what we were trying to say musically; she was able to put in messages of spirituality, things that are relevant that are in our music. So as we're playing it, as you feel it, she feels it and expresses it that way through the turntable. She became an important aspect of what you're doing.
AAJ: Everything she's doing sounds so musical to me. Not to suggest turntablists aren't musicians—I think they are—but she's really good. She's always listening.
WR: Well, she's Haitian, and she's a drummer.
AAJ: "Stargaze is another great new tune. It's pretty funky, has a little of that old Chic "Good Times riff in it, and a typically searching Wallace Roney theme. I love how the rhythm section shifts and changes in it—it's not just straight groove. During your solo, the whole band, especially Matt, gets freer, gets away from that riff, and then things tighten up for Geri's piano break. Songs like feel like they'd be different every time you play them. Do your tunes always change in each night's performance?
WR: Yeah, yeah, they do shift and they do make different turns. That song has, again, another searching quality through the melody. And we got a rhythm going on with the bass playing this groove, and I got Eric almost playing an almost straight-ahead beat against it—you know, like "Papa Jo [Jones] playing on a sock cymbal [imitating the sound], "tett-a-ttuu, tett-a-ttuu, tet-a-ttuu. Only he doesn't go with the "tett-a-ttuu, he just does the last part, the "tttuu, ttuu, ta-ttuuu against the bass, and it's killin'! It sounds great! The thing that I do is I tell them that I don't care what we play. We're going to approach it from the best of what our music has. We must have interplay with each other. It must groove, or it must swing. Whatever. People say "swing, but I interpret "swing to mean it feels good, it grooves. That's no different from what funk players do when they're funky.
It's got to sound good. I don't even care if you're playing as free as you want. In terms of the rhythms, we've been given the lessons of Elvin Jones and Tony Williams. And Max [Roach], Art Blakey, Roy [Haynes]—how you can be creative rhythmically. Then we as artists, as melodic players, must be as creative as we can. So that makes "Stargaze no different than playing "Nefertiti. We're playing off the groove, whatever it is, whether it's a straight-ahead groove, ostinato, an African groove—well, they're all African grooves anyway. African bass grooves.
AAJ: We have to talk about your Slick Rick cover on this CD, "Hey Young World, with its reggae pulse. Once again, Eric Allen has fantastic time on this one and your solo's got a perfect mixture of slow, medium and fast licks. But this is Antoine Roney's greatest moment on this CD to me; he nails his solo on tenor. He's such a great player, and a good writer, too: his tune "Then and Now on Prototype is a great song. Tell me about Antoine; what are his greatest strengths as a player?
WR: Well, Antoine is, again, another musician who's overlooked, probably because people want to be spiteful. But he's one of the best creative musicians out here, and he always has been. He's a great musican and great artist; those are different things. A great musician is a musician who can do anything they're supposed to do. A great artist is someone who can go beyond that. It's possible to be a great artist and not a great musician. and it's possible to be a great musician and not a great artist. He's both. Matt Garrison is both. These guys, you put them in a professional situation, they can easily be first call. But they can go way above that. Antoine is definitely one of those artists that never plays the typical thing. He's always reaching for another side, and it's not by accident; he can play the typical thing, but so many other people play it too—that's why it's called "typical. That's what Antoine brings to this music. He's a creative artist and a great writer—I wish he would write more. I think he is doing a lot of writing again.
AAJ: Speaking of his song "Then and Now —that song demonstrates another side of what you do, the more so-called straight-ahead bop or post-bop stuff, without any electric touches. Sort of like your version of Kenny Dorham's "Poetic on the new CD. On "Then and Now, you and Antoine seem to really savor playing through those changes. Do you enjoy playing that stuff as much as it seems?
WR: Well, here we go again. It's the same thing! That's why I do it. I'm trying to say it's all the same thing. It's the same approach. People might not understand it, but if, in the middle of my solo, Geri or [keyboardist] Adam [Holzman] put a splash of electric keyboard on it, it might easily sound like "NiceTown or "Shadow Dance. To me, I'm not not playing what you call straight-ahead jazz when we're playing, say, Slick Rick's tune. I'm playing the same thing! It's the same prerequisite. It's just the melody or the bass line might be different than straight 4/4. But straight 4/4, walking bass, doesn't mean it's not creative jazz. So the bass can be walking, the bass can be playing a groove like in "A Night in Tunisia or a groove like something Parliament played. It's what you do with it—that's what I'm trying to say. And in terms of the instrument you use, it's how creatively you use it; sometimes it's not appropriate to hear something where the bass is walking all four notes and the beat is electric. Sometimes it's more appropriate to have a more acoustic wash to it. Sometimes you can do that on a tune like "Cyberspace and it'll have a different feel, but that's why you have these options! They're called options.
AAJ: It's all just music. I think the problem is that in jazz writing, we writers are stuck with the vocabulary we have, so you end up with declarations like "this is a bop tune. This is a funk tune. It might be helpful to the listener, but it does compartmentalize everything to the point where it must be exasperating to the artist to read that sort of statement.
WR: Well, it's interesting you say that because I halfway agree. I agree that it bores us when you say, "this is a bop tune, "this is a such-and-such tune. But if you say it's funky or it swings, "this tune swings, you can describe it that way instead of saying defiantly that it's this kind of tune. Because all the tunes have aspects of what you say about that one tune. They all swing! They're all funky. They're all advanced. They're all spiritually based. But you can say that this one has this kind of feel to it. It does get funny to me when people have to explain a song in terms of something else that they heard before. "This sounds like such-and-such. We know those things; let's see how creative the writer can be—let's see him go deeper and say what it sounds like to him instead of who it sounds like.
AAJ: Well, I personally don't have much interest anymore in reviewing a record and saying, "oh, it sounds like Herbie. It sounds like Herbie's Mwandishi band. Because of course it does, because anything that follows that would; we're talking about an enormous vocabulary that he established. It's like saying someone playing rock with minor sevenths and a middle eight section sounds just like the Beatles.
WR: Right, or like saying Mwandishi sounds like Bitches Brew. Yeah, it's like that—but what does it sound like past that to you? Do you hear the instrumentation? That to me is better than putting it in a bag and saying it's like, ah, Weather Report. Fine, what about it? Did you a get a soprano soaring over the texture?
AAJ: Yeah, or it's like, "oh, here's the Miles part; no, wait, now it sounds like Bird. And that's jive.
WR: Yeah, it's there, but who cares? You care because those guys mean something to you. But you know, when I met you at that show [a Roney Chicago gig in late August] and I said to you, "don't write nothin' jive, the reason why was that the band is out here starting to try to do something. And you get marginalized so much anyway. And then you don't get written up, and then after five or six years, people start to understand what you're trying to do. And when someone says to a writer, "go and cover it, the first thing people do is want to squash it by writing something. And I'm thinking, "man, we haven't even gotten off the ground yet! I'd rather have someone write nothing than to squash the first efforts.
AAJ: Well, I don't want to write nothing but nice things. But I don't see showing up at a gig just to write something off. It's not like there are many millionaires in this business.
WR: Thank you. And I dug what you just said: you don't want to write just nice things. If we went up there and we're sloppin' all over the place, shit wasn't happening, or even if you didn't like it—it's cool. And, you know, the industry doesn't really like artists that are trying to do something other than what they put you in a box about.
AAJ: I think you are one of the luckiest and unluckiest musicians. Because it's great you had an association with Miles Davis. We'd all like to have met him, and any musician would like to have learned from him. But this man looms so large that people who have never heard a jazz record knows who he is, and you've had to spend a lot of years being compared to him. The idea being that if you ever knew him, if you ever played with him, you must sound just like him. And people write what is easy to write. So it's something you've had to cope with; how do you do it?
WR: The funny thing is you're right: I was lucky. I got a chance to study with—or be mentored by, or hang with, however you want to say it—one of the greatest artists of all time. And to be around him—it was just too cool. You say, "okay, this is what life is all about, right here. You're listening to the greatest music in the world, you're hanging with the greatest artist ever—everything he does, when he just opens up the door [laughing], you know what I mean? And then on top of that, you're watching all this stuff, and he says [adopting Miles' raspy whisper], "come here, come here, Wally. And you come, and you're just hanging, and he's showing you stuff. He'd take time from being superhip to be ultrahip with you, you know? And you're learning all this stuff, and he's showing you stuff that you could never get from anyone else, because no one thinks like that. Except you! Because that's why you're around him. That's the other part; the reason why I was allowed to be around is because, out of all the musicians around—and he definitely heard what was around—he felt that I was a kindred spirit. He said that to me; he said, "you remind me of me so much. The why you look at me remind me of the way I used to look at Dizzy. You want it—and if you want it that bad, I got to give it to you.
remember Tony Williams said that about Miles' nephew Vince: "I could tell by the way he looked at me that he was going to be a drummer. So I just hung, and Miles would say, "listen to this, and he'd play me something and explain it, or he'd tell me stories. And man, I'd get back on my gig with Tony, and even with Art [Blakey] at the time, and I'd be trying it, what Miles had taught me. And the stuff'd be so bad! Everybody'd be like, "wow! Where'd you get that from? Sometimes I'd be like, "what? It didn't even dawn on me. Not like I didn't know, but it was natural.
AAJ: You were absorbing stuff very quickly. How to play and how to be.
WR: Tony just loved it. After a while, it became like a three-way dialogue between me, Tony and Miles. It was too hip. Miles was telling me how to play between the phrases, all these things, and Tony was responding to it. I was taking my phrases and reworking them these ways and man, we were having a ball. Miles would then say [doing that Miles rasp again], "what did Tony do? What did Tony say? Then he'd just laugh. We had a good time, man, and I thought life was going to be like that forever. And technically, it should have. But it all came to a head when the people who were jealous of that kind of interaction found a way to make the people feel that was not necessary or shouldn't be honored—because after he died, I kept going. I kept going in the creative way that I was dealing with from being in that environment.
I think Miles felt that maybe I had the ears or the heart or the creativity to try to take what he did and expand it, take it further. And that's what I'm trying to do: I'm trying to take his ideas further. Put my own signature on it, but take it further. I think when people hear advanced artists like Miles Davis, or John Coltrane, or Tony Williams, or Max Roach, or Herbie—I think their ideas shouldn't be thrown away. I think they should be utilized. I don't think you should just copy it and only pay that homage to them. I think you should use it! You should use the ideas, and try to do something, especially when they're gone. It's not like they're dead and so it's over. That's a good way to kill them.
AAJ: Well, their ideas are so revolutionary at the time, but in their wake the vocabularies they create are like air: if you try to avoid it, you suffocate yourself. It should become a part of everyone's vocabulary.
WR: It should be. And we should be trying to add more words to the vocabulary, we should be extending it. But we should definitely use it. I think some people get hung up on that; they pay homage by just playing someone's solo. I'm not talking about that—I think you should do that at home. I think you should take what they do, then take it further; let's keep this building growing. I'm determined that I'm going to do that. And other people will do some other things, and maybe you can utilize that too. But maybe by my doing this, I'm doing some other things—and finding new things in a way that is more natural and deeper than just by cutting off what went before.
AAJ: I think it would be hard for a creative musician to try too hard to not play something; it's not very natural to think about avoiding things while playing.
WR: Well, it's easy for some of them not to play certain things because they didn't have to work at it to figure out what it is. That's the other thing. Work is always something that people run from and that some people are encouraged to run from. Seems like the journals encourage you to be lazy. And sometimes the lazy way is to try to be completely different. I know that's a word that people like to use, but I think instead of being different, they should try to be better. I think better is better than different! Trying to be better, trying to take something further. Even if you can't go any further with something, what comes out of trying is the next thing. Or the next logical extension of what's happening.
AAJ: Well, we all like a new sound, but a self-conscious novelty doesn't tend to last long.
WR: No, I don't think so. It doesn't have any place. But I do think there are always new sounds that come out of developing. That's what life's about. It's not about destroying something—if you keep destroying what was before, you don't have anything. You're starting over all the time. At least that's the way I see it. I was reading something Herbie was saying. He was saying that it's taken him a long time to remember that he's a human being first, not a musician. That's great, because he's talking about the evolution of people—but on the other hand, he wouldn't be the Herbie that he is now if he hadn't been what he's criticizing people for being now. He said, "I used to be the person that was music all day, every day, and had these musical goals. But if he didn't feel that way before, then he wouldn't have sounded like he did, say, with Miles Davis.
AAJ: That's a common way for a person to feel, though, at two different ages of his life.
WR: Yeah, but I think he's influencing people to not work very hard, and if he didn't work so hard, he wouldn't have been in those situations. And that part has to be honored. Miles Davis, it seems to me, was a person who lived life with a purpose. John Coltrane was a person that lived life with a purpose.
AAJ: Yeah, well, sure! Coltrane might have had the greatest, most focused purpose of anyone I can think of offhand.
WR: Maybe. Maybe Miles was just as focused. Maybe people just didn't see it that way.
AAJ: I can't even compare them in way where I think less of one of them. Coltrane got sick and died, so his whole work seems like one marathon burn towards a certain point, and then it was cut short.
WR: Ain't that what life is, though?
AAJ: Yeah. But some lives are longer than others.
WR: But I'm talking about life itself, and evolution of the world, and universe; it's one long evolution towards something. That's what I'm starting to figure out.
AAJ: Actually, after getting this philosophical, I always feel stupid getting back to mundane questions. It's that larger stuff that blows my mind.
WR: But that's what it is to me in music. I think you're trying to honor a purpose. If you're just going to play, wake up and do a job and be proficient, that's cool. That's your mission, I guess. But I think that if you want to make your music, make what you do mean something, or achieve something that's more than something marginal—even if most of the world won't hear it, you would like that it has some sort of effect on the universe.
AAJ: Yeah, especially when life seems so short and music seems so precious.
WR: There you go. So that's what you're waking up in the morning to do. To keep trying to upgrade what you have in your life. And in your life, music—if you're an artist, that's one of the best parts of what you have to offer! It's not that you get up, and walk, and go to the bathroom—your contribution to this life might be a universal, sonic thing! And you're going to try to make it the greatest in the world. You're trying to make it honor something.
AAJ: Well, otherwise, as a musician you're sort of a mere timekeeper. Either way, you're playing for two hours that night on a bandstand.
WR: Well, we should keep encouraging that kind of thing. And we should discourage the ones that are just jiving around—if they're jiving around. I always think, what if one day we all set aside two minutes and asked the whole world to sing one pitch at the same time for thirty seconds? Everybody included. All over the world, everybody get up and go, "hmmmmmm —whatever the pitch is. Maybe it'd have to be at a certain amount of decibels, so everyone would have to sing this loud. Everyone, the person next to you, people driving—you know what I mean? Put it on the air; what would that sound like?
AAJ: Everyone would simply ascend.
WR: You dig? And that's what you're trying to make your music do!
AAJ: Unfortunately, the cynic in me says that people would spend the next ten years fighting each other on what that pitch should be. But if it could happen, the human race would grow angel wings and we would float away.
WR: Yeah. That's what the music's about and that's what you're trying to do with your music. That's it.
AAJ: Again, it all seems so trivial now to get back to smaller matters. Here's one you might disagree with. I would never accuse you of making easy listening music. There's nothing smooth about your jazz. But I think there's a sense of serenity, a sense of hope and optimism on this new record. I don't think you've ever made negative music, but No Room for Argument sounds urgent to me almost to the point of being pissed off. Is there a difference? Are you feeling more hopeful?
WR: I think there's everything in music, again. With No Room for Argument, I'm very proud of what we were trying to do. And that's on Mystikal, actually, too. Let's say you're pissed off because the people do not accept the fact that this world is not fair. That's an opening statement. Well, the following statement might be, what should we do about it? Maybe that's the next record. And then the third statement might be, what would the results be if we saw it in a fairer way? And you say, well, we'll feel a lot better. So maybe that's what this is saying. One record says, this isn't right; the next record says we're trying to evolve to be a higher people, and the one after that says, if you let us evolve, we can operate like this, and it'll be beautiful. You still retain all the strength of a revolution. Every record can't be the same yelling—but it can have the same message. Coltrane's A Love Supreme sounds different from Crescent to me. But it's the same intention.
AAJ: And that's what you want in record albums, anyway. A body of work that holds together but isn't remaking the same thing over and over. Which I think sometimes is what people want musicians to do.
WR: But then they wouldn't be happy with that. It wouldn't say anything.
AAJ: Your albums often feature a great blend of other people's compositions with your own. Besides the Roney tunes, there are jazz compositions like Kenny Dorham's "Poetic, Wayne Shorter's "Atlantis, Slick Rick's "Hey Young World, the Temptations' "Just My Imagination, Al Green's "Let's Stay Together, and maybe best of all, André "3000 Benjamin of Outkast's "Prototype. You've got good taste in songs. Tell me what motivates you to do a song for an album. What attracts you to it?
WR: Well, here I go with my thing again: because we don't live on this world alone. So you hear someone else's stuff, and it's a reflection and it inspires you. If I started to play only my own songs, unless I really had a mission, for me it would all start to sound the same. It's more reflective of the world to step outside my writing. So I'll ask Antoine to bring something in and I'll shape it. I'll do a ballad, but sometimes you don't want to do the pop ballads of the Tin Pan Alley era. You might want to do the pop ballads of this era, and do the same thing that Bird did with 'em. And that's what I tried to with "Just My Imagination and Al Green tunes. Not all those tunes are going to be great for the way I hear music, but I try to pick tunes that have a certain kind of feeling or mood—then I can shape and put my feelings to it harmonically and rhythmically. It's no different from what Bird did with "Embraceable You. That's a pop tune—Gershwin.
AAJ: Those tunes that jazz musicians are supposed to do—now players do them because other jazz musicians have done them. It's sort of a jazz rule. But initially, it was just doing a song you liked.
WR: And those songs I do speak to me in a certain way, probably the way "My Funny Valentine spoke to Chet Baker or "It Never Entered My Mind spoke to Miles. They're relevant in that way. Not that you'd never do those other tunes as well, but now, as you would say, the vocabulary has broadened. You can't say, "well, they'll never write another tune like that, not since 1939 —that's not true. They kept writing; people wrote tunes outside of what we do as jazz artists. It's just whether you find it worthy enough to do something with it; some people might not, some might.
AAJ: No one I interview ever even listens to their own records. But I still want to ask: do you have any favorite albums you've done?
WR: These two are my favorite.
AAJ: The last two, Prototype and Mystikal?
WR: Yeah. Right now. But what I'm thinking about doing next is going to take things forward further, to expand. If they allow me to do something else—because the reality is if the record doesn't do anything, then the record company will say, "why should we put money behind doing it? We're not just benevolent, not just handing out money. I understand that now. It's a cruel thing, and I wish that jazz musicians could be subsidized so they can let their art be pure—but, you know, it's always art versus commerce. And I'm on art's side.
AAJ: You're doing a lot of shows lately, and when I saw you recently, I was so impressed. You've got such a listening band. Are you enjoying playing out live? Do you ever surprise yourself with what you play?
WR: I always enjoy playing live. The problem is there's a lot of clubs that don't want to take a chance on me, on what I'm doing. That's the problem. So you sit around trying to convince people that this music should be played, should be heard. And then sometimes you can come in and you can pack the joint! But then you come around after doing a European tour and they forget that everyone had a good experience listening to the music and the place was full. They forget, for whatever reason. And that's what makes it hard to keep working. But I've been dedicated to keep working, to try to fulfill what Miles saw in me, what Tony Williams saw in me. After you play with those guys, and they give you what it is they're going to give you—it's your chance to try to do something with it.
A guy was asking me something a couple weeks ago. He said, "Miles gave you this stuff; don't you think it's your duty to find someone else to hand it off to? I said, "no, not yet, because I have to do something with it! You have to take it and start using it! The first thing people want you to do is hand it off, get rid of it. No, man, I got to play, I got to utilize this! Miles didn't just grab anybody off the street. He didn't hear nobody that he liked! Because he was taking it further. But he heard somebody one day, he said, "wait a minute, this cat is trying to go for it. I'm going to help him. He didn't just pick me off the street or just pick somebody. Tony Williams used to tell me Miles didn't give it up easily. There were a lot of guys that wanted to be there. So the mission is trying to take what it is he had faith in me to do and try to do it, like "Papa Jo did for Tony. I remember there was a young bassist who the world thought was great. And he probably was great. And they wanted Ron Carter immediately to mentor him. Ron Carter said, "well, I don't think he's as great as you all think he is. That doesn't mean he wasn't great, but he didn't think so, so he wasn't going to waste his time.
AAJ: I don't care anyway, because while there aren't words for what Ron Carter could teach a bassist, if you're going to be great at something, you'll find some route to accomplish that. No one's life can be dependent on one person that way. If it is true, I feel sorry for everyone, because then life is either one opportunity you get, or one that gets away forever. But that's crazy.
WR: That is true. I definitely agree. If you didn't get this one person as a teacher, that doesn't mean your mission ends. Everybody's part of the whole. I do think, though, people should go out and try to be up under the Oscar Petersons and the Herbie Hancocks or the McCoy Tyners. Even if they can't be around them personally, there is so much to get from a Benny Golson or a Wayne Shorter! Or Johnny Griffin or Mulgrew Miller or Geri Allen. Just try to be around them, and if they don't want you around, just listen to them. Just watch them. That's part of this music too, just being up in the music.
AAJ: Yeah, well, every guy I've ever interviewed says, "I was lucky enough to have this teacher, and so on.
WR: That's the problem with the young scene anyway, today. Some of them trivialize what we do. They say, "well, John Coltrane's dead. Well, what about the people who played with John Coltrane? I see young guys coming to the music thinking all they've got to do is show up. When I played with Art Blakey, or Tony Williams—I never felt like that. I always felt that you had to try to come up to the music. I didn't know whether what I had was enough! And people like Tony Williams will let you know, either by the way he's playing, or by coming to you and saying, "I need you to do this. The cats in my generation were smart enough to think, "oh man, if I want to keep this gig, I need to do this. They could hear when they weren't coming up to that level. You play with Art and you finish the first gig, and if you messed up, you run to your room and grimace about it [laughing].
Some of the young musicians don't do that. First of all, they're all leaders, so they don't know if their talent is really good enough to play with someone else. They never go that far, they're just playing with themselves and thinking that's it. But if they do tokenly play with somebody, and their talent isn't enough, they don't go upstairs and say, "man, I messed up. The first thing they do is go chase girls, or chase guys. Run out, run off the gig. They don't have enough respect for the music or the musicians to say, "man, it wasn't good. I got to work harder. And the most convenient thing for people to say is, "well, such-and-such isn't an Art Blakey. Well, yes we are. Mulgrew is the Art Blakey of the day. Geri might be where Herbie was. And I'm sure when Art was leading the band, some young guy was saying, "he's no 'Papa' Jo. He's no Chick Webb.
AAJ: That's just the old fanboy bullshit. It suggests that those older players were a different species—like Superman.
WR: Well, I might disagree. They were Superman! But I believe they picked other people to be with them in their legion of superheroes! So you got to start digging what Mulgrew or Geri can do. And respect it.
AAJ: Well, yes. And while everyone should own as many Miles records as they can, you can't just sit with your Miles records and declare nothing else is happening. It's not reality.
WR: And you're actually killing the world of music by saying not enough's happening since then. Instead of honoring what is happening.
AAJ: Well, if nobody goes to any gigs, I guarantee there will be nothing happening out there.
WR: Dig that. If you want to cultivate it, encourage it.
AAJ: With the experiences you've had, the trouble getting enough gig—I would be so frustrated and upset. But you don't sound discouraged; you sound positive. How do you keep your attitude?
WR: I've got heroes in this business. Of course, Miles is the ultimate hero. Roy Haynes is a hero to me. Tony Williams—Tony was a guy who spoke the truth. He played the truth and he spoke it. He didn't let politics enter in to it. Tony was like that and I appreciate him for it. But Roy Haynes did something that was beautiful. One night I was playing with Chick Corea's band with Roy and these Down Beat guys came up to Roy. They wanted to do an article on Roy. And Roy said, "what? I don't want to do an article. You want to do an article on me now when I'm 72 years old—where were you then when I needed you? Back when I was younger, y'all wasn't doing nothing on me! I don't need an article; I know how to survive and live at this point. Interview Wallace and Kenny [Garrett].
I said, "Roy, you're a hero. [laughing] Of course, they went on to do Kenny! But that was cool! Another hero was Dizzy Gillespie. They were doing his 75th birthday thing for Dizzy, and they had everybody mapped out who they wanted to use. And Dizzy said, "wait a minute! Where are these people? And he made them put on the musicians he wanted! And guys like Dizzy are the heroes of the business, and they know. Dizzy played with Bird! He knows what it's like for a musician that is trying to go forward, that is playing truth. Tony was that way, too. Just because someone said some guy's great—Tony would say, "well, back then, in the era everyone thought was so great, that musician wouldn't have been working with us! Nowadays, they're pushing a guy like that, but he wouldn't have got on Herbie's record Maiden Voyage. Funny thing is, maybe now he would! But Tony always talked that way, even to the end.
Visit Wallace Roney on the web.
Selected Discography:
Wallace Roney, Mystikal (High Note, 2005)
Calhoun, Native Lands (Half Note, 2005)
Meshell Ndegeocello, Spirit Music Jamia: Dance of the Infidel (Shanachie, 2005)
Wallace Roney, Prototype (High Note, 2004)
The Lenny White Project, Tribute to Earth, Wind & Fire (Trauma, 2004)
Terri Lyne Carrington, Jazz is a Spirit (ACT, 2002)
Vince Herring, Simple Pleasure (High Note, 2001)
Wallace Roney, No Room for Argument (Stretch, 2000)
Bill Evans, Touch (Zebra, 1999)
David Sanborn, Inside (Elektra, 1999)
Makoto Ozone, Three Wishes (Polygram, 1998)
Dizzy Gillespie, Triple Play (Telarc, 1998)
Geri Allen, Gathering (Verve, 1998)
Wallace Roney, Village (Warner Brothers, 1997)
Chick Corea, Remembering Bud Powell (Stretch, 1997)
Freddie Hubbard, Hub Art: A Celebration of the Music of Freddie Hubbard (Hip Bop Essence, 1996)
Wallace Roney, The Wallace Roney Quintet (Warner Brothers, 1995)
Geri Allen, Eyes in the Back of Your Head (Blue Note, 1995)
Wallace Roney, Mysterioso (Warner Brothers, 1994)
Lionel Hampton, For the Love of Music (MoJazz, 1994)
Wallace Roney, Crunchin' (Muse, 1993)
Wallace Roney, Munchin' (Muse, 1993)
Randy Weston, Volcano Blues (Antilles, 1993)
Herbie Hancock, Dis is Da Drum (Mercury, 1993)
Antoine Roney, Traveler (Muse, 1992)
Tony Williams, Tokyo Live (Blue Note, 1992)
Wallace Roney, Seth Air (Muse, 1991)
Tony Williams, The Story of Neptune (Blue Note, 1991)
Miles Davis/Quincy Jones, Miles & Quincy Live at Montreux (Warner Brothers, 1991)
Wallace Roney, Obsession (Muse, 1990)
Joey DeFrancesco, Where Were You? (Columbia, 1990)
Wallace Roney, The Standard Bearer (Muse, 1989)
Marvin "Smitty" Smith, Road Less Traveled (Concord, 1989)
Tony Williams, Native Heart (Blue Note, 1989)
Wallace Roney, Intuition (Muse, 1988)
James Spaulding, Brilliant Corners (32Jazz, 1988)
Tony Williams, Angel Street (Blue Note, 1988)
Wallace Roney, Verses (Muse, 1987)
Kenny Barron, What If? (Enja, 1986)
Tony Williams, Civilization (Blue Note, 1986)
Art Blakey & The Jazz Messengers, Feeling Good (Delos, 1986)
Tony Williams, Foreign Intrigue (Blue Note, 1985)
Related Articles:
Wallace Roney Sextet at the Green Mill (2005) Wallace Roney Quintet: The History of Jazz (2004)
Homage and Acknowledgement: A Conversation with Wallace Roney (2001)
Photo Credits:
Top Photo: Michael Kurgansky
All others: Adrian Buckmaster
https://www.allaboutjazz.com/wallace-roney-in-the-realm-of-anti-gravity-wallace-roney-by-rj-deluke.php
Wallace Roney: In the Realm of Anti-Gravity
by
Much is made of trumpeter Wallace Roney coming from the Miles Davis
school, a mentor-protégé situation that blossomed in the 1980s that
Roney is very proud of. But that wouldn't be telling the whole story of
the Philadelphia native who, in his prime years, has become one of the
world's finest trumpet players, and a musician whose quest for
innovation is everlasting.
Hearing jazz music around the house as a small child, it crept into his head and stayed there.
"People couldn't understand a young kid really loving the music that way because everybody else was liking R&B and figuring that's what you're supposed to like," Roney says. "That's the stuff that the common black experience was. Which is great. It was more that jazz took a special ear. It took a special kind of temperament and understanding and knowledge. If you understood jazz, it put you higher. On a different plateau than your next-door neighbor, and girls wearing hot pants and you just wanted to dance."
It was always music for Roney, taking lessons at a very young age, then being more informed on his instrument by childhood associations with legends Clark Terry and Dizzy Gillespie. He listened to all the great trumpet players. Clifford Brown, Lee Morgan, Blue Mitchell, and so many more. Roney was accepted into the fold by Wayne Shorter, Herbie Hancock and Ron Carter. He's played with Joe Henderson, Art Blakey and Cedar Walton. The trumpeter was part of a fantastic band headed by drumming icon Tony Williams, which included his great friend, the tremendous pianist Mulgrew Miller, sadly recently departed.
Hearing jazz music around the house as a small child, it crept into his head and stayed there.
"People couldn't understand a young kid really loving the music that way because everybody else was liking R&B and figuring that's what you're supposed to like," Roney says. "That's the stuff that the common black experience was. Which is great. It was more that jazz took a special ear. It took a special kind of temperament and understanding and knowledge. If you understood jazz, it put you higher. On a different plateau than your next-door neighbor, and girls wearing hot pants and you just wanted to dance."
It was always music for Roney, taking lessons at a very young age, then being more informed on his instrument by childhood associations with legends Clark Terry and Dizzy Gillespie. He listened to all the great trumpet players. Clifford Brown, Lee Morgan, Blue Mitchell, and so many more. Roney was accepted into the fold by Wayne Shorter, Herbie Hancock and Ron Carter. He's played with Joe Henderson, Art Blakey and Cedar Walton. The trumpeter was part of a fantastic band headed by drumming icon Tony Williams, which included his great friend, the tremendous pianist Mulgrew Miller, sadly recently departed.
Man, he was fiery. He was creative. He was impressionistic. He was
everything, man. He was something else," Roney says of Williams. "And he
was a virtuoso. The definition of virtuoso probably goes Charlie Parker, Tony Williams, John Coltrane.
This guy could do anything on the drums he wanted to do. Anything. He
said he'd just look at the drums and come up with stuff to do. And it
wouldn't be showy. It'd just be amazing. It took the music to another
place. He would play something in a creative space, or leave a space.
And you would say: Wow. It would push me to want to do that on the
trumpet. To be that innovative."
And I lived there," he says, reflecting back on those moments like they'd just occurred. "My whole life became—and is to this moment—living in that realm of anti-gravity. Like stepping on a meteor. Will it go down or will it go up. If you figure that out, you can go step on the next one."
And of course there was Miles, an idol. Miles the mentor. And also Miles, the man who summoned Roney for a meeting, albeit brief, after first hearing him play. Not the
other way around.
And I lived there," he says, reflecting back on those moments like they'd just occurred. "My whole life became—and is to this moment—living in that realm of anti-gravity. Like stepping on a meteor. Will it go down or will it go up. If you figure that out, you can go step on the next one."
And of course there was Miles, an idol. Miles the mentor. And also Miles, the man who summoned Roney for a meeting, albeit brief, after first hearing him play. Not the
other way around.
A band leader on his own terms for many years now, Roney's always
concerned with the next musical adventure. The next exciting moment that
will take the music somewhere different. It might not happen every
night. But it's out there if you're going for it. Roney consistently
goes for it, and his new band of young firebrands is no different, as
his album Understanding (HighNote, 2013) attests. It's a
hard-driving, exploring and open jazz record. Many tunes are covers, but
not standards. They have a shape different than the source, an approach
sculpted by the trumpeter. The youngsters behind him—Arnold Lee and Ben
Solomon on saxophones, Victor Gould or Eden Ladin on piano, Daryl Johnson on bass and Kush Abadey on drums—tear it up. Cats in their 20s, though Solomon is only 19.
"As far as it being a young band, my band has pretty much always been a young band, after I broke up a band with Lenny White and Buster Williams and Gary Bartz. That was a great band. But after a while these younger cats started wanting to come and play too. These guys, they don't have any hangups," says Roney. "Buster didn't either, by the way. Buster was always ready to go to the unknown. But now you got young guys that are ready to go to the unknown. I like that."
Roney is as frank and honest as the music he plays, and like his solos rolling into the air, twisting and turning, his stories about situations and fellow musicians do the same; entertaining and focused. While he is more introverted than a lot of musicians, his statements aren't guarded. He's forthright and natural.
"As far as it being a young band, my band has pretty much always been a young band, after I broke up a band with Lenny White and Buster Williams and Gary Bartz. That was a great band. But after a while these younger cats started wanting to come and play too. These guys, they don't have any hangups," says Roney. "Buster didn't either, by the way. Buster was always ready to go to the unknown. But now you got young guys that are ready to go to the unknown. I like that."
Roney is as frank and honest as the music he plays, and like his solos rolling into the air, twisting and turning, his stories about situations and fellow musicians do the same; entertaining and focused. While he is more introverted than a lot of musicians, his statements aren't guarded. He's forthright and natural.
"The unknown means to stretch your ability," he explains. "Say Art Tatum has technique like this. You can try to dare to equal what Art Tatum did, but put it in a modern context, not the way he did it. Or what John Coltrane did with Charlie Parker. Trane took Bird's ideas further. But the only way you do it is you have to go through it to have it. You don't just wake up one day and say, 'I'm going to play the saxophone.' or 'I'm going to play like Miles Davis.' You have to understand how to develop a sound. Why do these lines make sense? Once you understand that, then have the audacity to see if you can take it further. Blend it with something else."
His current musicians are on that mission, he feels.
They do light a fire, particularly Abadey on the drums, cooking, dropping bombs, switching gears but not losing place. Whether cooking on Duke Pearson's "Is That So" and Roney's "Combustible," or floating through the McCoy Tyner ballad "You Taught My heart to Sing," this band is exciting. Tyner's "Song for Peace," is superb, both serene and majestic in Roney's rich trumpet statements, and dangerous with Solomon's intense sax solo. Solomon's "Kotra" seems like it could fit on Miles Smiles.
"My band just keep evolving. People, fortunately, like some of the things we're trying. They feel they want to play with the band and consequently play with me," says Roney. "The guy I'm on the lookout for is one that has no hangups about trying to be as creative as he can be... Some people's creativity is to ignore some of the great things that happened. Mine is to be able to have all the great things in your back pocket, or as your language, then see if you can take it further. You have something to work with. A lot of guys come to me and see there's a chance for them to try to do things they weren't allowed to do in other situations."
The group hasn't played together that long, but became a band quickly. Roney says with glee, "They were hounding me. 'Can I bring a tune in? I got something for the band.' I'm like: Hold on. Slow down. They didn't slow down. They were like: We're ready. I was like, 'You want to be a band? Y'all are ready all ready?' So Ben [Solomon] brought out a tune and Arnold [Lee] brought a tune. Everybody wanted to bring out their tunes. They started sounding really good. I shaped those things to take on another kind of life. Instead of the way they originally intended it."
He says the title cut, by drummer Roy Brooks, "I knew from when I was a kid. I knew Roy. He was a beautiful cat. Complex guy. This song 'Understanding' just made sense to me. I always wanted to do it to honor Roy. It reminds me of when I first turned on the radio on my own. I think that song was the first thing that came on. I've been listening to jazz radio since I was a kid, all my life. My father turned it on and I loved it. It wasn't like he turned it on and I had to hear it. When my mother and father broke up and there's a period of adjustment and you find out who you are. I was 10 years old and I wanted to reclaim my sanity. I found a radio and I said, 'Man, I don't want to listen to that rock and roll crap. Where is the jazz station?' I switched around and looked for the jazz station, at that time it was WRTI in Philadelphia."
Roney is rightly proud of his band and glows when he says, "Nobody else can really play like these guys; the combination of things I put together in assembling those guys. When I first heard Ben, he really was going into Trane's space. Not Trane's space from being another person. Not Trane's space and this one part of it. He wanted to go all the way in and see how he'd come out of it. And I loved it. And then you have Kush, he was going all the way into Tony's [Williams] space. He's trying to. That's a hard one. Well, Trane is even harder. But Kush is going in there and understanding Trane and Elvin Jones. I told him remember Art Blakey and Max [Roach]. So he put all that stuff together in that kind of way. And Victor is up there playing everything from Nat Cole to [Thelonious] Monk to Herbie [Hancock]... Then I'm floating up on top with my stuff that I got from Miles and the things that I liked and it all comes together. Everybody is of like mind at that point. I insist everybody listen to everything and everyone."
He adds, pointedly, "Those are young men with fertile energy. They have the chops that everyone is scared of. It's called creativity... That's where I live."
The band sounds better the more it plays, he says, but the problem is getting gigs. Unfortunately, that is a common problem.
"The problem is getting people to trust. To bring these kids out to play. When we get out to play, people seem to feel what they're trying to express. But the club owners, they just want names that they recognize, which is a drag. You try to fight this thing, but it's hard. But I'm fighting it. I ain't stopping. That's the only way the music can grow. Then you look up and those are the cats with the names," he says. "You want the rest of the road to be smooth, so you can contribute. But are you kidding me? How I've been able to stay relevant is a blessing."
Relevant, indeed. Roney, whom Shorter has called "a musical astronaut," is one of the outstanding creators in the business. He started playing the trumpet at the age of seven and never got sidetracked. He had formal instruction from teachers. "I just loved it. You pick up and instrument; you can't play it. How are you gonna learn? If you love it as much as I loved it, you want to get good, so you start studying. At eight years old, I was trying to go through my books as fast as I can so I can sound like I want to hear. I doesn't work like that, but it gives you the blueprint of discipline."
Sigmund Herring from the Philadelphia Orchestra was his first teacher and there were others, but encounters with Terry and Gillespie made an immeasurable impact. "I'm talking about as far as legitimate understanding of the instrument. Clark had been through it all and he would show me things maybe my teachers wouldn't. Teachers just get you to study and if you played the right note, it was fine. Clark would teach you things like articulation and breath control. And different ways to develop your fingers. Dizzy was good for that too. He was always talking about curving your fingers like you're playing the piano. Dizzy knew all the different scales and different fingerings to play major scales. Dizzy was something else. Those guys were better than the conservatory teachers, legitimately."
He had a scholarship to the Settlement School of Music at the age of seven.
He left Philadelphia to attend high school at the Duke Ellington School for the Arts in Washington, D.C. While in school, he sought out gigs. In a brash move, he asked a nightclub owner about bringing in a band for a night each week. Roney was an unknown, so even trough little attention was paid to his request, he gathered a group together and got them playing standards. After a while, he approached the club again and got the weekly gig.
"At that point, you couldn't tell me anything. I was going to do this and I need to study every day because people are coming to hear me and I need to get up to the level of Clifford and Blue Mitchell and all them," he recalls. "I felt like I was playing Birdland or something every Monday. Fifteen years old. For the rest of my time in Washington, I was doing those kinds of things."
He auditioned for the Berklee School of Music and was accepted, but Roney's father was against him leaving home and he was persuasive. Roney attended Howard University in Washington, DC. While at Howard, he was gigging with a band and also went to New York to play on a record by his friend guitarist Rodney Jones.
"The first band I ever played in was Cedar Walton's band with Bob Berg and Billy Higgins and Sam Jones. That's the first band I ever played in. I was 15 or 16. The first person I ever played in New York with was Philly Joe Jones," says Roney. "I went to sit in with Philly at 16. We played 'Confirmation,' and when I got through it, Philly grabbed me and said 'I got a new partner. Here's the partner.' But Cedar was the first one to hire me back then."
While in New York, he sat in with Joe Henderson at the Vanguard and was
invited to play the rest of the week with him. "It was great. At the end
of the night, I told my father. He told me to come home to finish
school at Howard. I came back home with tears in my eyes. But the
following year I went on the road with Dollar Brand, Abdullah Ibrahim. After that, that's when it became a roller coaster."
Roney remained at Howard University for a year. He had a gig at a club called the Pig's Foot owned by Bill Harris. It wasn't enough. After a time, he contacted Berklee again and his scholarship was open. This time he went. "I was serious. I wanted to play. I wanted to be around guys that were practicing every day, that were flying. And they were. There's a lot of musicians up there that really want to play."
Having already gigged with some major players, he had a strong reputation. He was asked to be part of a band Art Blakey was bringing to Europe.
"He wanted all these young cats to come together, two of each instrument. The second bassist was Marcus Miller. He was going to play with Art's big band, but he didn't last a day because right then Lenny White took him on the road. But there was Charles Fambrough, Marcus Miller, Robin Eubanks, Kevin Eubanks, the Marsailis brothers, Billy Pierce, Bobby Watson. The original second drummer was Roy Haynes. But Roy got busy. Then it was Charlie Persip and something happened to Persip. John Ramsey ended up being the second drummer."
Roney remained at Howard University for a year. He had a gig at a club called the Pig's Foot owned by Bill Harris. It wasn't enough. After a time, he contacted Berklee again and his scholarship was open. This time he went. "I was serious. I wanted to play. I wanted to be around guys that were practicing every day, that were flying. And they were. There's a lot of musicians up there that really want to play."
Having already gigged with some major players, he had a strong reputation. He was asked to be part of a band Art Blakey was bringing to Europe.
"He wanted all these young cats to come together, two of each instrument. The second bassist was Marcus Miller. He was going to play with Art's big band, but he didn't last a day because right then Lenny White took him on the road. But there was Charles Fambrough, Marcus Miller, Robin Eubanks, Kevin Eubanks, the Marsailis brothers, Billy Pierce, Bobby Watson. The original second drummer was Roy Haynes. But Roy got busy. Then it was Charlie Persip and something happened to Persip. John Ramsey ended up being the second drummer."
"I got the gig, but I didn't go to Europe. Again, my father told me I
wasn't allowed to do it. That was the last time that I listened to my
father in that circumstance. He wasn't trying to hurt me, he didn't want
to see me leave home. I had to make a decision. Art told me when he
came back I was in the [big] band. Sure enough, he came back and I
joined them in Washington, D.C. We had two more gigs. Then we went up to
Boston and that was it." But he joined Blakey again the following year.
Blakey became a major influence.
"I loved it. Everything he said was valuable. And you have to remember this man was one of the greatest drummers to ever live. A lot of people want to say he was one of the greatest band leaders. He was. You can be a great band leader and just be mediocre on your instrument. This man was one of the greatest on his instrument ever. So you're watching this man who created this modern style that Elvin Jones and Tony Williams and Roy Haynes were playing. He's one of the co-creators of it and still was as powerful as them and giving them something else to recon with. And he's leading this band on a level of Duke Elllington leading his band. He's telling these stories and encouraging you. What else can you want?"
After leaving Blakey, Roney played with many stellar players, but they weren't working all the time. So I found myself trying to sit in and let people hear you, and work with all your friends so you can get a gig. That lasted until 1985. Things started to change when Kenny Barron called me and asked me to play on a record called What If? (Enja, 1986). After I played on that, everything changed." One of them was that Tony Williams was putting together a band. He found Roney.
Roney recalls with laughter, "When Tony saw me it was so funny. I think he felt like he knew me. He kept looking at me. He'd say, 'Man, what's your name?' I had played with him two years beforehand and it was a great experience. I told him my name. He kept looking at me. I think he thought I was Miles' son or something. Really, man, he kept looking a me. He said, 'Who do you play with?' And I didn't want to tell him I just got done playing with Philly Joe because I knew he loved Philly. And if he knew that, it would taint what he'd think about me. I wanted him to like me on my own terms. So I said, 'I played with a lot of different people.'
"After we played he would hug me and say beautiful things. And he said he wanted to put together a band around me. I said wow. Michael Cuscuna called me six months later. Blue Note was threatening to give me a record contract, which they never did. He said to me, 'Wallace, we got good and bad news. The bad news is, we can't sign you to Blue Note yet. But the good news is, Tony Williams wants to put the band together around you and Mulgrew [Miller]. Tony wants you to call him right now.' He gave me Tony's number. I gave Tony a call and it was beautiful. Tony was one of my heroes playing with Miles. That's what I was listening to. Nefertiti, all my life. My whole concept of expansion and innovative approach comes from Nefertiti and A Love Supreme."
It became a thrilling musical adventure, and Roney helped assemble the band. "We had a good time. We went on the road for years. We drove in cars and vans. We had a van for the drums and equipment and a car for us. Tony would drive. He liked to drive. We were serious about playing this music. We even drove in Europe once we got over there. We'd drive every place. That's the dedication of wanting to play this music. We didn't have limos or first-class treatment. The music got the first-class treatment. We were playing with Tony and for Tony and we were making music. It was beautiful."
Williams didn't remember, but he and Roney had actually met in 1983. It was at a tribute for Miles Davis in New York City. That even started the relationship between the two trumpeters that would last until Davis' death in 1991.
The concert featured R&B artists like Peabo Bryson and Angela Bofill, but also jazz cats J.J. Johnson, Walter Bishop, Jr., Roy Haynes, Jackie McLean, George Benson, Buster Williams and others. "After the first half they wanted seven trumpet players to play a couple choruses of the blues, then play a fanfare together to announce Miles coming out. I was one of the trumpet players. I was 23 years old. The trumpet players were Art Farmer, Randy Brecker, Lew Soloff, Jon Faddis, Jimmy Owens, Maynard Ferguson and myself. The rhythm section was Tony, Herbie and Ron Carter. Oooh! That's the first time I played with them."
In the rehearsal, Roney's sound, power and musical heart came through, making an indelible impression.
"We had a rehearsal and Tony, Herbie and Ron were like, 'Man. Do we really have to do this? Play behind seven trumpet players?' We played and it was all good. Everybody took a solo. Tony, Herbie and Ron were kind of dialing it in, trying to get through it. But when I took a solo all of a sudden, Tony started tightening up and started playing. Herbie started bending his shoulders and playing some stuff. And Ron. I made them react and it shocked me. These were my idols. I was scared. I could see them smiling. Then we did the fanfare. They said, 'We'll do it one more time.' We did it and the same thing happened. Everybody else played and they kind of did what they did. Then when I played, All of a sudden Herbie started doing it again. And Tony. They started playing.
"Afterward, Ron called me over and said, 'Hey, man, come here. What's your name.' I said 'Wallace Roney.' He said, 'Herbie, come here. This is Wallace Roney. Tony, this is Wallace Roney.' It was beautiful. When we got on the bandstand the next day, Sunday, the same thing happened." Davis' band played to end the night. But Art Farmer approached Roney. The Man, he said, wanted to meet the youngster. A scared Roney followed Farmer to the elevator and up they went to a room where Davis was staying.
"The first thing Miles said, my idol," say Roney, affecting a gravel-voiced imitation of he legend, "'I heard ya. I heard ya up there playin' that stuff.' We talked and he gave me his phone number. He said call me tomorrow. I woke up real early, but I was too scared to call him that early, so I waited and waited. Finally at 12 o'clock on the nose, when that second hand hit 12, I called. He said come on over. When I got to his place—he was staying on 70th Street, not 77th Street. This was a penthouse. They told me Miles wasn't there. I said, 'Oh, no. I just called him.''
With some persistence, he was allowed up. And there was Miles. The first thing Miles Davis said to me when I walked in the door was, 'I never liked Brownie. Clifford Brown. Not that I was jealous of him or anything. He was a nice guy. I just didn't think he was playing as good as everybody thought. He liked playing fast all the time. He couldn't swing. Max [Roach] stopped swinging when he left Bird.' That's the first thing Miles Davis said to me when I walked in his house," says Roney, chuckling. "Beautiful, man. He was telling me where he was coming from. If I want to get with this and learn from him, this is where it's coming from. I understood what he was saying. I wasn't going to debate him. Because if you debate him, you would lose what he had to offer."
The relationship is one of the most important in Roney's life. "I call it mentor-protégé. I just loved him and he kept me around. He told me I reminded him of him, the way he'd look at Dizzy and all that stuff. I loved it. But you have to understand, I was hanging around him every chance I got. But I was also playing at that point with all these great artists too. I wasn't being a hanger-oner. I was playing. And he knew it. I was playing with Tony by '85. I was playing with Philly. And Art. At that point I was playing with everybody, so he was getting to see the lessons I was getting from him were paying off that night. I was utilizing them."
"Then he started teaching me things. Playing stuff on the piano. Playing stuff on the trumpet. Talking about possibilities. Telling stories. Telling me what Monk showed him, that Dizzy showed him. Man, you kiddin? It wasn't osmosis. It was direct. I was having the time of my life."
Davis, many of his sidemen said, didn't say much to musicians; didn't give a lot of direction. Things were often said cryptically. Roney was aware of that, but it was not his experience. "I said, 'Shit, I must have been the only one he ever spoke music to?' Nobody else ever had nothing?... I'm thankful."
Leading up to the famous concert at the Montreaux Jazz Festival, where Davis figuratively went back in time and performed the music from his time with Gil Evans, with a big band led by Quincy Jones, Roney was getting hints from his mentor that it was going to be a reality.
"He'd say he thinks he's gonna do it. And if he does, he wanted me to play with him because I play his stuff perfect. He kept saying that. I didn't know what would come of it. I thought he was just saying that. He was also talking about getting his band with Herbie and Tony and Wayne... Then one day, all of a sudden it was going to happen. I said: Wow. He asked me to come up there. I was in the rehearsal. He told me to stay up there with him. And I did. He kept giving me more things to play. And it was beautiful. Beautiful. I didn't know he was sick. I didn't know he was going to die. I had just seen him a couple week before this thing had happened."
It wouldn't be long before Miles would pass on. But in Montreaux, the lessons didn't stop.
"It's really weird," says Roney, "because the night before [the concert], he really was talking. Miles could tell you a lot of stuff, but not talk run-on. He would say things. And he would say something else. Or tell you a story. Or laugh. This night, he was talking long. Run-on, run-on, run-on sentences. That was odd."
Davis, during his life, claimed at times to have premonitions of things. There are those close to him that think he may have known the end was near, which is why he went back and played his old music, both in Montreaux and in Paris where he played a lot of his classic music with the likes of Hancock, Shorter, Joe Zawinul, Dave Holland, Chick Corea and others.
"He must have," known his life light was dimming, says Roney. "Because he was trying to tell me everything in that whole two or three days. From '83 to '91, I got a lot, trust me. But those last three days is when I started hearing stuff about his youth. Private stuff. All of it was good. No weird stuff. But I started hearing stuff about his father more. More than just 'My father said this.' I started hearing all these stories. His brother [Vernon]. Dorothy [sister]. Everything. And all of the pain that went with being on the scene. I started hearing all of that. For the first time. I had never heard, '83 to '91, the pain. I heard the good times and the stuff he learned and the stuff he was going to show me. In those couple days, I heard the pain too. Along with the rest. I never articulated it like that, but that might have been the difference."
After his death, Davis' Second Great Quintet—Hancock, Shorter, Williams and Carter—staged a tribute band and tour. They turned to Roney to fill the master's trumpet spot. "I fit right in there and we became a great band. That's the greatest band I ever played in in my entire life. Period. Without a doubt... I knew those guys so well I felt like, if nothing else, I could understand the process and I hope I contributed something. They made me feel like I did."
But to Roney's dismay, the tour wasn't widely accepted, in spite of the man who was being honored and the exulted status of the players
There were gigs in Europe, but "The Unites States wouldn't book it. Isn't that awful? We couldn't get a gig. We played Washington, D.C., Colorado, and L.A. and San Francisco. That's all. The rest canceled on us. They lowered the money. We wanted to play, but... Tony, Herbie, Wayne? Wow. The United States did not want it. Now Tony is dead."
Since
then, Wallace has gone on his own. He might do an occasional guest gig,
but he has has emerged as a leader and follows his own vision, one
forged through his experiences and the great men with whom he spent
time.
"After that, there was no where else to go. You just played with the greatest artists in the world," he said of the tribute tour. "You gonna apprentice under someone else? There's nowhere else. So I started my own group for real and never looked back. I do all-star groups with Herbie and stuff like that. Chick Corea. Chick is beautiful. But where else are you going to go? After playing with Herbie and Tony and Wayne and Ron Carter. And Miles Davis being your mentor. You're going to learn from where? I mean, you always learn. But who are you going to apprentice under? There's no where to go. It was my time."
He relishes leading younger musicians and exploring musical paths.
"At this point, there are lessons I can offer. You watch young musicians today, they don't even have a clue on how to do certain things. They might have certain kind of technique. But they don't have the kind that puts you in an innovator's space or puts you in a certain way. They don't know how to lock it together with a feeling that comes from Africa, or that's uniquely African-American. That comes from the blues, but then beyond the blues. Those kind of things that a conservatory can't teach you. That a conservatory is trying to catch up on, trying to learn."
As for jazz, he says individuality and diversity should be part of the expression in whatever direction an artist is trying to take.
"It's my hope that whatever deficiencies we all have, they strengthen up. Because we need everybody out here to play some vital music and put their own spin on it. Not just my spin. My spin is a good alternative to someone else's spin. And their spin is an alternative to my spin. It all makes for a healthy scene. I think the critics and people do a divide and conquer. They don't understand that alternatives are good. What somebody else is doing, if it's different from what your favorite is doing, is a good thing. We don't need everybody to sound the same way."
His band is an example. "We're playing from a concept that comes from Nefertiti and A Love Supreme, Tony Williams Lifetime, Mwandishi [Hancock's band of the 1980s], Charlie Parker quintet, Louis Armstrong's Hot Five. We're playing from that blueprint. We're trying to take it further."
Selected Discography:
Wallace Roney, Understanding (HighNote, 2013)
Wallace Roney, Jazz (HighNote Records, 2007)
Wallace Roney, Mystikal (HighNote Records, 2005)
Wallace Roney, Prototype (HighNote Records, 2004)
Chick Corea, Remembering Bud Powell (Stretch, 1997)
Wallace Roney, Village (Warner Bros., 1996)
Wallace Roney, The Wallace Roney Quintet (Warner Brothers, 1995)
Geri Allen, Eyes in the Back of Your Head (Blue Note, 1995)
Randy Weston, Volcano Blues (Antilles, 1993)
Herbie Hancock, Dis is Da Drum (Mercury, 1993)
Dizzy Gillespie, To Diz With Love (Telarc, 1992)
Miles Davis/Quincy Jones, Miles & Quincy Live at Montreux (Warner Brothers, 1991)
Tony Williams, The Story of Neptune (Blue Note, 1991)
Wallace Roney, The Standard Bearer (Muse, 1989)
Wallace Roney, Verses (Muse, 1987)
Tony Williams, Civilization (Blue Note, 1986)
Art Blakey & The Jazz Messengers, Feeling Good (Delos, 1986)
Kenny Barron, What If? (Enja, 1986)
Tony Williams, Foreign Intrigue (Blue Note, 1985)
https://www.smallslive.com/artists/1960-wallace-roney/
"I loved it. Everything he said was valuable. And you have to remember this man was one of the greatest drummers to ever live. A lot of people want to say he was one of the greatest band leaders. He was. You can be a great band leader and just be mediocre on your instrument. This man was one of the greatest on his instrument ever. So you're watching this man who created this modern style that Elvin Jones and Tony Williams and Roy Haynes were playing. He's one of the co-creators of it and still was as powerful as them and giving them something else to recon with. And he's leading this band on a level of Duke Elllington leading his band. He's telling these stories and encouraging you. What else can you want?"
After leaving Blakey, Roney played with many stellar players, but they weren't working all the time. So I found myself trying to sit in and let people hear you, and work with all your friends so you can get a gig. That lasted until 1985. Things started to change when Kenny Barron called me and asked me to play on a record called What If? (Enja, 1986). After I played on that, everything changed." One of them was that Tony Williams was putting together a band. He found Roney.
Roney recalls with laughter, "When Tony saw me it was so funny. I think he felt like he knew me. He kept looking at me. He'd say, 'Man, what's your name?' I had played with him two years beforehand and it was a great experience. I told him my name. He kept looking at me. I think he thought I was Miles' son or something. Really, man, he kept looking a me. He said, 'Who do you play with?' And I didn't want to tell him I just got done playing with Philly Joe because I knew he loved Philly. And if he knew that, it would taint what he'd think about me. I wanted him to like me on my own terms. So I said, 'I played with a lot of different people.'
"After we played he would hug me and say beautiful things. And he said he wanted to put together a band around me. I said wow. Michael Cuscuna called me six months later. Blue Note was threatening to give me a record contract, which they never did. He said to me, 'Wallace, we got good and bad news. The bad news is, we can't sign you to Blue Note yet. But the good news is, Tony Williams wants to put the band together around you and Mulgrew [Miller]. Tony wants you to call him right now.' He gave me Tony's number. I gave Tony a call and it was beautiful. Tony was one of my heroes playing with Miles. That's what I was listening to. Nefertiti, all my life. My whole concept of expansion and innovative approach comes from Nefertiti and A Love Supreme."
It became a thrilling musical adventure, and Roney helped assemble the band. "We had a good time. We went on the road for years. We drove in cars and vans. We had a van for the drums and equipment and a car for us. Tony would drive. He liked to drive. We were serious about playing this music. We even drove in Europe once we got over there. We'd drive every place. That's the dedication of wanting to play this music. We didn't have limos or first-class treatment. The music got the first-class treatment. We were playing with Tony and for Tony and we were making music. It was beautiful."
Williams didn't remember, but he and Roney had actually met in 1983. It was at a tribute for Miles Davis in New York City. That even started the relationship between the two trumpeters that would last until Davis' death in 1991.
The concert featured R&B artists like Peabo Bryson and Angela Bofill, but also jazz cats J.J. Johnson, Walter Bishop, Jr., Roy Haynes, Jackie McLean, George Benson, Buster Williams and others. "After the first half they wanted seven trumpet players to play a couple choruses of the blues, then play a fanfare together to announce Miles coming out. I was one of the trumpet players. I was 23 years old. The trumpet players were Art Farmer, Randy Brecker, Lew Soloff, Jon Faddis, Jimmy Owens, Maynard Ferguson and myself. The rhythm section was Tony, Herbie and Ron Carter. Oooh! That's the first time I played with them."
In the rehearsal, Roney's sound, power and musical heart came through, making an indelible impression.
"We had a rehearsal and Tony, Herbie and Ron were like, 'Man. Do we really have to do this? Play behind seven trumpet players?' We played and it was all good. Everybody took a solo. Tony, Herbie and Ron were kind of dialing it in, trying to get through it. But when I took a solo all of a sudden, Tony started tightening up and started playing. Herbie started bending his shoulders and playing some stuff. And Ron. I made them react and it shocked me. These were my idols. I was scared. I could see them smiling. Then we did the fanfare. They said, 'We'll do it one more time.' We did it and the same thing happened. Everybody else played and they kind of did what they did. Then when I played, All of a sudden Herbie started doing it again. And Tony. They started playing.
"Afterward, Ron called me over and said, 'Hey, man, come here. What's your name.' I said 'Wallace Roney.' He said, 'Herbie, come here. This is Wallace Roney. Tony, this is Wallace Roney.' It was beautiful. When we got on the bandstand the next day, Sunday, the same thing happened." Davis' band played to end the night. But Art Farmer approached Roney. The Man, he said, wanted to meet the youngster. A scared Roney followed Farmer to the elevator and up they went to a room where Davis was staying.
"The first thing Miles said, my idol," say Roney, affecting a gravel-voiced imitation of he legend, "'I heard ya. I heard ya up there playin' that stuff.' We talked and he gave me his phone number. He said call me tomorrow. I woke up real early, but I was too scared to call him that early, so I waited and waited. Finally at 12 o'clock on the nose, when that second hand hit 12, I called. He said come on over. When I got to his place—he was staying on 70th Street, not 77th Street. This was a penthouse. They told me Miles wasn't there. I said, 'Oh, no. I just called him.''
With some persistence, he was allowed up. And there was Miles. The first thing Miles Davis said to me when I walked in the door was, 'I never liked Brownie. Clifford Brown. Not that I was jealous of him or anything. He was a nice guy. I just didn't think he was playing as good as everybody thought. He liked playing fast all the time. He couldn't swing. Max [Roach] stopped swinging when he left Bird.' That's the first thing Miles Davis said to me when I walked in his house," says Roney, chuckling. "Beautiful, man. He was telling me where he was coming from. If I want to get with this and learn from him, this is where it's coming from. I understood what he was saying. I wasn't going to debate him. Because if you debate him, you would lose what he had to offer."
The relationship is one of the most important in Roney's life. "I call it mentor-protégé. I just loved him and he kept me around. He told me I reminded him of him, the way he'd look at Dizzy and all that stuff. I loved it. But you have to understand, I was hanging around him every chance I got. But I was also playing at that point with all these great artists too. I wasn't being a hanger-oner. I was playing. And he knew it. I was playing with Tony by '85. I was playing with Philly. And Art. At that point I was playing with everybody, so he was getting to see the lessons I was getting from him were paying off that night. I was utilizing them."
"Then he started teaching me things. Playing stuff on the piano. Playing stuff on the trumpet. Talking about possibilities. Telling stories. Telling me what Monk showed him, that Dizzy showed him. Man, you kiddin? It wasn't osmosis. It was direct. I was having the time of my life."
Davis, many of his sidemen said, didn't say much to musicians; didn't give a lot of direction. Things were often said cryptically. Roney was aware of that, but it was not his experience. "I said, 'Shit, I must have been the only one he ever spoke music to?' Nobody else ever had nothing?... I'm thankful."
Leading up to the famous concert at the Montreaux Jazz Festival, where Davis figuratively went back in time and performed the music from his time with Gil Evans, with a big band led by Quincy Jones, Roney was getting hints from his mentor that it was going to be a reality.
"He'd say he thinks he's gonna do it. And if he does, he wanted me to play with him because I play his stuff perfect. He kept saying that. I didn't know what would come of it. I thought he was just saying that. He was also talking about getting his band with Herbie and Tony and Wayne... Then one day, all of a sudden it was going to happen. I said: Wow. He asked me to come up there. I was in the rehearsal. He told me to stay up there with him. And I did. He kept giving me more things to play. And it was beautiful. Beautiful. I didn't know he was sick. I didn't know he was going to die. I had just seen him a couple week before this thing had happened."
It wouldn't be long before Miles would pass on. But in Montreaux, the lessons didn't stop.
"It's really weird," says Roney, "because the night before [the concert], he really was talking. Miles could tell you a lot of stuff, but not talk run-on. He would say things. And he would say something else. Or tell you a story. Or laugh. This night, he was talking long. Run-on, run-on, run-on sentences. That was odd."
Davis, during his life, claimed at times to have premonitions of things. There are those close to him that think he may have known the end was near, which is why he went back and played his old music, both in Montreaux and in Paris where he played a lot of his classic music with the likes of Hancock, Shorter, Joe Zawinul, Dave Holland, Chick Corea and others.
"He must have," known his life light was dimming, says Roney. "Because he was trying to tell me everything in that whole two or three days. From '83 to '91, I got a lot, trust me. But those last three days is when I started hearing stuff about his youth. Private stuff. All of it was good. No weird stuff. But I started hearing stuff about his father more. More than just 'My father said this.' I started hearing all these stories. His brother [Vernon]. Dorothy [sister]. Everything. And all of the pain that went with being on the scene. I started hearing all of that. For the first time. I had never heard, '83 to '91, the pain. I heard the good times and the stuff he learned and the stuff he was going to show me. In those couple days, I heard the pain too. Along with the rest. I never articulated it like that, but that might have been the difference."
After his death, Davis' Second Great Quintet—Hancock, Shorter, Williams and Carter—staged a tribute band and tour. They turned to Roney to fill the master's trumpet spot. "I fit right in there and we became a great band. That's the greatest band I ever played in in my entire life. Period. Without a doubt... I knew those guys so well I felt like, if nothing else, I could understand the process and I hope I contributed something. They made me feel like I did."
But to Roney's dismay, the tour wasn't widely accepted, in spite of the man who was being honored and the exulted status of the players
There were gigs in Europe, but "The Unites States wouldn't book it. Isn't that awful? We couldn't get a gig. We played Washington, D.C., Colorado, and L.A. and San Francisco. That's all. The rest canceled on us. They lowered the money. We wanted to play, but... Tony, Herbie, Wayne? Wow. The United States did not want it. Now Tony is dead."
"After that, there was no where else to go. You just played with the greatest artists in the world," he said of the tribute tour. "You gonna apprentice under someone else? There's nowhere else. So I started my own group for real and never looked back. I do all-star groups with Herbie and stuff like that. Chick Corea. Chick is beautiful. But where else are you going to go? After playing with Herbie and Tony and Wayne and Ron Carter. And Miles Davis being your mentor. You're going to learn from where? I mean, you always learn. But who are you going to apprentice under? There's no where to go. It was my time."
He relishes leading younger musicians and exploring musical paths.
"At this point, there are lessons I can offer. You watch young musicians today, they don't even have a clue on how to do certain things. They might have certain kind of technique. But they don't have the kind that puts you in an innovator's space or puts you in a certain way. They don't know how to lock it together with a feeling that comes from Africa, or that's uniquely African-American. That comes from the blues, but then beyond the blues. Those kind of things that a conservatory can't teach you. That a conservatory is trying to catch up on, trying to learn."
As for jazz, he says individuality and diversity should be part of the expression in whatever direction an artist is trying to take.
"It's my hope that whatever deficiencies we all have, they strengthen up. Because we need everybody out here to play some vital music and put their own spin on it. Not just my spin. My spin is a good alternative to someone else's spin. And their spin is an alternative to my spin. It all makes for a healthy scene. I think the critics and people do a divide and conquer. They don't understand that alternatives are good. What somebody else is doing, if it's different from what your favorite is doing, is a good thing. We don't need everybody to sound the same way."
His band is an example. "We're playing from a concept that comes from Nefertiti and A Love Supreme, Tony Williams Lifetime, Mwandishi [Hancock's band of the 1980s], Charlie Parker quintet, Louis Armstrong's Hot Five. We're playing from that blueprint. We're trying to take it further."
Selected Discography:
Wallace Roney, Understanding (HighNote, 2013)
Wallace Roney, Jazz (HighNote Records, 2007)
Wallace Roney, Mystikal (HighNote Records, 2005)
Wallace Roney, Prototype (HighNote Records, 2004)
Chick Corea, Remembering Bud Powell (Stretch, 1997)
Wallace Roney, Village (Warner Bros., 1996)
Wallace Roney, The Wallace Roney Quintet (Warner Brothers, 1995)
Geri Allen, Eyes in the Back of Your Head (Blue Note, 1995)
Randy Weston, Volcano Blues (Antilles, 1993)
Herbie Hancock, Dis is Da Drum (Mercury, 1993)
Dizzy Gillespie, To Diz With Love (Telarc, 1992)
Miles Davis/Quincy Jones, Miles & Quincy Live at Montreux (Warner Brothers, 1991)
Tony Williams, The Story of Neptune (Blue Note, 1991)
Wallace Roney, The Standard Bearer (Muse, 1989)
Wallace Roney, Verses (Muse, 1987)
Tony Williams, Civilization (Blue Note, 1986)
Art Blakey & The Jazz Messengers, Feeling Good (Delos, 1986)
Kenny Barron, What If? (Enja, 1986)
Tony Williams, Foreign Intrigue (Blue Note, 1985)
https://www.smallslive.com/artists/1960-wallace-roney/
Wallace Roney earned the
admiration and respect of his colleagues and his elders since age 16. He
has been an integral part of the band with Tony Williams, Ornette
Coleman, Art Blakey, Elvin Jones, Philly Joe Jones, Walter Davis Jr.,
Herbie Hancock, Jay McShann, David Murray, McCoy Tyner, Sonny Rollins,
Curtis Fuller, Carole King, Joni Mitchell, and Dizzy Gillespie to name a
few. He was one of the few musicians in his generation who learned and
perfected his craft directly from alliances with Jazz Masters. But his
most important and meaningful relationship was with Miles Davis.
Wallace was mentored by Miles Davis after Miles heard him in 1983 at his birthday gala performance in Carnegie Hall. Their association peaked when Miles chose Wallace to share the stage at his historic performance in Montreux in 1991. After Davis died, Herbie Hancock, Ron Carter, Wayne Shorter, Tony Williams and Roney banded together and toured the world in tribute.
My goal is to make the best music I can. I enjoy, listen and can play ALL types of music I filter my expression through the jazz experience.
https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5259574
Wallace was mentored by Miles Davis after Miles heard him in 1983 at his birthday gala performance in Carnegie Hall. Their association peaked when Miles chose Wallace to share the stage at his historic performance in Montreux in 1991. After Davis died, Herbie Hancock, Ron Carter, Wayne Shorter, Tony Williams and Roney banded together and toured the world in tribute.
My goal is to make the best music I can. I enjoy, listen and can play ALL types of music I filter my expression through the jazz experience.
https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5259574
'Mystikal': Wallace Roney Pushes Jazz Envelope
Ed Gordon talks with trumpeter Wallace Roney about his efforts to keep jazz alive through innovation. Roney's new CD is called Mystikal.
The Philadelphia native is often compared to his idol and inspiration,
the late jazz legend Miles Davis, who will be inducted into the Rock and
Roll Hall of Fame on Monday.
Trumpeter Wallace Roney
ED GORDON, host:
Earlier in the program we told you that trumpeter Wallace Roney was a protégé of Miles Davis. He says one of the things Miles taught him was to never stand still. Always look for the new sound. Roney says it's an idea he's applied to all of his music, including his latest CD, Mystical.
Mr. WALLACE RONEY (Musician): Just try to keep being honest and go forward. I try to include everything that was innovative in black music and jazz in particular, and try to keep an ear to what's happening now.
GORDON: It's interesting, you said black music. I had a friend who saw jazz as what he believed to be only truly played by blacks, and that whites to some degree, were interlopers. Do you see the differentiation racially between music, black music, white music, etc.?
Mr. RONEY: No, it's not like that. But this music was created by black music. And people don't have a problem calling R&B black music or calling different variations black music. But when it comes to jazz, because jazz is such an interesting and innovative music, we seem to want to express it as everybody's music--which it is, it is, and everybody has made a contribution. But it's created by black Americans.
(Soundbite of music)
GORDON: You know early on that you loved music. I read somewhere that at five you could literally tell your parents what trumpeters and jazz men were playing particular songs just by listening to it. Talk to us about how much music has played a role in your life beyond just the love of it. Has it really shaped who you are?
Mr. RONEY: Yes. That's interesting. That goes back to calling this music black music. I grew up in North Philadelphia. The music was very prominent there, and it reflected ideas and growth and the movement of the times. It kind of signaled that. It was in everybody's house. It made everybody conscious, you know, consciously aware. So it was very prominent.
(Soundbite of music)
GORDON: So much has been said about jazz and the musicians who shaped it, particularly during what many see as the golden era. How do you view jazz today?
Mr. RONEY: I think we have to keep making it vital. The golden era, as they call it, I still think it's still here. It's just been a little dormant because they people that are trying to push the envelope are not getting the recognition.
GORDON: Here is what I find interesting, and often it gets lost in that true jazz discussion. The idea of taking and interpreting--not necessarily copying, but interpreting standards or popular song. You've tried to keep that tradition alive, haven't you?
Mr. RONEY: Yes. You said it.
GORDON: Talk to me about how you do that and how you pick your songs.
Mr. RONEY: Well, I pick my songs as something that moves me, a melody that moves me; it's relating to our experience; it has to be beautiful; and it has to have the Blues in it, as well. And you take that melody and then you shape it with things that you feel, and the things that's going on around you.
(Soundbite of song "Just my Imagination")
GORDON: So, for instance, on the latest album, you have the temptations classic, 'Just My Imagination.' You don't just do the rendition, an instrumental of it, but you put your own take to it.
Mr. RONEY: It's a beautiful melody within itself. The music that we play, we can stretch the harmonies and really redo it. We can re-orchestrate it. And in then I've added not only African American rhythms to it, I add some direct African rhythms along with it, and you're starting to do some innovative work.
(Soundbite of song "Just my Imagination")
GORDON: Talk to me about what I hear you have, and you hear this of certain musicians, and that's the perfect pitch--your ear. Can you really design what the note is quickly just by hearing it?
Mr. RONEY: Yes. What it is is you can identify pitch whenever you hear it. And I guess I knew I had it, but I didn't realize what it was called until I was around nine or 10 years old, and my instructor identified it for me.
GORDON: What does that do for you in terms of being able to play that someone who doesn't have it has to work at?
Mr. RONEY: Well, it's tremendous because you can hear everything inside the music. You can hear all the inner parts, as well as the obvious parts. And when I go to play with other musicians, it doesn't take long for me to hear what they're doing because I can hear the form, and I can hear the bass notes and the harmony the piano player plays; and I can sit in a tune that I've never played before, usually.
(Soundbite of song "Just my Imagination")
GORDON: I want to take you back to the idea of race and music. There's a sense of the importance of not losing the root of the music. When you talk about traditional jazz, much of that audience will be white. Does it bother you at all that Black America has not necessarily embraced what we created?
Mr. RONEY: Yes, it does. And that's what I would like us to do, reclaim it, along with the rest of the world. Because, if it wasn't that great of a music, everybody else wouldn't be acknowledging it. We're the only ones that don't acknowledge what we created. And the blues is what made us overcome--and jazz was the innovative part of that music. It is the classical music of this world.
GORDON: Let me ask you this, entertainer, artist, musician, if you had to pick one, how would you see yourself?
Mr. RONEY: Artist. I think a musician is a high honor. I think an artist is someone that plays everything better than the average musician. And I think entertainer is one that gives you the package of a little bit of this, a little bit of that, and gives you a show. I don't think artists necessarily have to give you a visual show. They give you a spiritual show.
GORDON: All right. Wallace Roney. The new album is Mystical. And good talking to you.
Mr. RONEY: Thank you.
(Soundbite of music)
GORDON: That's our program for today. Thanks for joining us. To listen to the show, visit npr.org. And if you'd like to comment, call us at 202-408-3330. NEWS AND NOTES was created by NPR News and the African American Public Radio Consortium.
Earlier in the program we told you that trumpeter Wallace Roney was a protégé of Miles Davis. He says one of the things Miles taught him was to never stand still. Always look for the new sound. Roney says it's an idea he's applied to all of his music, including his latest CD, Mystical.
Mr. WALLACE RONEY (Musician): Just try to keep being honest and go forward. I try to include everything that was innovative in black music and jazz in particular, and try to keep an ear to what's happening now.
GORDON: It's interesting, you said black music. I had a friend who saw jazz as what he believed to be only truly played by blacks, and that whites to some degree, were interlopers. Do you see the differentiation racially between music, black music, white music, etc.?
Mr. RONEY: No, it's not like that. But this music was created by black music. And people don't have a problem calling R&B black music or calling different variations black music. But when it comes to jazz, because jazz is such an interesting and innovative music, we seem to want to express it as everybody's music--which it is, it is, and everybody has made a contribution. But it's created by black Americans.
(Soundbite of music)
GORDON: You know early on that you loved music. I read somewhere that at five you could literally tell your parents what trumpeters and jazz men were playing particular songs just by listening to it. Talk to us about how much music has played a role in your life beyond just the love of it. Has it really shaped who you are?
Mr. RONEY: Yes. That's interesting. That goes back to calling this music black music. I grew up in North Philadelphia. The music was very prominent there, and it reflected ideas and growth and the movement of the times. It kind of signaled that. It was in everybody's house. It made everybody conscious, you know, consciously aware. So it was very prominent.
(Soundbite of music)
GORDON: So much has been said about jazz and the musicians who shaped it, particularly during what many see as the golden era. How do you view jazz today?
Mr. RONEY: I think we have to keep making it vital. The golden era, as they call it, I still think it's still here. It's just been a little dormant because they people that are trying to push the envelope are not getting the recognition.
GORDON: Here is what I find interesting, and often it gets lost in that true jazz discussion. The idea of taking and interpreting--not necessarily copying, but interpreting standards or popular song. You've tried to keep that tradition alive, haven't you?
Mr. RONEY: Yes. You said it.
GORDON: Talk to me about how you do that and how you pick your songs.
Mr. RONEY: Well, I pick my songs as something that moves me, a melody that moves me; it's relating to our experience; it has to be beautiful; and it has to have the Blues in it, as well. And you take that melody and then you shape it with things that you feel, and the things that's going on around you.
(Soundbite of song "Just my Imagination")
GORDON: So, for instance, on the latest album, you have the temptations classic, 'Just My Imagination.' You don't just do the rendition, an instrumental of it, but you put your own take to it.
Mr. RONEY: It's a beautiful melody within itself. The music that we play, we can stretch the harmonies and really redo it. We can re-orchestrate it. And in then I've added not only African American rhythms to it, I add some direct African rhythms along with it, and you're starting to do some innovative work.
(Soundbite of song "Just my Imagination")
GORDON: Talk to me about what I hear you have, and you hear this of certain musicians, and that's the perfect pitch--your ear. Can you really design what the note is quickly just by hearing it?
Mr. RONEY: Yes. What it is is you can identify pitch whenever you hear it. And I guess I knew I had it, but I didn't realize what it was called until I was around nine or 10 years old, and my instructor identified it for me.
GORDON: What does that do for you in terms of being able to play that someone who doesn't have it has to work at?
Mr. RONEY: Well, it's tremendous because you can hear everything inside the music. You can hear all the inner parts, as well as the obvious parts. And when I go to play with other musicians, it doesn't take long for me to hear what they're doing because I can hear the form, and I can hear the bass notes and the harmony the piano player plays; and I can sit in a tune that I've never played before, usually.
(Soundbite of song "Just my Imagination")
GORDON: I want to take you back to the idea of race and music. There's a sense of the importance of not losing the root of the music. When you talk about traditional jazz, much of that audience will be white. Does it bother you at all that Black America has not necessarily embraced what we created?
Mr. RONEY: Yes, it does. And that's what I would like us to do, reclaim it, along with the rest of the world. Because, if it wasn't that great of a music, everybody else wouldn't be acknowledging it. We're the only ones that don't acknowledge what we created. And the blues is what made us overcome--and jazz was the innovative part of that music. It is the classical music of this world.
GORDON: Let me ask you this, entertainer, artist, musician, if you had to pick one, how would you see yourself?
Mr. RONEY: Artist. I think a musician is a high honor. I think an artist is someone that plays everything better than the average musician. And I think entertainer is one that gives you the package of a little bit of this, a little bit of that, and gives you a show. I don't think artists necessarily have to give you a visual show. They give you a spiritual show.
GORDON: All right. Wallace Roney. The new album is Mystical. And good talking to you.
Mr. RONEY: Thank you.
(Soundbite of music)
GORDON: That's our program for today. Thanks for joining us. To listen to the show, visit npr.org. And if you'd like to comment, call us at 202-408-3330. NEWS AND NOTES was created by NPR News and the African American Public Radio Consortium.
Copyright © 2006 NPR. All rights reserved. Visit our website terms of use and permissions pages at www.npr.org for further information.
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vary. The authoritative record of NPR’s programming is the audio record.
https://www.nytimes.com/2000/09/24/arts/music-don-t-ask-the-critics-ask-wallace-roney-s-peers.html
THOSE
who hear the trumpeter Wallace Roney at Birdland in Manhattan this week
will experience the art of one of the musicians most responsible for
the jazz renaissance that took off in the early 1980's. They will also
hear one of the best band leaders in the music, for Mr. Roney has found a
personal way of fusing his three major influences on composition,
arranging and group playing -- Miles Davis, John Coltrane and Herbie
Hancock, informed by the studying and the playing that he did with
Ornette Coleman.
What
one hears is a manipulation of the simple and the complex as well a
conception to improvising in which forms and approaches can be reordered
on the spot, allowing the players to redefine melody, harmony and
rhythm with the kind of freedom that makes each performance suspenseful,
thrilling and unpredictable.
That
should be expected of Mr. Roney, who was highly regarded by his peers
long before he achieved public recognition. Born in Philadelphia in
1960, he grew up in a soulful household; his father's favorite musician
was Miles Davis and his mother's was Thelonious Monk. So he always heard
premier jazz improvising. He began studying music and trumpet at 5. By
his teens, he was attending Duke Ellington High School for the
Performing Arts in Washington, and his name had a big star next to it in
the undergound of young musicians. In 1979, he won the Down Beat
magazine award for best young jazz musician of the year.
But
such early praise for Mr. Roney was not always shared by music critics.
He was often dismissed as being little more than a clone of Miles
Davis. It was the critics' way of saying that for Mr. Roney to base his
work on that of a great musician is somehow a sin against the kind of
contrivance often described as ''cutting edge.'' Yet the depth of his
talent is something that other musicians have long recognized.
''I
had first heard about Wallace Roney when I was in high school,'' said
Wynton Marsalis. ''People told me that there was someone serious who was
from Washington. And when I first met him, I was astonished by how much
music he knew and how much of it came through his horn when he was
playing. He has maintained that level of seriousness throughout all of
the years since then. This man has never been swayed, which is an
achievement of very high integrity in this era.''
I
recall first hearing Mr. Roney in 1976 at Ali's Alley, the short-lived
but hot club in SoHo owned by Rashiedc Ali, John Coltrane's last
drummer. Mr. Roney, a shy, dark-skinned and good-looking 16-year-old
making his New York debut, sat in with the drummer Philly Joe Jones. As
soon as Mr. Roney commenced to swing, the noise level in the club
immediately dropped off, and those in the middle of conversations or
laughing and joking turned their attention to the bandstand. People in
the back room came out to hear that horn. There was plenty of Lee Morgan
in that trumpet playing, and the passion for jazz was so thorough that
the atmosphere inside the club was completely rearranged. At the end of
the tune, the room took on a crazily jubilant mood, and the clapping
wouldn't stop.
The
saxophonist Greg Osby met Mr. Roney while they were both 18-year-old
students at the Berklee School of Music in Boston. Mr. Osby says that
even then Mr. Roney was impressing his fellow musicians and that that
high regard has changed little since.
''What
most people still don't know is that he is a very, very gifted
musician,'' Mr. Osby said. ''Not only does he have perfect pitch, but he
has the supreme version of it. I've seen him outline entire
arrangements without aid of his trumpet or a piano. Wallace also turned
me on to the essentials of improvisational navigation. He detailed the
finer points of melodious logic, how phrases related to one another and
how the melody related to the chords that were implied.''
Mr.
Osby recalls Mr. Roney having once written out the chord changes to the
standard ''Cherokee'' for him. ''I still have a cassette of us playing
that,'' Mr. Osby said. ''He's playing piano and I'm playing saxophone.
That's my first attempt at relating harmony to melodic output. I'll
never forget that.''
By
the early 80's, Mr. Roney was a well-schooled trumpet player, fully
aware of the tradition from Louis Armstrong forward. The bassist Peter
Washington observed those qualities when he worked with Mr. Roney in Art
Blakey and the Jazz Messengers.
''I'm
still amazed at his knowledge of all aspects of jazz -- brass, reeds,
piano, bass, drums, arrangements and everything else,'' Mr. Washington
said. ''He was always studying and trying to better his playing and his
understanding of music on every level. His harmonic vocabulary is
encyclopedic. He can play out of any harmonic bag he wants to. The point
he's at right now, he's just playing what he hears. He's completely
free to do whatever he wants to do.''
That
encyclopedic knowledge and freedom are the result of working with a
range of musicians that stretches from Jay McShann to Ornette Coleman
and includes Philly Joe Jones, Cedar Walton, Wayne Shorter, Herbie
Hancock, Ron Carter, Tony Williams, Elvin Jones and Sonny Rollins, some
of the most respected names in jazz. That bandstand experience explains
why Miles Davis selected him to be a guest at Davis's 1991 Montreux
concert, which was one of his last, and why he was invited to perform at
the party for Mr. Coleman's 70th birthday party earlier this year.
In
the 1980's, jazz was considered passe, but Mr. Roney, like Mr.
Marsalis, was at the forefront of the movement that reasserted the
timeless vitality of the art. He was investigating the free melodic
invention and harmonic juggling that were characteristic of Davis,
Coltrane, Mr. Coleman and Mr. Shorter -- seemingly unfazed by the
unflattering comparisons to Davis.
The
results were clear to musicians like the saxophonist George Coleman.
''You don't hear anybody else but Wallace who can handle that way-out
chromatic stuff that Miles Davis was playing,'' he said. ''Nobody else
can hear what it is. To pick something like that, which nobody else has
done, and play it with that kind of precision, you have to respect the
originality of that.''
The
bassist Ron Carter, who worked in Davis's last great quintet and has
shared many bandstands with Mr. Roney, further defends him against his
critics: ''Wallace seems to be the only trumpet player who understands
how Miles did what he did. He didn't just imitate the order of the
notes; he understands why they are in that order. Because he understands
the concept way past the imitator stage, he's able to develop it to the
next level of harmony, space, phrasing and achieve his own
individuality. It's time people began to recognize that.''
Mr.
Washington maintains that Mr. Roney long ago developed ''his own big,
dark sound.'' It is also true that the influence of the trumpeter Don
Cherry on Mr. Roney has never been appropriately noted. Overlooked is
the fact that his playing expresses glee, pathos, sudden and unexpected
emotions, as well as the noble gloom, sensuality and humor passed down
from Davis to Cherry.
WHAT
makes Mr. Roney most interesting at the moment, however, is the way in
which he is working with his band, trying to define an ensemble approach
in which each player can remake his or her part in reaction to what the
featured performer is doing. Mr. Roney's music embodies the essence of
jazz, both taking advantage of and building on the past. Like all
superior jazz musicians, he grounds his music in swing, blues, ballads
and Afro-Hispanic rhythms. Even records as superbly realized as ''The
Wallace Quintet'' and ''Village'' do not capture the fire, nuance and
adventure of his public performances. So the best chance to experience
the work of this artist is to sit in the audience and be taken to some
fresh places.
A version of this article appears in print on September 24, 2000, on Page 2002029 of the National edition with the headline: MUSIC; Don't Ask the Critics. Ask Wallace Roney's Peers.
Wallace Roney Biography
Born on May 25, 1960, in Philadelphia, PA; son of Wallace Roney Jr. (a police detective); married Geri Allen (a pianist), 1995. Education: Attended Howard University, 1978; Berklee College of Music, 1981. Addresses:
Record company--32 Records, 250 West 57th Street, Suite 620, New York,
NY 10107; Concord Jazz, P.O. Box 845, Concord, CA 94522, (925) 682-3508,
http://www.concordrecords.com.
Trumpeter Wallace Roney began playing in top-notch bands in 1979,
recorded with jazz legends Tony Williams and Art Blakey in the mid '80s,
and received critical accolades for his performance with Miles Davis at
the 1991 Montreux Jazz Festival in Switzerland. "I think the thing I
like the most about Wallace's playing," Wynton Marsalis told Ed Enright
of Down Beat, "is the incorruptibility that's in his sound." Like
trumpeters Marsalis, Terence Blanchard, Roy Hargrove, and Philip
Harper, Roney came to the jazz scene in the 1980s and became known as
one of the "young lions." This articulate and well-dressed group of
young men drew their inspiration from earlier styles of jazz, especially
hard-bop and post-bop. While the world of jazz sometimes appears seamy
to outsiders, the professional demeanor of these young men helped to
clean up this negative image. Being a young lion didn't translate into
critical or monetary success for Roney, however. Only after endless hard
work and a number of lean years would Roney begin to receive wider
attention.
Wallace Roney was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, on May 25,
1960. By the age of five, he had picked up his first trumpet; at seven,
his father bought him his first horn and made sure that he had lessons;
at 12, he performed with the Philadelphia Brass Ensemble at the
Philadelphia Settlement Music School. In the early '70s he moved with
his father and siblings to Washington, D.C., where he was enrolled in
the Duke Ellington School for the Performing Arts. He developed a love
for Miles Davis, wearing out his 45 RPM record of "Filles de
Kilimanjaro" and practicing the master's solos while still in his teens.
Upon graduation, Roney declined an opportunity to attend the
prestigious Juilliard School, choosing Howard University instead. In
1979 he joined pianist Abdullah Ibrahim's big band for a summer European
tour; he toured Europe again in 1980, with Art Blakey. He returned to
Boston in 1981, attending the Berklee School of Music until he read in
the Village Voice that Marsalis was leaving Blakey's Jazz
Messengers. Roney wanted his position. He knew the Messengers would be
playing a stint at the Bottom Line in New York City, so for Roney there
was only one thing to do: sell everything. "My television, my comic
books, school books, my trumpet," he told James McBride of the Washington Post."I had to get to New York that day."
While he did get a job touring with Blakey for a few months, followed
by a year-long job with Chico Freeman, Roney also spent years
scrounging for work. He lived frugally, sleeping on the floors of
friends' apartments and generally "wearing out my welcome," he recalled
to McBride. In 1983 his future began to look brighter--at least
temporarily. While taking part in a tribute to Miles Davis at the Bottom
Line in Manhattan, he actually got to meet his idol. "He [Davis] asked
me what kind of trumpet I had," Roney told Time, "and I told him
none. So he gave me one of his." Throughout two dismal years in '84 and
'85 he was forced to play in Latin dance and reception bands.The New
York clubs, once a prominent part of the jazz scene, had mostly
disappeared. The skies began to clear in 1986 when Roney received two
calls--within one month--to tour with two jazz legends: drummers Tony
Williams and Art Blakey.
Roney recorded his debut, Verses, for Muse in 1987. He also
became a central part of the Tony Williams Quintet, touring and
recording with the group until it broke up in the early '90s. For Roney,
1991 and 1992 proved to be watershed years. First, he received an
invitation from Miles Davis to play at his side during the 1991 Montreux
Jazz Festival. "I was soloing on 'Springsville,'" Roney told Zan
Stewart of the Los Angeles Times,"and after I finished, he
[Davis] tapped me on the arm and said, 'Play this tomorrow on the gig.'"
The music was later issued as Miles and Quincy, Live at Montreux,
won a Grammy Award, and let the jazz world know that Roney had arrived.
It led to an invitation to tour with Herbie Hancock, Wayne Shorter, Ron
Carter, and Tony Williams in the Miles Davis Tribute Band in 1992 and
to his involvement in a recreation of the "Birth of the Cool" sessions
the same year.
While these opportunities certainly raised Roney's profile, they also
led to a certain typecasting. The tone and color of Roney's horn has
often--perhaps too often--been compared to Miles Davis's. Other jazz
musicians have faced similar dilemmas: Sonny Stitt was labeled as
another Charlie Parker, John Faddis as another Dizzy Gillespie. "I'm
never going to run from Miles," Roney told Fred Shuster of Down Beat.
"But writers don't have to introduce me and my music to the audience in
the context of Miles every single time." To better understand Roney's
music, one has to listen to it against the backdrop of the musical
innovations that took place in jazz during the mid 1960s. With the style
generally referred to as post-bop, a number of musicians began
inserting open structures and new chord progressions into their music.
They utilized unusual time signatures, allowing drummers and bass
players to take prominent roles. This shift allowed talented musicians
like Ron Carter and Tony Williams to come forward and form their own
bands. While these innovations had endless possibilities for
exploration, many musicians moved on as fusion began to dominate the
jazz scene in the late '60s. From early in Roney's career, he has sought
out musicians who have deep roots in hard-bop and post-bop. Roney has
simply made the choice, as many of the young lions did, to return to
that golden era of the mid '60s in order to further explore its myriad
ideas.
In 1994 Roney received a multiple album contract from Warner Bros. Misterios,
his debut for the label, found him stretching boundaries by including
Brazilian rhythms and strings. He maintained a busy touring schedule,
playing dates at the Village Vanguard in New York, Scullers in Boston,
and the Jazz Showcase in Chicago. He also traveled to Italy, France, and
Portugal for a number of summer festivals. Between recording dates and
touring he found time to marry his longtime musical partner, pianist
Geri Allen, on May 12, 1995. On 1997's Village, and even more so on 2000's No Room for Argument,
Roney began to incorporate ideas from late-'60s fusion. These albums
include synthesizers and electric pianos along with saxophone, piano,
and trumpet, creating a spacious and layered sound. "We are trying to
play in a way that will open up the music," he told Roberta Penn of the Seattle Post Intelligencer
concerning his current experiments. His willingness to push boundaries
and surround himself with the best contemporary jazz musicians
guarantees that Wallace Roney will continue to be a fresh and vital
artist.
by Ronald D. Lankford Jr
Wallace Roney's Career
Began playing trumpet at age five; performed with the Philadelphia
Brass Ensemble at 12; attended Duke Ellington High School for the
Performing Arts as a teenager, graduated, 1978; toured Europe with
Abdullah Ibrahim and Art Blakey, 1979-80; played and recorded with Tony
Williams Quintet, mid 1980s; recorded debut, Verses, for Muse, 1987; performed Montreux Jazz Festival in Switzerland beside Miles Davis, 1991; signed to Warner Bros., released Misterios, 1994; recorded No Room for Argument for Concord, 2000.
Wallace Roney's Awards
Named Best Young Jazz Musician of the Year by Down Beat, 1979; won the Down Beat Critic's Poll for Best Trumpeter to Watch, 1990.
Famous Works
Selected discography:
- Verses , Muse, 1987.
- Crunchin' , Muse, 1993.
- Misterios , Warner Bros., 1994.
- Village , Warner Bros., 1997.
- No Job Too Big or Small , 32 Jazz, 1999.
- No Room for Argument , Concord Jazz, 2000.
Further Reading
Sources
- Down Beat, August 1996, p. 48; May 1, 1998, p. 30.
- Los Angeles Times, August 16, 1992, p. 6.
- Seattle Post Intelligencer, April 10, 1998, p. 7.
- Time, September 19, 1994, p. 76.
- Washington Post, December 12, 1987, p. D1.
Wallace Roney: Jazz
by
In a time when the definition of the word jazz is in heated debate, it
takes a certain amount of courage for trumpeter Wallace Roney to use it
as the title of his third release for HighNote. Roney continues to mine
the place where contemporary rhythms and technology meet the language of
jazz, and while there are those who will balk at his use of
turntablists, synthesizers and hip hop rhythms, one listen is all it
takes. It may be increasingly difficult to empirically define jazz, but
one knows it when one hears it, and Jazz is most definitely a jazz album. With the same core group that's been with him since Prototype
(HighNote, 2004)—saxophonist/clarinetist/brother Antoine Roney,
pianist/keyboardist/wife Geri Allen and drummer Eric Allen—there are a
couple of new faces, most notably keyboardist Robert Irving III, who
replaces Adam Holzman. Both Irving and Holzman were key players in Miles
Davis' 1980s bands and, given that Roney's starting point has, since Village (Warner Bros., 1997), been the late trumpeter's earliest forays into
electric music—and he was a protégé of the late icon in his final
years—working with Miles alumni has always felt completely right.
Roney is no mere Miles clone, however, and only those listening to him with the most cursory of ears could suggest otherwise. Roney possesses a similarly rich tone, an ear for playing exactly what's required—no more, no less—and an ability to morph pop music like Sly and the Family Stone's "Stand" into an extended and open-ended modal workout. But while the persistent, In a Silent Way-like groove that defines its core is referential, the hard-hitting and virtuosic trumpet/drums duo that opens "Stand" is not. Miles' technical skill often ebbed and flowed with his health, but Roney suffers no such inconsistencies. He's never sounded better, moving from strength to strength.
Roney's time spent from the mid-1980s to the early-1990s with another Miles alumnus, the late drummer Tony Williams, informs bassist Rashaan Carter's "Inflorescent," a relaxed, largely acoustic track that features Geri Allen's best piano solo of the set. Antoine Roney's "Nia" is another lyrical piece, with subtle turntable work by another regular collaborator, Val Jeanty, and stunning less-is-more (but all the more powerful for it) solos from both Roney brothers.
It's the more energetic tracks, however, that are the most revealing indicators of just how far along the trumpeter has come at taking his stylistic starting point and making it his own. His "Vater Time," which begins with a hip hop beat and turntable work by DJ Axum but turns decidedly swinging for Antoine Roney's tenor solo, proves that there is a nexus where the traditional and the modern can coexist.
It's a theme that's run through Roney's albums for a decade now, but it's never been so clear, so wonderfully conceived and so flawlessly executed. For those who think jazz has to live in a time warp, Jazz just might sway that opinion.
Roney is no mere Miles clone, however, and only those listening to him with the most cursory of ears could suggest otherwise. Roney possesses a similarly rich tone, an ear for playing exactly what's required—no more, no less—and an ability to morph pop music like Sly and the Family Stone's "Stand" into an extended and open-ended modal workout. But while the persistent, In a Silent Way-like groove that defines its core is referential, the hard-hitting and virtuosic trumpet/drums duo that opens "Stand" is not. Miles' technical skill often ebbed and flowed with his health, but Roney suffers no such inconsistencies. He's never sounded better, moving from strength to strength.
Roney's time spent from the mid-1980s to the early-1990s with another Miles alumnus, the late drummer Tony Williams, informs bassist Rashaan Carter's "Inflorescent," a relaxed, largely acoustic track that features Geri Allen's best piano solo of the set. Antoine Roney's "Nia" is another lyrical piece, with subtle turntable work by another regular collaborator, Val Jeanty, and stunning less-is-more (but all the more powerful for it) solos from both Roney brothers.
It's the more energetic tracks, however, that are the most revealing indicators of just how far along the trumpeter has come at taking his stylistic starting point and making it his own. His "Vater Time," which begins with a hip hop beat and turntable work by DJ Axum but turns decidedly swinging for Antoine Roney's tenor solo, proves that there is a nexus where the traditional and the modern can coexist.
It's a theme that's run through Roney's albums for a decade now, but it's never been so clear, so wonderfully conceived and so flawlessly executed. For those who think jazz has to live in a time warp, Jazz just might sway that opinion.
Track Listing: Vater Time; Children of the Light; Inflorescent; Fela
Personnel: Wallace Roney: trumpet; Antoine Roney: soprano saxophone, tenor saxophone, bass clarinet; Geri Allen: piano, keyboards (2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9); Robert Irving III: keyboards, Fender Rhodes (1, 4, 6, 8); Rashaan Carter: bass; Eric Allen: drums; DJ Axum: turntables (1, 4); Val Jeanty: turntables (5, 6, 8).
Title: Jazz | Year Released: 2007 | Record Label: HighNote Records
http://www.wallaceroney.com/about.php
Wallace Roney (born May 25, 1960, Philadelphia) is an American jazz (hard bop and post-bop) trumpeter.[1]
Roney took lessons from Clark Terry and Dizzy Gillespie and studied with Miles Davis from 1985 until the latter's death in 1991. Wallace credits Davis as having helped to challenge and shape his creative approach to life as well as being his music instructor, mentor, and friend; he was the only trumpet player Davis personally mentored.
Roney was born in Philadelphia and attended Howard University and Berklee College of Music in Boston, Massachusetts, after graduating from the Duke Ellington School of the Arts of the D. C. Public Schools, where he studied trumpet with Langston Fitzgerald of the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra. Found to have perfect pitch at the age of four, Wallace began his musical and trumpet studies at Philadelphia's Settlement School of Music.
He studied with trumpeter Sigmund Hering of the Philadelphia Orchestra for three years. Hering regularly presented Wallace at recitals at the Settlement School, and with the Philadelphia Brass Ensemble, during his studies in Philadelphia.
When he entered the Duke Ellington School, Roney had already made his recording debut at age 15 with Nation and Haki Mahbuti, and at that time met, among others, Bill Hardman, Valery Ponomarev, Woody Shaw (who befriended him), Johnny Coles and Freddie Hubbard. He played with the Cedar Walton Quartet featuring Billy Higgins, Sam Jones, and Philly Joe Jones at 16 years of age with the encouragement of his high school teacher.
Roney had attained distinction as a gifted local performer in the Washington, D.C area. In 1979 and 1980, Roney won the Down Beat Award for Best Young Jazz Musician of the Year, and in 1989 and 1990 the Down Beat Magazine's Critic's Poll for Best Trumpeter to Watch.
In 1983, while taking part in a tribute to Miles Davis at the Bottom Line in Manhattan, he met his idol. "He [Davis] asked me what kind of trumpet I had," Roney told Time magazine, "and I told him none. So he gave me one of his." In 1984 and 1985, he was forced to play in Latin dance and reception bands, as the New York clubs, once a prominent part of the jazz scene, had mostly disappeared. But in 1986, he received a pair of calls, in the same month, to tour with drummers Tony Williams and Art Blakey, after which Roney became one of the most in-demand trumpet players on the professional circuit.
In 1986, he succeeded Terence Blanchard in Blakey's Jazz Messengers. In the late 1980s and early 1990s, he was an integral part of Williams's quintet. In 1991, Roney played with Davis at the Montreux Jazz Festival. After Davis's death that year, Roney toured in memoriam with Davis alumni Wayne Shorter, Herbie Hancock, Ron Carter and Tony Williams and recorded an album, A Tribute to Miles, for which they won a Grammy Award.
Roney learned his craft directly from Miles Davis. Critics have taken Roney to task for sounding too similar to his idol. Roney recorded his debut album as a leader, Verses, on Muse Records in 1987. A number of albums on Muse, Warner Bros. Records and Concord Records/Stretch Records followed, and by the time he turned 40 in 2000 Roney had been documented on over 250 audio recordings. His two most recent albums are Mystikal (2005) and Jazz (2007), on HighNote Records.
Earlier in his life, Roney had been a resident of Montclair, New Jersey.[2]
With Art Blakey
Wallace Roney - Biography
Wallace Roney earned the admiration and respect of his colleagues and
his elders since age 16. He has been an integral part of the band with
Tony Williams, Ornette Coleman, Art Blakey, Elvin Jones, Philly Joe
Jones, Walter Davis Jr., Herbie Hancock, Jay McShann, David Murray,
McCoy Tyner, Sonny Rollins, Curtis Fuller, Carole King, Joni Mitchell,
and Dizzy Gillespie to name a few. He was one of the few musicians in
his generation who learned and perfected his craft directly from
alliances with Jazz Masters. But his most important and meaningful
relationship was with Miles Davis.
Wallace was mentored by Miles Davis after Miles heard him in 1983 at his birthday gala performance in Carnegie Hall. Their association peaked when Miles chose Wallace to share the stage at his historic performance in Montreux in 1991. After Davis died, Herbie Hancock, Ron Carter, Wayne Shorter, Tony Williams and Roney banded together and toured the world in tribute.
My goal is to make the best music I can. I enjoy, listen and can play ALL types of music I filter my expression through the jazz experience.
Personnel: Wallace Roney: trumpet; Antoine Roney: soprano saxophone, tenor saxophone, bass clarinet; Geri Allen: piano, keyboards (2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9); Robert Irving III: keyboards, Fender Rhodes (1, 4, 6, 8); Rashaan Carter: bass; Eric Allen: drums; DJ Axum: turntables (1, 4); Val Jeanty: turntables (5, 6, 8).
Title: Jazz | Year Released: 2007 | Record Label: HighNote Records
http://www.wallaceroney.com/about.php
Wallace Roney
Roney at Pori Jazz festival in 2012
Wallace Roney (born May 25, 1960, Philadelphia) is an American jazz (hard bop and post-bop) trumpeter.[1]
Roney took lessons from Clark Terry and Dizzy Gillespie and studied with Miles Davis from 1985 until the latter's death in 1991. Wallace credits Davis as having helped to challenge and shape his creative approach to life as well as being his music instructor, mentor, and friend; he was the only trumpet player Davis personally mentored.
Roney was born in Philadelphia and attended Howard University and Berklee College of Music in Boston, Massachusetts, after graduating from the Duke Ellington School of the Arts of the D. C. Public Schools, where he studied trumpet with Langston Fitzgerald of the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra. Found to have perfect pitch at the age of four, Wallace began his musical and trumpet studies at Philadelphia's Settlement School of Music.
He studied with trumpeter Sigmund Hering of the Philadelphia Orchestra for three years. Hering regularly presented Wallace at recitals at the Settlement School, and with the Philadelphia Brass Ensemble, during his studies in Philadelphia.
When he entered the Duke Ellington School, Roney had already made his recording debut at age 15 with Nation and Haki Mahbuti, and at that time met, among others, Bill Hardman, Valery Ponomarev, Woody Shaw (who befriended him), Johnny Coles and Freddie Hubbard. He played with the Cedar Walton Quartet featuring Billy Higgins, Sam Jones, and Philly Joe Jones at 16 years of age with the encouragement of his high school teacher.
Roney had attained distinction as a gifted local performer in the Washington, D.C area. In 1979 and 1980, Roney won the Down Beat Award for Best Young Jazz Musician of the Year, and in 1989 and 1990 the Down Beat Magazine's Critic's Poll for Best Trumpeter to Watch.
In 1983, while taking part in a tribute to Miles Davis at the Bottom Line in Manhattan, he met his idol. "He [Davis] asked me what kind of trumpet I had," Roney told Time magazine, "and I told him none. So he gave me one of his." In 1984 and 1985, he was forced to play in Latin dance and reception bands, as the New York clubs, once a prominent part of the jazz scene, had mostly disappeared. But in 1986, he received a pair of calls, in the same month, to tour with drummers Tony Williams and Art Blakey, after which Roney became one of the most in-demand trumpet players on the professional circuit.
In 1986, he succeeded Terence Blanchard in Blakey's Jazz Messengers. In the late 1980s and early 1990s, he was an integral part of Williams's quintet. In 1991, Roney played with Davis at the Montreux Jazz Festival. After Davis's death that year, Roney toured in memoriam with Davis alumni Wayne Shorter, Herbie Hancock, Ron Carter and Tony Williams and recorded an album, A Tribute to Miles, for which they won a Grammy Award.
Roney learned his craft directly from Miles Davis. Critics have taken Roney to task for sounding too similar to his idol. Roney recorded his debut album as a leader, Verses, on Muse Records in 1987. A number of albums on Muse, Warner Bros. Records and Concord Records/Stretch Records followed, and by the time he turned 40 in 2000 Roney had been documented on over 250 audio recordings. His two most recent albums are Mystikal (2005) and Jazz (2007), on HighNote Records.
Personal life
Wallace Roney is the son of Wallace Roney, U.S. Marshal and President of the American Federation of Government Employees Local 102, grandson of Philadelphia musician Roosevelt Sherman, and older brother of tenor and soprano saxophonist Antoine Roney.
Earlier in his life, Roney had been a resident of Montclair, New Jersey.[2]
Movie credits
- 2001 - The Visit - Jordan Walker-Perlman - music arrangement
- 1996 - Love Jones - music arrangement
Discography
As leader
- 1987 – Verses (Muse)
- 1988 – Intuition (Muse)
- 1989 – The Standard Bearer (Muse)
- 1989 − What's New (Nippon Crown) released 2016
- 1990 – Obsession (Muse)
- 1991 – Seth Air (Muse)
- 1993 – Munchin' (Muse)
- 1993 – Crunchin' (Muse)
- 1994 – Misterios (Warner Bros.) with Antoine Roney, Ravi Coltrane, Geri Allen, Clarence Seay, Eric Allen, Steve Berrios, Steve Thornton, Valtinho Anastacio, Gil Goldstein
- 1995 – Wallace Roney Quintet (Warner Bros.) with Antoine Roney, Carlos McKinney, Clarence Seay, Eric Allen
- 1996 – Village (Warner Bros.) with Antoine Roney, Chick Corea, Geri Allen, Clarence Seay, Lenny White, Michael Brecker, Pharoah Sanders, Robert Irving III, Steve Berrios
- 2001 – No Room for Argument (Concord Jazz) with Geri Allen, Adam Holzman, Antoine Roney, Lenny White, Buster Williams, Steve Hall
- 2003 - No Job Too Big or Small (Savoy) with Eric Allen, Geri Allen, Cindy Blackman, Donald Brown, Ron Carter, many others
- 2004 – Prototype (Highnote) with Antoine Roney, Don Byron, Clifton Anderson, Geri Allen, Adam Holzman, Matt Garrison, Eric Allen, DJ Logic
- 2005 – Mystikal (Highnote) with Antoine Roney, Geri Allen, Adam Holzman, Matt Garrison, Eric Allen, Bobby Thomas, Val Jeanty
- 2007 – Jazz (Highnote) with Antoine Roney, Geri Allen, Robert Irving III, Rashaan Carter, Eric Allen, Val Jeanty
- 2010 – If Only for One Night (Highnote)
- 2012 – Home (Highnote)
- 2013 – Understanding (Highnote)
- 2019 – A Place In Time (Highnote)
As sideman
With Geri Allen- Maroons (Blue Note, 1992)
- Eyes in the Back of Your Head (Blue Note, 1997)
- The Gathering (Verve, 1998)
- Timeless Portraits and Dreams (Telarc, 2006)
- What If? (Enja, 1986)
With Art Blakey
- Killer Joe (Union Jazz, 1981) – with George Kawaguchi
- Feeling Good (Delos, 1986)
- Remembering Bud Powell (Stretch, 1997)
- Where Were You? (Columbia, 1990)
- Interpretations (Muse, 1982)
- To Diz with Love (Telarc, 1992)
- Evidence (Landmark, 1991)
- Dawnbird (Landmark, 1993)
- Simple Pleasure (HighNote, 2001)
- Brownie-A Homage To Clifford Brown (Verve, 1994)
- First Sight (Timeless, 1992)
- Brilliant Corners (Muse, 1988)
- Superblue 2 (1989, Blue Note)
- Civilization (1986, Blue Note)
- “Pasa Tiempo” (2002, Evidence Music) with Joe Louis Walker
- In an Ambient Way (2015, Chesky Records)
References
External links
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About
Wallace was mentored by Miles Davis after Miles heard him in 1983 at his birthday gala performance in Carnegie Hall. Their association peaked when Miles chose Wallace to share the stage at his historic performance in Montreux in 1991. After Davis died, Herbie Hancock, Ron Carter, Wayne Shorter, Tony Williams and Roney banded together and toured the world in tribute.
My goal is to make the best music I can. I enjoy, listen and can play ALL types of music I filter my expression through the jazz experience.
THE MUSIC OF WALLACE RONEY : AN EXTENSIVE VIDEO OVERVIEW, A CROSS SECTION OF RECORDINGS, MUSICAL ANALYSIS AND COMMENTARY PLUS VARIOUS INTERVIEWS WITH WALLACE RONEY: