Jeff: Hello, Alessio. So good to speak with you once again! Alessio: It is my pleasure, Jeff. Too much time has passed since our last talk! Jeff: Tell me, how did you first get involved in music? Alessio: It may sound funny, but like so many musicians, I learned early in life that music kept me out of trouble! Jeff: Sounds familiar, for sure! Alessio: For me, it all started at age 15. Let's just say school was not my favorite way to spend my time. Looking back now, I would have to say I was lucky to have strict parents who didn't allow me to get away with anything! So with that first bad report card, my punishment was to spend the entire summer vacation working in a machine shop. Jeff: Not much of a vacation, right? Alessio: Not any fun at all. But it worked out well, I have to say. Jeff: How so? Alessio: Leaving work one afternoon, I heard some strange noises coming from a music store on the corner of the street. So, I walked in, and saw two guys playing guitars. Real loud! Jeff: Let me guess. You were hooked, as the saying goes! Right? Alessio: You bet I was! From that moment on, I could think of nothing but playing music. It was on my mind day and night. No rest for the wicked, I suppose! Jeff: So you bought yourself a guitar? Alessio: Not so fast, I'm afraid. Working in a machine shop didn't pay very much money. But I begged my parents for a guitar. Relentlessly! Frankly, they became so tired of hearing me ask, they just decided one day to buy me one to keep me from asking again! Jeff: Wow! I'll bet that changed your life. Alessio: Yes, that's exactly what it did. In fact, it is still as fresh in my mind today as it was all those years ago. Jeff: Did you take lessons right away? Alessio: No, money was still very tight, so I taught myself to play, devoting endless hours to practicing until I started to get pretty good. Jeff: There's nothing like a self-taught musician, I know. It comes so naturally once you've made the decision to follow that path. Alessio: So true. Before long, I joined a band, and that was the beginning of the rest of my life. Jeff: Well said. Alessio: Call it an epiphany, I guess. But I quickly understood that a song could be simple, immediate, and original. Those are three ingredients others found very hard to find. Jeff: I agree. Beneath all the notes on the page, simplicity is all too easily overlooked. And how have things changed for you over the years, Alessio? Alessio: Today, Jeff, the Internet is my window to the world. It's the perfect place for people everywhere to hear my music. Jeff: Indeed. What an amazing tool for any creative artist to use to advantage. Speaking of which, I invite all our readers to visit you at www.alessiocolombini.com, where they can enjoy your beautiful music. Alessio: Thank you, Jeff. I've enjoyed our time together once again. I’m sure not a good writer, but I want to share my story with you. My earliest passion was music in general, and piano in particular. I took lessons with a piano teacher in West Haven, Connecticut. I was nine when I started. He quit teaching me after two years. I wanted to play Night Train! He wanted Sound of Music! Our dispute ended with him leaving for good. Public school did not want a walk-in two months into the school year after my failed Broadway Show career. Yes, I was on Broadway in The Happy Time, a show starring Robert Goulet. I was a chorus line kid. After two months of rehearsal, I was fired! I guess my dancing wasn’t even close to being good, and my voice changed, too. Dear Dad was there and helped me through that time by acting super disgusted with me, blaming it all on me. I was devastated, I suppose, but I knew Broadway wasn’t in my future. I returned to school only to be met by pissed-off, non-helpful teachers, not to mention bullies who thought a show biz kid was fair game. I begged my folks to put me in a private school, but they weren’t having any of that. In the meantime, I got my first gig at a seedy bar in my home town of North Haven, Connecticut. For me, piano was it, plus a touch of Hammond M-3 organ. Those were my teenage rock days. Talk about Passion! I just loved the great blues piano players, and love of jazz soon followed. Of course, my parents still wanted me on Broadway. Not much had changed, I’m sorry to say! “Nah, bye-bye” was my response. New Orleans blues piano had me hooked, with dreams of performing on Bourbon Street. But first, I ran away to San Francisco! There I was, 15 years old, in San Fran and learning how to be street-smart and street-quick. Yeh, I still remember and love that time of life! But it wasn’t long before I returned to a weepy mother and a silent father (rare), trying yet again to live with my parents and have a real home. Mostly, it worked out. Or at least as well as could be expected. I returned to North Haven High School in 1971, by then an aspiring jazz piano player. I was shocked when a first-year teacher from Buffalo, New York, named Jeff Resnick, was hired to teach music at the high school! He had this crazy idea to actually teach jazz music instead of concert band. Heresy! Revolution! He quickly rounded up a bunch of musicians from the school, and formed The Jazz Workshop. What shocked me the most was that the school administrators allowed him to do that! At least for a while, anyway, until they tried to get rid of him, fearing the unavoidable Sex, Drugs, and Rock-and-Roll lifestyle. Thankfully, they failed! Jeff attracted different types of musicians, all very fine people with great talent. Man, we sure had a lot of stories to tell in 1971-1972! But Professor Jeff already wrote a book about that year! Here’s a hint about what that school year turned out to be, taken from his book. "Word went out. The second week saw the arrival of the hold-outs from both sides of the tracks, but only after hearing about what the new guy had in mind for a school Jazz band. We quickly added a few drummers and percussionists, an unbelievably gifted guitar player, a banjo player, mandolin player, several more singers, and a gentle giant of a piano player whose massive paws covered several octaves." "Frankly, I didn’t turn anyone down. There was no need to. They were all so damn proficient, so eager to please, so hungry to perform, that I knew I’d figure out a way to showcase the talents of all without needing to sacrifice even one. It turns out they all had their own bands, so what followed was a free-for-all of young musicians eager to show the world what they could do. More than forty-five years later, I can honestly say that I have never experienced quite the same level of excitement and anticipation as I did those first two weeks of my very first teaching job. We didn’t just have a Jazz Workshop, there! We also had a Blue-Grass band, a Rock band, and everything in between. It just doesn’t get any better than that. I was sure I would spend the rest of my life at this school. Naive, I’m afraid, as you’ll soon learn." "Anyway, I can admit to you now that I was in awe. I thought I was a pretty solid musician in my own right, and had even taught Music classes at UB. But these kids were teaching me about things I hadn’t yet learned through my own experiences. Performers like Captain Beefheart; Emerson, Lake and Palmer; Frank Zappa; and, Jean-Luc Ponty. Their repertoire put me to shame. So much so that I decided to get out my trumpet and join the band! Sitting here today at my computer, keying this all in, I can’t help but be reminded of two of my favorite movies of all time: Mr. Holland’s Opus (Richard Dreyfuss) and School of Rock (Jack Black). I love those movies. I can’t see them enough, probably because I lived them in 1971-72. I could have written both screenplays." We put out an LP record album together, funded by a semi-crazy local businessman. We performed at The Quinnipiac College Jazz Festival, excited by the well-deserved recognition of our guitar player, Bill Marinelli, as Outstanding Jazz Soloist. We were interviewed on-air by New Haven radio stations. We played concerts throughout Southern Connecticut, including an exciting show at the student union at Yale University. Looking back, that was a fun time for all of us. Too bad Jeff had to deal with a fart-filled school of unhelpful heads. But he did. And we did, too, despite everything and everyone attempting to stand in our way. The Jazz Workshop advanced me in all ways, especially in listening to all forms of music. So many thanks to Jeff for getting this sometime teen drunkard on the way to a life of playing the music that he loved. Steve Allen helped, as did Jack Dupree, and Dr. John, too. For me, the journey after high school has been piano bars and night clubs, starting in New Orleans at age 18. Yes, I made it to Bourbon Street after all, even if it was at another seedy dive. I was playing basic blues well enough to get gigs without much trouble. Now 64 years-old, I’ve played all over the world. Some great shows, and some God-awful ones, like November, 1991, in Norway. Today, cruise ships are the only full-time gigs left in the Piano Bar world. My final years in The Biz are upon me. I’m completing my fourth year on a paddlewheel cruise boat churning out of Oregon. Yes, a real piano gig, no artificial electronics allowed! Frankly, I’m glad that retirement is near. Today’s audiences are tethered to smart phones more than live music. Matrix in reverse! One more year to go, then a place with a window and a Jack Russell Terrier. I tried the mating thing, but I guess I just prefer the solo life. No different than my music. Don’t worry, though, I’ll still play gigs, just not seven days a week as I do now on The American Empress. Okay, that’s all I got, folks! All the best, Jeff, my guide through teen turbulence. And, to all the fine musicians and comrades of The Jazz Workshop, thanks for allowing me there. Yours always, Frank Glenn. (Or, the alter ego, F. Zoar!) Emails welcome: fatpiano@hotmail.com PS: A quick note on “Zoar.” I came up with that name because of a religious cult that chained themselves in caves and cut out their tongues so as never to speak again. Maybe this was considered a way to stop the constant arguments with parents? So I became a member of my “Separatist Society of Zoar.” No, not a religious nut case, just more whiskey and piano and fewer words! Thank goodness I cut way down on the the whiskey, though, which is why I’m still alive to play the piano 47 years later! I was raised in the Cobbs Hill neighborhood in Rochester, New York. Notice, I didn’t say I grew up there. Big difference! Eastman Kodak was still a vibrant company, the very foundation of the city. Nobody had yet heard of digital cameras, let alone the global marketplace. My block-long, one-way street looks the same today as it did in the 1950’s. Street-parking on alternating days, with room for only one car to drive the street at a time. Just five single houses, four side-by-side duplexes, and three 4-unit apartment buildings. The duplex I called home is still there today, the only outward difference being the paint color. Indeed, none of the houses and apartments seem to have changed, other than the people who now live there call them their homes. As I remember it, my house seemed large. But the last time I visited, and was invited to enter my boyhood home by the current owner, I was shocked by how small it really was. Maybe you’ve seen that Tamiflu TV commercial about the big guy who has the flu, and is squeezed into the smallest possible room as if he were a sickly giant living in a tiny doll house? That’s the feeling I had on that last visit decades ago. (Yep, this picture was me in the late 1960's. (And my dad even let me in the front door!) We lived on the left side of the duplex. Father, mother, older sister, and younger brother. The right side of the duplex was home to aunt, uncle, grandmother, and two cousins, both girls. I guess my dad was quite handy with a hammer, because he was always making improvements for both families. How could I forget the laundry chute that ran inside the wall from the second floor into the basement, allowing us to deposit the day’s dirty clothes for a fast ride to the wringer washing machine two floors below? Of course, the two sides of the duplex were mirror images. So my Dad cut out an opening between the two side-by-side laundry chutes, creating a kitchen-to-kitchen pass-through between the two homes. My earliest memories are of being passed from house-to-house by my mother into the waiting arms of my aunt on the other side. I’m sure there’s some deep meaning to that rite of passage, but it hasn’t come to me yet! I should ask my younger brother. He’ll know. After all, he’s the philosopher in the family. Luckily, no child was ever dropped by mistake into the cellar. But don’t tell my brother I told you that. To this day, he still thinks he was dropped on his head. By me. On purpose. Would I do that? Of course not! Dad also opened up the full-house attic by removing the walls between the two sides, creating a unique and functional private play area for all the kids to enjoy together. It also guaranteed that we would spend less time making noise downstairs. Smart move. I still remember those week-end sleepovers, interrupted by adult warnings from below on both sides. "Time for bed! Quiet down! Now! Or else!" Strange that we cousins never seemed to share that space. They had their friends, we had ours, and the twain never met. But that attic made it really easy for anyone, parents included, to visit the other side without having to put on boots, coats, gloves, and everything else that took hours of preparation. Sounds Paranormal! One big, happy family, it seemed at the time. What more could we ask for? A quick two-minute walk from Berkshire Street took you to Culver Road. Turn right, and 100 yards later you arrived at a bridge over the trolley car that traveled to downtown Rochester. If I remember correctly, Culver Road was the last stop to the east. Or the first, depending on your starting point! The trolley is a quickly fading memory for me, but I do recall that I loved walking down the wooden steps from the bridge to the wooden loading platform below. The trolley was one car only, as opposed to what today we would call a train. Very quaint. Graced with wood siding and electric lines overhead. For the grand total of a nickel, my mom and I could travel downtown for a day of shopping in the big city of Rochester! Another nickel to get home. Today, I appreciate the nostalgia in song lyrics like, 'clang-clang-clang goes the trolley.' Our trolley ride was something I always looked forward to. But urbanization was coming to town in a hurry. I couldn’t have been more that five or six-years-old when the trolley line was removed and converted into a concrete automobile expressway, two lanes in each direction. Of course, the electric lines had to be removed, and the original trolley path had to be drastically expanded and paved to accommodate the cars and trucks that would soon invade our once peaceful neighborhood. This expansion was right on the edge of the man-made Lake Riley in Cobbs Hill. Its size was reduced dramatically, and we all wondered how that would affect our winter ice skating. Luckily, neighborhood protests resulted in an expansion of the lake soon thereafter. How dare the city movers and shakers even think about taking away our best fun of the winter! During endlessly long summer vacations from school, by the second day we kids gathered outside on our bikes, banished from the house by our parents, with nothing but a sandwich bag- lunch. “Whattaya wanna do?” “I dunno, whatta you wanna do?” Good thing for us, Cobbs Hill was just around the corner. And what a bee-hive of activity it was. We rode down a path to one of the giant fields where we saw dozens of other kids sitting in a circle around a group of adults, each with a badge on his shirt. “Hey, guys, welcome! Come and join the fun.” We looked at each other only for a moment, then dropped our bikes to the ground and joined the sit-down circle. Little did we know that we were about to join our first summer day camp. No sign-up sheets. No rules. And no homework! If you enjoyed yourself the first day, you came back the next day. If not, no big deal, tomorrow was another adventure. “Pow-wow time,” the counselors announced. More confusion on our part, but we had nothing else to do, so why not? By now, there must have been at least 75 kids sitting around the circle. For the next two hours, we learned all about the Indian tribes native to our part of the country. The Cayuga; Iroquois; Oneida; Onondaga; Seneca; Tuscarora; and, Mohawk. Then we each joined a tribe in preparation for the day’s games. After a quick bag-lunch, we learned what turned out to be our absolute favorite game. It was called ‘Capture the Flag.’ One of the counselors carried a large flag into the middle of the field and planted its tall flag pole into the ground. The rules were simple. Each tribe would try to capture the flag from the field before another tribe could. But whoever had the flag had to use teamwork to get it back to the starting point without being caught and tagged by another tribe. The only way to avoid being tagged was passing the flag off to another member of your tribe. If another tribe member tagged you, that tribe took the flag from you and continued the game. You’d be amazed at the ingenuity and teamwork this game required. ‘Capture the Flag’ always ended up lasting the rest of the day. There were never any arguments or fights. It was all about teamwork. The best part? All these years later, I still remember the names of the Indian tribes of Western New York. To this day, I am a proud member of the Mohawk tribe. Every day was a different adventure, since every Cobbs Hill field hosted different activities. Summer Olympics. Baseball. Soccer. Half-court Basketball. Each one focused on the necessity of teamwork. Each was a learning experience. Each started and ended on the same day. And each and every one was pure fun. We kids needed no motivation to escape our houses early every morning, bag-lunch in our bike baskets. We became friends with kids from other neighborhoods. We learned together, played together, grew together. And today, I’m left to wonder if kids have these same opportunities in their neighborhoods. When you get right down to it, is there even such a thing as a neighborhood anymore? Some of us are lucky enough to be able to remember one teacher who made a difference in our lives. Mr. Howe, first name Robert, was the band director at Monroe High School in Rochester, New York. By the time I entered Monroe as an eighth grader (that was different then, too), my Dad had already bought me a Musicians Union card. You see, I was playing professionally (for money) in society bands, the other musicians being no less than 60-years-old, and some older still. Ancient, in my eyes. Youthful, in my ears. Frankly, I couldn’t have had better teachers. I was playing every Friday and Saturday night, earning enough money to buy a real professional trumpet. Thinking back, $50 pay for a four-hour gig was a big hunk of change in 1960, even for the pros in town. I didn’t know how good I had it! Monroe High was truly progressive in those days, particularly in the Arts. Incoming music students were invited to attend the high school band’s school assembly program, months before they actually started eighth grade. I’ll never forget that May afternoon. I sat in the balcony among the other young instrumental prospects eager to hear the first high school band concert I had ever attended. It wasn’t until the featured soloist took the stage that I envisioned the road I was destined to travel. A graduating senior, Lee walked onto the large stage with trumpet in hand, appearing not the least bit nervous as he waited for the audience to quiet down and for conductor Howe to raise the baton. According to the printed program, Soliloquy for Trumpet was composed as a showcase for trumpet players, a fact I would realize moments later when Lee put trumpet to lips and began his cadenza. As I listened, mesmerized by his musical artistry, I could only picture my own performance on that stage five years hence. I saw it. I heard it. My eyes welled with tears with the realization that here was a trumpet player who had far surpassed my own considerable abilities. In that first of many small-fish-in-a-big-pond moments to come over the years, I understood I had a long way to go to match Lee, and I set my mind to the task. I vowed to be the one on that same stage when my time came. I had spent the summer playing regularly with my elder teachers, honing my skills in preparation. My “chops” couldn’t have been better. During the first week of school in September, this freshman entered the band room ready for Mr. Howe’s audition. And what do you think was the audition piece that every trumpet player was asked to sight-read? Of course. Soliloquy for Trumpet. My mind took over, imagining myself on the very stage that I remembered from Lee’s performance the previous May. I closed my eyes, oblivious to the printed music, as the notes poured forth from memory of emotions felt. In my inner eyes, I saw Lee. In my inner ears, I heard my own trumpet. When I finished the piece, I opened my eyes to see Mr. Howe staring at me, virtually expressionless for what seemed like hours, offering no clue to the result of my audition. He said only two words as he looked down and scribbled hastily upon his note pad: “Thank you.” And that was the end of my audition. I don’t remember stumbling out of the room, walking home, eating dinner, or going to bed that night. The next week, the audition results were posted. For only the second time ever at Monroe High School, an eighth grader had been selected as First Chair Trumpet in both the high school band and the high school orchestra. The weeks and months that followed are all but erased from memory, as happens in the aging process. We seem to remember only key moments in our lives. But I do recall Mr. Howe inviting me to play my first solo during the Spring Concert of my eighth grade year. I performed the classic Jazz standard, Body & Soul. At the conclusion of the concert, Mr. Howe threw his arms around me, patting my back with gusto. Then, stepping back, his straightened arms on my shoulders, his watery eyes looking straight into mine, he said, “I knew you were talented, young man, but I never knew how much! That was an incredible performance!” I was in a daze, and could only mimic the two words he had said to me months earlier after my audition: “Thank You.” The next five years would fly by, captured in memory by Kodak moments of concerts rehearsed and performed, Memorial Day parades marched in sweltering heat or icy rain, half-time shows delivered despite the snow, buses missed, band pictures taken, year books signed, and the dedication of an overworked and under-appreciated band director. Through it all, what sticks with me is how Mr. Howe managed to challenge me without telling me he was doing so; how he valued my talents by respecting me as a young student needing to grow; how he trusted me to practice my parts and deliver excellent performances without ever needing to warn me of negative consequences; how he shook his head in disbelief after I arranged my first “chart” for the stage band. It was Tequila! And how, despite innumerable reasons to do so, he never raised his voice in anger towards me. Not even when I was the only male not wearing a blazer! Yes, five years later I was the soloist on stage performing Soliloquy for Trumpet. There I stood, awaiting Mr. Howe’s raised baton, looking up into the balcony, knowing there was a group of incoming eighth graders sitting in eager anticipation as I had done five years earlier. I couldn’t help but feel an overriding sense of responsibility to deliver a topnotch solo performance, wondering if there was a young trumpet player who would be as mesmerized by my performance of Soliloquy for Trumpet as I had been by Lee’s. And I have no doubt that Lee had experienced that same sense of responsibility five years earlier. After high school graduation in 1965, I never saw Mr. Howe again. He had given me so much, and taken so little in return. But 44 years later, I felt compelled to search him out, on Google. I found him in Florida, and sent him a copy of the first chapter of the new book I was writing, Born2Teach, to tell him how important he was to me. And, to say, “Thank you.” Imagine my surprise when I received this written response only days later. August 7, 2009 What a beautiful surprise birthday present I received from you today, Jeff. A real tear jerker for a 79-year-old man. I remember you way back in Monroe High School, that little guy with a very big trumpet! Those were the days. You were very fortunate to have had a wonderful education at Monroe. Those years, we stressed excellence in all of the studies. And look what that produced! Jeff Resnick, Professor. I’m so proud of your accomplishments. You’re able to write so beautifully. And I hope you still have the chops. I'm sending some pictures by mail you may find interesting. If you’re ever nearby, I'd love to see you again. Good luck on the new book. Love, Bob Bob and I communicated via eMail for several years, catching up on life. Then, one day, I received an eMail from his wife, telling me that Bob had passed away aboard a cruise ship while celebrating what turned out to be their final anniversary together. I took great comfort knowing that I had searched for Bob; that I had found him; and, that I had expressed how much I valued him as an important person in my life. So one day we were playing on the beach, swimming everyday, eating the most incredible food, enjoying an amazing idyllic childhood. One great big beach holiday! And the next thing we were at Heathrow airport on a chilly early Saturday morning in the UK. I remember I was holding my Mum’s hand and thinking, ‘What are we doing here Mum?’It’s cold, and there are so many people here, and there's no jungle! Its all concrete! You see my Father emigrated from India to Tanzania in his early twenties with his younger brother seeking a new life, new opportunities. His Father was already in Tanga so it was a little easier for him. The trip in those days was hazardous, to say the least. The journey was by sea and the ‘Ships' were a little dubious, as some of them didn't quite make it to their final destination. My lovely dear Mother stayed behind with my elder brother whilst he made preparations for their arrival. A few years down the line, My Sister Rani arrived followed by someone named Harvinder, the wildest, naughtiest child in Africa! ‘Mowgli’ would have been a pretty good description. My musical journey began at a very early age. We used to have tickets booked at the local cinema every Saturday evening where they showed all the latest Bollywood films. These were three hours long with the most amazing musical scores you could imagine. You could hear everything from the traditional Indian Bollywood tunes to some of the most incredible Jazzy, Funky tunes with elements of Latin, Brazilian, and Afro themed music packed into those three hours. This is where my musical journey of inspiration started. As I grew into my teens, my interest in collecting music began, so I used to frequent many of the famous and not-so-famous shops that you could find in London in the late 1970's , 1980's, and 1990's. It was in the late 1980's that I discovered Honest Jons Records on the famous Portobello Road in Ladbroke Grove. One day, the owner Mark asked if I would like to work there on the weekends and of course I said ‘yes!’ I used to be in there so much I think he thought he might as well offer me a job as I kind of knew my stuff, musically speaking. To cut a long story short, this is where I came across this incredible record which had a picture of a man creating some pottery and, on the other side, a beautiful young lady doing something artistic that I didn't really understand! Anyway, I put the needle on the record and POW! INCREDIBLE! Tune after tune, Mesmerizing, Energizing, Hypnotic in some cases, composed, arranged and produced by someone named Jeff Resnick, whom I had never come across in my record collecting days. Anyway, there went my week’s wages! Money well-spent for some amazing music! Thank You, Honest Jons Records. This record now is a Holy Grail record amongst the vinyl collectors across the world. Fast forward many, many years later and ‘Mowgli’ has now decided finally to set up his very own record label called Outernational Sounds. I had already been a DJ, Record Producer, Vinyl Collector, and Radio Show Host for many years. My first release was an Indo Jazz album from the 1960's called Raga Jazz Style By Shankar Jaikishan. I have always said to myself that if I ever got a chance to reissue Jeff Resnick's SAC, School For American Craftsmen, I would jump at the chance. I managed to track Jeff down and lo and behold a wish, a dream came true. Thank You, Jeff, for this amazing piece of work. The Concept, The Titles, The Incredible Story of how it just all came together, and last but not least, the Music itself. Just Incredible! I would like to think Jeff and I have made a connection, although we have only spoken on the telephone, but I was lucky enough to get some Positive vibes from Jeff. I won't spoil the surprise by telling you too much about the individual tracks. It’s impossible to do, as every time I listen to this album It takes me on a different journey. Go forth and discover what’s in store. Recorded from original masters on heavy duty 180-gram vinyl only, with everything reproduced as close as possible to the original release. Come with an open mind! Now available on Outernational Sounds with Jeff's blessings! Exclusive Worldwide Distribution by Honest Jons Records. Thank You, Peace, Love, & Music Always! Harv Nagi Who could have imagined that something that happened in 1977 would result in a new vinyl LP in 2017? It all started when a young college professor was invited to compose the music for a film promoting the Rochester Institute of Technology in Rochester, New York. His task? Compose a Tone Poem for each of the five departments within R.I.T.’s School for American Craftsmen: Wood, Metal, Weaving, Glass, & Clay. There’s quite a story behind-the-scenes, so let’s begin at the beginning, shall we? The young professor had just produced an LP of the student Jazz ensemble he directed at Genesee Community College, on a hilltop in farm country outside the small town of Batavia, New York. The ensemble was performing a concert for the local community. As luck would have it, which luck always does, a film-maker from Chicago was in attendance. After the concert, she enthusiastically approached the young professor and asked if he would consider composing original music to accompany the afore-mentioned promotional film. “Love to,” he answered simply. “I’m afraid there’s a very limited budget, though,” she warned. “Actually, there’s no budget!” “Sounds like fun! As long as I can cover the cost of a few local musicians I know and some recording studio time, that’s all we’ll need.” “Really? But what about your fee?” “Hey, I do it for the love of composing and recording.” “How soon could you do this?” she asked, raised eyebrow baiting the hook. “I can start tomorrow,” the hook already buried deep in his beard-covered chin. “I need a finished score delivered in two weeks! Is that even possible?” “Sure. Wanna grab lunch tomorrow to talk about it?” So, they met the next day, and she described the mood she envisioned for each of the five Tone Poems: Wood, Metal, Weaving, Glass, and Clay. They agreed on a minimalist budget to cover costs for the project. By that afternoon, she had begged the required approval from the Dean, along with advance payment for the musicians and studio time, and they agreed to meet two weeks later, when the young professor would deliver the master tape of his finished score. Alas, he was soon to suffer a series of behind-the-scenes events that no one could have dreamed possible! Now for the story-within-the-story! The smartest thing the young professor did was to call Jeff Tyzik, a marvelously gifted trumpet player the professor had worked with several years prior. Jeff agreed to bring along three of his Eastman School of Music faculty band mates, woodwind specialist Ramon Ricker, drummer Dave Mancini, and bassist Aleck Brinkman. The professor’s second call went to the great pianist Sonny Kompanek. The final call went to Tom Rizzo, an acclaimed Rochester guitarist who had worked with the professor in the recording studio. Of course, they all coveted studio work, as their collective music careers would demonstrate all too well. True to form, all agreed to a minimalist fee to accommodate the available budget. The next smart thing the professor did was to book an eight-hour recording session at the $150/hour recording studio in Rochester where he had produced the college ensemble’s album. Admittedly, completing even one Tone Poem in eight hours was a stretch. But five? That’s all the budget would allow, so they would simply have to make do. With that in mind, the last smart thing he did was to compose the music the first week, sending the performance charts to the musicians in advance. He knew he didn’t need to ask them to master the music beforehand. He already knew they would. And that turned out to be a life-saver! The recording session was scheduled for a Saturday morning at nine o’clock. Naturally, all the musicians had gigs that night, so 5 o’clock was the latest they could stay. As with all his sessions, the professor arrived with sealed envelopes, containing payment in full for the day’s recording. No surprise, everyone showed up early, eager to get started on time. All except the recording engineer, that is! So, they sat outside on the stoop, awaiting his arrival. 10 o’clock. No engineer. 11 o’clock. Still no engineer. The professor was in a panic, pressured by the Monday due date of the completed master tape for the film. No cell phones in the 1970’s, so dozens of phone calls were dialed from nearby telephone booths. You know, like in Superman movies? The engineer was nowhere to be found, and voice messages went unanswered. At noon, Jeff Tyzik came running from his phone booth waving his arms frantically, out of breath but smiling. “We’re in luck! I just got ahold of Mick Guzauski. He got home this morning from a European concert tour. He has a key to the studio, and he’s on his way!” “Man, no way he’s gonna make it here before 1,” Dave bemoaned. “And we gotta be outa here by 5!” They all looked at each other. And at the professor. And at the envelopes in their pockets. “I can stay ’til 7, maybe 7:30,” Ray offered. They all looked at each other again. And at the professor. And at the envelopes in their pockets. They took a vote. Without exception, all agreed to stay and work until 8 o’clock, but that would have to be the limit. The professor smiled. “Thanks, guys.” Mick arrived at 12:45, looking none the worse for wear, studio key in hand. The musicians filed in with their gear. Normally, it takes the typical engineer hours to set up a studio for recording. But Mick was far from typical! He had everything ready to roll in 20-minutes, the professor marveling at his calm and cool demeanor, despite his lack of sleep. Glass was the first Tone Poem they recorded. No rehearsal. One take. Done! The creative juices were flowing. Jeff assumed the duties of organizing everything from that point on, devising innovative solutions for all the tricky overdubs the professor’s music required in order to make seven players sound like a much bigger band. True to their promises, they managed to wrap up the session at 7:59 P.M. Mick and the professor remained until midnight to edit and master the score. As promised, he handed the magical master tape to the film-maker on Monday, and the young professor departed, assuming his obligation was complete. Not so fast! A week later, the professor answered his ringing phone. It was the film-maker. ‘Uh-oh,’ he thought to himself. “The Dean loves the music!” she gushed. “In fact, he wants to know if you can create four newTone Poems for the School of Art & Design: Painting, Printmaking, Foundations, and Communications Design. These would be added to the film, already near completion.” “Wow, that’s great! Same approach as before? Same budget?” Silence. “…uhhh…well…there’s no money available,” she winced. “I’m afraid we spent everything we had on the School for American Craftsmen project. Do you think you might…uhhh…youknow…” He scratched his head, thought about it, and an idea came to him in mid-scratch. “You know,” he mused, “I’ve got my own little project studio in a 9’x11’ space I rent for $50-a-month in an old industrial warehouse in town. Nothing even close to a professionalrecording studio. But I’ve got an eight-track tape deck for multi-tracking, a small mixing board, a two-track deck for mastering, and a synthesizer. So, if you’re game, I’ve always wanted to jump into the one-man-band genre. A real challenge, for sure. So, yeah, I think I could give you exactly what you need.” “Let’s do it!” “Let me guess…you need it in two weeks, right?” “…uhhh…well…I actually need it in a week…can you do that?” “Yep. I can. And I will.” The young professor spent the next week, day and night, in his little make-shift project studio in the Batavia Industrial Center. Of course, back in those days, there were no personal computers, no MIDI sequencers and the like. So he performed every part on every instrument himself. He persuaded another musician friend to play on two of the tracks. That musician was saxophonist Dick Griffo, a fellow alum from the University of Buffalo music department. Sure enough, the exhausted professor delivered his second master tape a week later. He had a good feeling that something good might come from all of this. Once again, he assumed he had fulfilled his obligation, and his search for a new project was already underway. The phone rang! Yes, it was the film-maker. “Uh-oh…you didn’t like it?” he asked. “Like it? The Dean loves it so much that he’s decided he would like you to produce all nine Tone Poems on a long play record album!” Silence. “You’re kidding, right?” “He thinks an LP of your music scores would be a great recruiting tool for the School for American Craftsmen and School of Art & Design. They’re going to mail copies to high school guidance counselors and promising students across the country, and Europe, too, I believe. What do you think about that?” “I think the Dean is a very wise man with a vision for the future. Okay, how’s this gonna work, financially?” “First, he insists that you register the music copyrights in your name to protect your legal rights. Second, you’ll be given full credit for the music on the album cover, along with contact information for anyone who wants to reach you. R.I.T. will pay for everything. The Dean wants you to oversee the whole project to completion.” “I can handle that. I hate to even ask, but when do you need it done?” “Surprise! Take whatever time you need! The film is already doing its job, that’s for sure, so the LP is just icing on the cake,” she explained. “Speaking of the film, what kind of response are you getting?” “To quote the Dean, ‘viewer response to the professor’s innovative Jazz-Fusion music has been immediate and overwhelming.’ ” “Count me in. I’ll get everything rolling on my end. By the way, what are we going to use for the album cover?” “The Dean invited one of the faculty members to design the cover, which will have four-color art work on both sides. Side-A will be SAC, for the School for American Craftsmen. Side-B will be A&D, for the School of Art & Design." “This is exciting stuff, for sure! Thank you for involving me in such an innovative project. I’ve really enjoyed it, every step of the way.” “All I can tell you is that the Dean isn’t easily satisfied. This is all happening because of your passion for your work,” she complimented. Six months later, the LPs were mailed across the globe. In the meantime, the young professor left teaching…another story for another time…and opened a music production company in his 9’x11’ studio in the decrepit old industrial complex. With a film score to his credit, he ventured into advertising by composing and producing jingles for ad agencies. That little production company eventually morphed into a full service national ad agency, yet another story for another time and place! But before we conclude this story, the young professor has a confession to make: he is me. And I am him. But you already knew that…didn’t you? I can only wonder how that LP could have become a favorite of rare-LP collectors around the globe, bought and sold who-knows-how-many-times? And for how much money! Yes, I did the required research, contacting the rare-LP collectors who had been following my music for all those years, unbeknownst to me. When they heard I had a few unopened LPs in my attic…well, you can guess the rest! Growing up in the west of Ireland was a long way from the world of rock music, even though my parents had the first bar to feature live music in Tralee. The music played was traditional Irish, folk and pop music of the ‘60s. Not like today, it was difficult to source music and one time I had to get a train to Cork city to buy a John Mayall album. The round trip was approximately five hours, but worth every second. When CBS Records released the compilation album 'Fill Your Head With Rock', it opened up a whole new exciting world and introduced me to the British band Argent with the song 'Hold Your Head Up'. Little did I realize at the time that through a chance encounter, Chris White (The Zombies) who wrote the song would become one of my best friends and we would have a lifelong musical association. Chris introduced me to RCA Records in London and our first recordings were with members of Argent: Russ Ballard, John Verity, Jim Rodford, Bob Henrit, and Tim Renwick, who later went on to record a classic album with Pink Floyd. They say ‘’you should never meet your heroes'' but I guess I was blessed to play with mine: Argent, The Fureys, Jan Akkerman from Focus, Ronnie Drew from The Dubliners, and David Richards, producer of David Bowie and Queen. The music of Queen was played a lot in our house and my youngest son Rory fell in love with the song ‘We Will Rock You’. He drove everyone mad by playing it fifteen to twenty times a day, not bad for a two-year-old. Sadly, my son contracted meningitis before his third birthday and had eight brain operations. We constantly played familiar music at Rory’s bedside, as they say people in a coma know what goes on around them. Weeks went into months, so you can imagine our incredible delight when one day I put on ‘We Will Rock You’ in the hospital and Rory’s face lit up. We had made contact. Our little boy survived and is now a very special young man. Rory will never live independently but has a great quality of life and brightens up every room and company he enters. The following summer of ’99, Dom Torche from Relief Studio, Switzerland, invited our family over for a holiday. The day we were leaving Dublin for our flight to Geneva, we cut flowers from our garden to place at the statue of Freddy Mercury in Montreux, the home of Mountain Studio, Queen and David Richards, our way to say thank you. Brian May, Rodger Taylor, Claude Nobs (Funky Claude), Freddie Mercury, David Richards, John Deacon In 2009 I received a random phone call from David Richards asking “Got any unfinished songs mate, come out to Montreux and let’s see what will happen.” Who would turn down an offer like that to go to Mountain Studio? We wrote and recorded together for the following few years and I was joined by my son Rory for a few of the recording sessions. How incredible it was to see Rory sitting at the recording desk with David in his total comfort zone, a long way from the hospital in Dublin. David often spoke about how difficult it was to finish the Queen album ‘Made In Heaven’ after Freddie passed away. Little did I ever imagine that I would be in the same heartbroken situation as David sadly passed away in December, 2013. One of the songs we recorded together was ‘Smoke On The Water’, a tribute to Montreux and Claude Nobs (Funky Claude) founder of the Montreux Jazz Festival. Our music files are now in Tempo Studio, Dublin, with Matt Kelleghan of Moving Hearts, and to finish the album I am also joined by Vivienne Boucherat, Chris White, and John Verity. Our aim is to share the gift of Peace, Love, and Rock’n’Roll in David’s memory. Editor’s Note: Shortly before the final deadline for publication of this story, I received an email update from Francie. Check out this wonderful news! by Jennifer Resnick 19 years ago today I was working at my store, helping women buy beautiful clothes, trying to focus on my business, because thinking about my scheduled C-section the next day felt too scary. I remember eating dinner and going to bed that night, telling myself to get a good night’s sleep because I wouldn’t get one for awhile. Flash forward to the next afternoon. Flash forward again to today- 19 years… and still the same Fierce Love, growing exponentially with each passing moment. Happy Birthday to my sweet girl, Chelsea Miranda. You Make My Life Complete! © Jeff Resnick 2022
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