February 09, 2005, 3:05 PM ET
Billboard.com
Organ Legend Jimmy Smith Dies
Legendary Hammond B-3 organ player Jimmy Smith died yesterday (Feb 8th) at his home in Scottsdale, Ariz., apparently of natural causes. He was 79.
Smith began playing his trademark Hammond B3 organ in the early '50s. By the '60s, he was both a workhorse and a frequent name on the Billboard album chart, thanks to such titles as "Organ Grinder Swing" and "Hobo Flats." Smith became forever linked to a new generation of listeners after the Beastie Boys sampled his "Root Down" for their track of the same name on the 1994 album "Ill Communication."
The artist continued to record and tour in recent years, and recently completed an album with longtime friend Joey DeFrancesco, "Legacy," due next Tuesday via Concord. The pair were planning to begin a tour in support of the set Feb. 16 at Yoshi's in Oakland, Calif.
"Jimmy was one of the greatest and most innovative musicians of our time," DeFrancesco said in a statement. "I love the man and I love the music. He was my idol, my mentor and my friend."
-- Jonathan Cohen, N.Y
Jimmy Smith, R.I.P
Moderators: Mr Awesomer, JesseMiner, CafeSavoy
wow. i didn't see that coming.
i guess i can post this now:
My memory of Jimmy Smith
by Yakov Chodosh.
SwingDJs.com literary nonfiction supplement
In the summer before my senior year of high school, I went to a summer program for nerdy Jews called CAJE, where the teenagers stayed in a dorm building on a college campus -- mostly in private rooms, and staying above several floors of other unlocked dorm rooms with made-up beds. Even someone as akward as me almost couldn't avoid making the acquaintance of a few girls. Of course the one I met during the week was just kind of freaking me out by the last day (almost anything would have), but within an hour of the end of the conference (yes), I met a girl from Boston -- incredibly, her name does not come to mind -- with whom, over the coming months, I developed an increasingly heated relationship through phone and mail correspondence.
At one point, she came for a visit, and although it was pretty awful as I later came to realize, my standards at the time were not high; so, as the year dragged on and it came to be prom season, I was invited to her prom. Everyone in the family egged me on to go (her father, as I later found out, was a very highly regarded Jewish scholar, who'd made a new translation of the Bible), and I had no particular incentive to go to my own prom, so with trepidation, I told her I'd be there.
(Yes, this essay is about Jimmy Smith. Read on.)
As one would expect, it was a mistake. An enormous mistake. A horrible, terrifyingly awful mistake. We had no clue as to how to act around each other, unable even to carry on a conversation. I actually spent more time that weekend talking to her parents and her brother than to her. And of course, the prom itself, with the tuxedo, the limousine ride, meeting all of her girlfriends (who regarded me with a mix of wonderment and, as I imagined at the time, pity; in return, I half-heartedly tried to hit on them), the prom itself with the awful music and gross food (from which I wandered, by myself, into the hotel lobby to play the piano), and the ludicrous parody of a breakup scene that came the following day. Needless to say, I was happy to get out of there, and as I waved good bye from the door of the Amtrak train, I heaved a sigh of relief.
I've taken two trips on an Amtrak, both times to Boston, and both times I have met interesting people. The wide aisles, more comfortable seats, dining cars, smoking cars, and the general feeling associated with riding trains in this country, something like that exhiliration of opening a carton of eggs after the expiration date stamped on the carton, contribute to a generally more genial atmosphere on a train than other modes of transportation. This trip, however, didn't seem to yield any interesting personalities, so I settled in and tried to sleep.
I woke up somewhere in, I think, New Jersey; why we were even in New Jersey between Boston and New York is anyone's guess. Looking out the window, it was easy to tell that we were in the middle of a railroad switching yard of some sort, in the kind of place that one generally wouldn't want one's train to stop. Rumors were flying, but after a while the general consensus was that the power lines had gone down, and we would be stuck for at least a few hours. A few hours became a few more hours, which became something longer, which became I hope you don't have anywhere to be.
Gradually, the train became a very different place. The cafe` became a dive bar (one 30-something woman, drunkenly hitting on me, suddenly asked: "How old are you." I said, "Sixteen." She said, "A-ha! I knew you were sixteen! Don't try to pull one on me!"). The space between the seat and wall in the third car became a meeting tent put up by two enterprising high school girls using tents, jackets and pillows. Inside were snacks and books; it was open to visitors.
Over the ensuing hours, I became familiar with who was in every car, and talked to almost everyone, except for the group of boisterous black men in the last car. They had intimidated me. But about five hours in, I had exhausted the conversational potential of the rest of the train (not including the smoking car, which probably increased my chances of lung cancer by 10% just by opening its door), and I went back there, said hello, and joined into their conversation about music. After a few minutes The older man, clearly the leader of the group, introduced himself: "I'm Jimmy Smith, a famous jazz musician." He and his band were on their way to play the David Letterman show.
He asked me a few questions about myself, and with the ever-present rasp in his voice, he said: "You say you a jazz musician? A jazz musician? You don't know jazz until you get some of my recordings. I play the jazz organ, and I'm the best jazz organist in the got-damn world."
The group included five guys: four big black men and one skinny white guy with glasses and a Bible. I'm not sure why he was there but I did find out that he was a minister of some sort. When he found out I was Jewish, his eyes widened; I might have been the first he'd met. "You have to memorize and write down the entire Bible for your Bar Mitzvah, right?"
Another fellow who introduced himself as the manager, expended maybe an hour of his time with college advice, which was very simple: I need to go to Berklee. Berklee is the best place for a jazz musician. I should apply there. He knows the trombone teacher. I should go to Beklee. etc.
One of the other fellows tried to sell me a box of six CDs for $100, without telling me who was on it. "It's good music, I'll tell you that!" The other guys laughed each time he said it.
Later, without needing much persuasion, Jimmy told me his life story: "I was a music prodigy. I used to see pianos in people's houses, you know, I was poor so I didn't have one, I saw them in the window. But the first time I sat down to play one, I played the Lone Ranger theme song perfectly.
"To get my first organ, I had to take out a loan from the mafia. They kept it in their warehouse until the money was paid off, you know, on loan. So I went there to practice, six hours a day! And if the mafia didn't like my playing, they let me know! HAH. They let me know!" (His bandmate came in here, apparently on cue: "They let him know!") "But now I'm the best got-damn jazz organist in the world!"
A few days later, I took a trip to the record store.
i guess i can post this now:
My memory of Jimmy Smith
by Yakov Chodosh.
SwingDJs.com literary nonfiction supplement
In the summer before my senior year of high school, I went to a summer program for nerdy Jews called CAJE, where the teenagers stayed in a dorm building on a college campus -- mostly in private rooms, and staying above several floors of other unlocked dorm rooms with made-up beds. Even someone as akward as me almost couldn't avoid making the acquaintance of a few girls. Of course the one I met during the week was just kind of freaking me out by the last day (almost anything would have), but within an hour of the end of the conference (yes), I met a girl from Boston -- incredibly, her name does not come to mind -- with whom, over the coming months, I developed an increasingly heated relationship through phone and mail correspondence.
At one point, she came for a visit, and although it was pretty awful as I later came to realize, my standards at the time were not high; so, as the year dragged on and it came to be prom season, I was invited to her prom. Everyone in the family egged me on to go (her father, as I later found out, was a very highly regarded Jewish scholar, who'd made a new translation of the Bible), and I had no particular incentive to go to my own prom, so with trepidation, I told her I'd be there.
(Yes, this essay is about Jimmy Smith. Read on.)
As one would expect, it was a mistake. An enormous mistake. A horrible, terrifyingly awful mistake. We had no clue as to how to act around each other, unable even to carry on a conversation. I actually spent more time that weekend talking to her parents and her brother than to her. And of course, the prom itself, with the tuxedo, the limousine ride, meeting all of her girlfriends (who regarded me with a mix of wonderment and, as I imagined at the time, pity; in return, I half-heartedly tried to hit on them), the prom itself with the awful music and gross food (from which I wandered, by myself, into the hotel lobby to play the piano), and the ludicrous parody of a breakup scene that came the following day. Needless to say, I was happy to get out of there, and as I waved good bye from the door of the Amtrak train, I heaved a sigh of relief.
I've taken two trips on an Amtrak, both times to Boston, and both times I have met interesting people. The wide aisles, more comfortable seats, dining cars, smoking cars, and the general feeling associated with riding trains in this country, something like that exhiliration of opening a carton of eggs after the expiration date stamped on the carton, contribute to a generally more genial atmosphere on a train than other modes of transportation. This trip, however, didn't seem to yield any interesting personalities, so I settled in and tried to sleep.
I woke up somewhere in, I think, New Jersey; why we were even in New Jersey between Boston and New York is anyone's guess. Looking out the window, it was easy to tell that we were in the middle of a railroad switching yard of some sort, in the kind of place that one generally wouldn't want one's train to stop. Rumors were flying, but after a while the general consensus was that the power lines had gone down, and we would be stuck for at least a few hours. A few hours became a few more hours, which became something longer, which became I hope you don't have anywhere to be.
Gradually, the train became a very different place. The cafe` became a dive bar (one 30-something woman, drunkenly hitting on me, suddenly asked: "How old are you." I said, "Sixteen." She said, "A-ha! I knew you were sixteen! Don't try to pull one on me!"). The space between the seat and wall in the third car became a meeting tent put up by two enterprising high school girls using tents, jackets and pillows. Inside were snacks and books; it was open to visitors.
Over the ensuing hours, I became familiar with who was in every car, and talked to almost everyone, except for the group of boisterous black men in the last car. They had intimidated me. But about five hours in, I had exhausted the conversational potential of the rest of the train (not including the smoking car, which probably increased my chances of lung cancer by 10% just by opening its door), and I went back there, said hello, and joined into their conversation about music. After a few minutes The older man, clearly the leader of the group, introduced himself: "I'm Jimmy Smith, a famous jazz musician." He and his band were on their way to play the David Letterman show.
He asked me a few questions about myself, and with the ever-present rasp in his voice, he said: "You say you a jazz musician? A jazz musician? You don't know jazz until you get some of my recordings. I play the jazz organ, and I'm the best jazz organist in the got-damn world."
The group included five guys: four big black men and one skinny white guy with glasses and a Bible. I'm not sure why he was there but I did find out that he was a minister of some sort. When he found out I was Jewish, his eyes widened; I might have been the first he'd met. "You have to memorize and write down the entire Bible for your Bar Mitzvah, right?"
Another fellow who introduced himself as the manager, expended maybe an hour of his time with college advice, which was very simple: I need to go to Berklee. Berklee is the best place for a jazz musician. I should apply there. He knows the trombone teacher. I should go to Beklee. etc.
One of the other fellows tried to sell me a box of six CDs for $100, without telling me who was on it. "It's good music, I'll tell you that!" The other guys laughed each time he said it.
Later, without needing much persuasion, Jimmy told me his life story: "I was a music prodigy. I used to see pianos in people's houses, you know, I was poor so I didn't have one, I saw them in the window. But the first time I sat down to play one, I played the Lone Ranger theme song perfectly.
"To get my first organ, I had to take out a loan from the mafia. They kept it in their warehouse until the money was paid off, you know, on loan. So I went there to practice, six hours a day! And if the mafia didn't like my playing, they let me know! HAH. They let me know!" (His bandmate came in here, apparently on cue: "They let him know!") "But now I'm the best got-damn jazz organist in the world!"
A few days later, I took a trip to the record store.
Last edited by Yakov on Fri Feb 11, 2005 11:51 am, edited 1 time in total.
-
Dr. Feelgood
- Posts: 16
- Joined: Wed Apr 21, 2004 12:34 pm
- Location: Bay Area (Oak/SF)
How I missed this...I just don't know.
Jimmy was a wonderful man, at least that was my experience
with him. I had the pleasure of being an assistant stage mgr. for
Verve Records 50th Anniversary back in 1994. Basically I dealt with
a tremendous "who's who" of famous jazz musicians that came to
perform for this evening at Carnegie Hall. Jimmy was one of these
giants. The event ran smoothly, I did my best to accomodate all "my
musicians" to the best of my abilities and make certain that they didn't
want for anything.
One of the memories that I've always cherished, was Jimmy & his wife
seeking me out after the event was OVER...when people are scrambling
to leave...in order to talk with me about my interests and aspirations, and
to THANK ME over and over "for taking such good care of us!" I was
floored by their interest, concern and their good-natured way. Even the
other musician (like Roy Hargrove and Don Alias) went out of their way
to engage me in conversation about how much they loved Jimmy! They
raved about how he played that B-3 like nobody else! Before or since.
I've missed Jimmy Smith quite a bit since 1994, and I'll admit that I know
I'll miss him a bit more now.
Jimmy was a wonderful man, at least that was my experience
with him. I had the pleasure of being an assistant stage mgr. for
Verve Records 50th Anniversary back in 1994. Basically I dealt with
a tremendous "who's who" of famous jazz musicians that came to
perform for this evening at Carnegie Hall. Jimmy was one of these
giants. The event ran smoothly, I did my best to accomodate all "my
musicians" to the best of my abilities and make certain that they didn't
want for anything.
One of the memories that I've always cherished, was Jimmy & his wife
seeking me out after the event was OVER...when people are scrambling
to leave...in order to talk with me about my interests and aspirations, and
to THANK ME over and over "for taking such good care of us!" I was
floored by their interest, concern and their good-natured way. Even the
other musician (like Roy Hargrove and Don Alias) went out of their way
to engage me in conversation about how much they loved Jimmy! They
raved about how he played that B-3 like nobody else! Before or since.
I've missed Jimmy Smith quite a bit since 1994, and I'll admit that I know
I'll miss him a bit more now.