[Dixielandjazz] Mort Weiss - West Coast Jazz Clarinetist was Inspiring Story

[Steve Barbone]

Does anyone on the Left Coast know this man? Talk about an inspiring story.
Below are excerpts from an AAJ article about him. He started as a Dixieland
player about 1947 or so, then from about 1965 took a 40 year break from
playing music. Back in 2000.

Cheers,
Steve Barbone

Mort Weiss: Sets Sail With Clarinet: December 18, 2006  By R.J. DeLuke
  
The world of jazz seems to be ever changing. . .

But some things don¹t change, and one of those is that a player who¹s proven
himself is a player. Period. Circumstances and situations may get in the
way; they may delay. Sometimes situations, bad ones, have even done people
in. But a player is a player, is a player.

Enter Mort Weiss, a West Coast clarinet player who, over the last few years,
has produced some bitchin¹ recordings, exhibiting a biting, aggressive tone
and spirit of adventure that is opening eyes and ears. . . but different
than some of the cats out there‹Ken Peplowski, Don Byron, et al. He¹s 71 and
has only been on the scene for about five years, but two of his latest
discs, The B3 and Me (SMS Jazz, 2006) and Mort Weiss Meets Sam Most (SMS
Jazz, 2006), show him in fine form with some of the heavyweights of jazz‹the
former featuring none other than organ wizard Joey DeFrancesco and the
latter, obviously, featuring Most, whose reputation on flute and saxophone
precedes him (though it may be time for some to rediscover him). . .

Mort Weiss has been playing clarinet since he was nine, back in the
mid-1940s. A guy who incessantly practiced‹including carrying the instrument
around with him when he drove a taxicab at night through Hollywood and
adjoining areas of Southern California, practicing on the cabstand when
waiting for fares‹he was a player then.

And he¹s a player now. Just listen to the recordings. . .

Weiss¹ playing, by his own admission as well as to listeners¹ ears, has
grown better and better, and his latest two discs, . . . are testament to a
man who understands his instrument, as well as the language of jazz. . .

³We¹ve never rehearsed one song on any of those dates,² says Weiss. ³Any
time you hear something from me, it¹s all pure, extemporaneous jazz, man,
made up on the spot. And there are warts, a lot of warts. But I¹ve left all
the warts in. I got into sailing quite heavily in my life when I wasn¹t
playing. There¹s an analogy I thought of from jazz to sailing: It¹s a series
of corrections. You can¹t sail in a straight line. You have to make
adjustments with every little puff of wind that comes along. The same with
jazz. Every note you hit, you¹re going down a certain road. You paint
yourself in a corner sometimes and you have to work your way out of it. Even
Bird did. Everybody does it. That¹s the brilliance of the guys that worked
their way out of it and go down a different road. That¹s what separates the
legends from the wannabes.² . . .

³You have to forgive me, I was in a penitentiary.²

True enough. Troubles with alcohol and drugs are what caused the long hiatus
for Weiss. He wasn¹t incapacitated for that time. Far from it. But it pushed
him away from music. Thankfully, he¹s back. . .

³I¹ve always felt that I had something musical to say. It was a great
sadness to walk away from it. But you don¹t fool around with it. If you quit
smoking, you quit smoking. That¹s why I never touched the instrument (during
his hiatus),² he says matter-of-factly. ³But as I got older and I felt that
I had something to say,. . . What¹s it all about Alfie? . . .

The Weiss saga started with him taking classical lessons as a youngster. . .
Among his teachers was Antonio Remondi, a clarinetist with the Los Angeles
Philharmonic Orchestra. During his years in high school, he was a Dixieland
fan. His reputation got around and appeared as a soloist in a number of live
TV performances and playing in local bands. Among the groups he played with
was the Freddie Martin Orchestra with singer Merv Griffin. It also had Frank
Morgan on alto sax.

³There was a resurgence of Dixieland in 1947 and I loved Dixieland, and
still do. A friend said, ŒDid you ever hear this?¹ It was Jazz at the
Philharmonic (Verve, 1994). Illinois Jacquet, Flip Phillips, playing
³Perdido.² It just knocked me out. Then there were two guys at the high
school where I went and they said, ŒYou gotta hear this.¹ It was Bird. For
about fifteen seconds I had no idea what I was listening to. It was like
music from another planet. All of a sudden I understood what was happening.
It was an epiphany. It screwed up my life. I was instantly hooked.²

³They didn¹t have all these play-along jazz records like they have today. I
practiced. I was studying with the second clarinetist with the LA
Philharmonic [Remondi]. He knew, and I knew, that I wasn¹t going to be a
classical clarinet player, but the chops were there. I used to practice
three and four hours a day as a kid. Then listen to all the Buddy DeFranco I
could, which was on MGM Records. Then he came to town and my parents took me
to see him. The rhythm section was Art Blakey [drums], Curley Russell, bass,
and Sonny Clark on piano and Buddy. Even today, that¹s insane. That¹s what I
wanted to do with my life,² says Weiss. . .

The instrument fell out of vogue when Bird hit the scene. The clarinet
doesn¹t lend itself,² says Weiss. ³Buddy DeFranco . . . said you have to
abuse the clarinet to play jazz on it. You have three-and-a-half working
octaves and every note is fingered different in every octave. It didn¹t lend
itself. It was the antithesis. In the swing era in jazz it was like rock
guitar today. Then they did a 180-degree turn when Bird hit it, harmonically
and rhythmically.² . . .

³I got into the thing with the drinking and the pill taking and the whole
shot, man. Psychologically, my life just went into the toilet like almost
everybody goes. I didn¹t handle it very well. I ended up literally in a
padded cell,² Weiss says without pity or sadness. It was what it was. . .

³Standing in a padded cell in downtown Los Angeles in the police building,
it ain¹t joy, brother. I¹m standing there naked in a padded cell in the
Œ60s, all of a sudden I had this epiphany. I¹m not a particularly religious
person, but I would call it some sort of a religious experience. I said,
ŒYou know, Mort? You¹re doing something wrong.¹ [laughs] It caught my
attention. ŒI think I better make a 180-degree course change.¹ And that was
the beginning. I put the horns down, everything down.

³I put it down when I was thirty years old. I was consuming like a fifth of
vodka day, if I had the money. If not, it would be cheap wine. Three packs
of Salems, and about 25 grams of Benzedrine. Cocaine wasn¹t available then,
thank goodness. I never stuck a needle in my arm because I knew I would like
it. I didn¹t need that.²

Weiss took a job in a large chain of retail music stores, Willach¹s Music
City, whose owner Glenn Wallich started Capitol Records. . . Then Weiss
opened his own store, the Sheet Music Shoppe. He eventually owned a group of
stores, but has sold them off and now runs one shop, very well known, near
South Coast Plaza. . . That¹s what I was doing for the better part of those
forty years that I didn¹t play.²

Weiss was married during that time (He¹s been with Jean for thirty-two
years). He¹s unruffled now by the hard times, and rightly so. ³The reason I
talk so freely about is I pulled myself out of this whole thing by myself.
There was no going around and having counseling and everything. In fact
there wasn¹t that much open to you in those days. I paid a lot of dues and I
learned a lot of lessons.²

But in the new millennium, Fate tossed a slow-pitch softball down the center
of Weiss¹ plate. 


³I received some junk mail from Irvine Valley College. They were starting a
jazz ensemble and they were holding auditions. I still hadn¹t played all
these years. My wife was in Italy visiting. I got the horn out, man,² Weiss
says, excitedly as he recounts the tale. ³For fourteen days I couldn¹t play
more than two minutes. Your embouchure, the muscles around your mouth, you
just can¹t do it [after such a layoff]. I worked hard on it. And this
teacher was so encouraging. He said, ŒWow!¹ That kicked me in the ol¹ butt
and I just started practicing again. I had customers like Luther Hughes and
Ron Escheté coming in. And I said let¹s get together a couple nights and see
what¹s happening. One thing led to another, to another. Ron knows Joey
DeFrancesco, because he plays with him periodically, he sent No Place to
Hide, my first CD, a duet with Ron, to Joey.

³I get a call one day. I said, ŒHiŠ. Is this Joey?¹ ŒYeah.¹  ŒThis is Joey
DeFrancesco?¹ 

The organist had heard a recording and wanted to play with Weiss. (³He plays
his ass off,² DeFrancesco would later say.) ³I¹m thinking: Who me? And I
started doing a Ralph Kramden‹hummana hummana hummanaŠ[laughs] We set up
some time. He lives in Arizona in a place called Cave Creek. We got together
and we put out the first CD.²

But DeFrancesco was under contract to Concord at the time, and the large
label gave Weiss a very difficult time, says the clarinetist, but he
continued to fight and eventually released it without the organist¹s name
mentioned in the title, The Mort Weiss Quartet. ³That was my second CD. I
had only been playing not quite two years when we did that. I play better
now than then, but there was some excitement that got going that night.²

The same with The B3 and Me, which was recorded in 2003 but not released
until earlier this year. . . ³Joey and I were too much like musicians. We
forgot it was the music business. I kind of followed Joey¹s lead. He¹s
played with many people on numerous records. The shit hit the fan when
Concord found out,² says Weiss.

³Joey¹s name is not on it. It says: ³Featuring a very special guest: The
finest jazz organist in the world, Concord Recording Artist Š You guessed
it. . . I followed the edict of their contract to the period and each comma.
They left out one very important thing. It¹s called innuendo, and I used
that to the utmost.²

So things are good these days for Weiss, whose music business is still
thriving. He jokingly describes his days when not playing club dates: ³I get
up at the crack of noon now. I get home about 9:30, 10 o¹clock (p.m.). Then
I start practicing. You¹re got to practice. It¹s like an athletic thing.
Especially the older you get, your lung capacity diminishes. . .

He hopes to be playing jazz festivals nationally and internationally in
2007, getting his name out there. . .

³There¹s so much bullshit in this world. I was raised Orthodox Jewish, but I
don¹t practice any religion. I believe there¹s a god and all that, but I
don¹t believe any religion has the exact answer. But in the Talmud, ancient
writings from very wise men, the mission of every Jew when they wake up is
to cure the world. Well, that¹s analogous to ³light one little candle.² This
playing gives me the satisfaction that I feel I¹m lighting that candle.²

³Nothing happened after 1958 (in jazz),² he says. ³Nothing new. It never got
better after 1958 to Œ60. It just got different. Trane started another
direction. I have all the respect in the worlds for Trane. He¹s wonderful,
man. But it went in a different direction. With Ornette [Coleman], with
Pharaoh Saunders and Archie Shepp. Although I am playing some things now,
I¹m stretching out a little bit. . . Terry Gibbs, I played some with him. He
said, ŒI hear all these notes, but I can¹t define it.¹

³But that¹s what I sell,² he quips.

³Nobody plays like me. By the way, the word ³ego² isn¹t necessarily a bad
word. When you get to be my age, there¹s no time for bullshitting and
screwing around, kidding yourself or kidding other people.

³The mere fact that we¹re having this conversation will help me to open the
case tonight and practice for three hours. Because I¹m very flattered
anytime anyone wants to interview me for something. It¹s so surreal. I¹ve
been playing for five years. During my hiatus, I never stopped listening. I
listened constantly. I started in with the big guys right away. One thing
led to another and another and I got headlined at the Cathedral Park Jazz
Festival in Portland, Ore. Sometimes I sit there and I go: ŒWhat?¹²