I attended a Louis Hayes clinic in Seattle on Tuesday, and have written some impressions of what he said— I’m also reading a Modern Drummer interview from the 80s, in which he goes into greater detail. He is 89 years old, and one of the last living players of his generation— Julian Priester, who lives in Seattle, is a year older. His wife was at the clinic, I imagine he and Julian will be hanging out quite a bit for the two days Hayes is in town.
As a student myself I was always most attracted to the star players— Lenny White’s magnificent seven— and some of the more individualistic players in the tier “below” them. I was much slower getting into the more mainstream working players— Louis Hayes, Art Taylor, Jimmy Cobb, for example. They were recorded a lot, and are on some of the biggest records of all time, but I’d be slow to listen to them closely as drummers.
Louis Hayes, though, is really right in the center of the jazz world as it developed in the late 50s through mid 60s— you can look at his discography— he was tight with all the major people, he really is the center of what it means to be a jazz musician, as a creative and social thing, jazz is what he did. And does.
It was real interesting to get a better sense of the texture of his career— which is covered in much greater detail in the Modern Drummer interview. I’m never really that interested in career details, I want to know how somebody plays the drums, but, between the clinic and the interview, you realize that the life he has lived, and his career, is really the thing, all the particulars of how to play the drums are beside the point. Somewhat similar to Billy Hart there.
Hayes is originally from Detroit, where he became very into playing the drums starting at age 10— after hearing the Charlie Parker records— practicing many hours every day, and by the age 14-15 he was a decently competent drummer, and by age 19 he was playing with Horace Silver. After four years with Horace Silver, he was a finished player. How would you not be? That’s the definition of finished.
Going into the clinic, I wanted to ask him how much those Charlie Parker records, and Max Roach, shaped his concept of how to play the drums— a lot players of his generation really studied those intensely. But listening to him talk, it seemed superfluous. I got the sense that he was first and foremost the product of a scene, playing, seeing people play, talking to people, being around, working things out with them. In the interview he does mention listening to Kenny Clarke recordings very closely. In the clinic he was asked about Wilcoxon, and he said he didn’t use any drumming books.
I think with players like this, the lesson is what they actually give you, whatever you wanted to know from them is a non-issue, you won’t get answers you wanted there. It’s exceptional for people to give the kind of detailed technical answers we’re accustomed to now. You have to find the lesson in what they did say.
Time and touch
He played one tune with some teachers from the studio and, he is 89 years old, and his chops are in kind of a rough state— I wish I could have hung out to catch the actual gig at Jazz Alley— but still there were some notable things: he used large sticks, and played rather loud— not forcefully, but with normal full movements. He’s used to playing large rooms, with powerful players. His volume would come from his choice of cymbal— hihat, crash, or ride— rather than force or stick heights. No doubt he plays more forcefully at times. He would also find his own space with his time— it’s a concept in jazz time I’m just getting my head around— that is not about locking in, but about everyone finding their own space within a shared time concept.
I want to do what I want to do
I was surprised that jazz was really his complete thing from the start, he apparently never did a lot of normal gigs as most of us have, playing bar mitzvahs, dances, society gigs, or other kinds of projects. He is a bebop guy.
Which reflected in his relationship with his bandleaders— he seemingly never learned the service animal mentality a lot of have. He said Horace Silver left him alone to play what he wanted, Cannonball left him alone. Oscar Peterson did not leave him alone, he wanted something specific. After a few years of that Hayes decided he needed to do his own group. Paraphrasing something he said, “I’m not here to accompany you, I’m here to do what I want to do.” As co-equal contributors, clearly not in the sense of being musically selfish. Of course, though, what he wanted to do was fairly musically conservative, which is certainly no small part of why he has worked so consistently throughout his career.
It’s real different from the attitude we saw in Billy Hart’s book, where he was taking some pains to please his band leaders, not always successfully.
Friends, family
He emphasized that he was close personally with most of the people he worked with— they were either friends, sometimes roommates, or they were around. It sounded like Oscar Peterson was the first long running gig where he wasn’t personally close to the leader.
Feathering the bass drum
Asked about feathering— playing time on the bass drum— he said he felt it was a thing that previous generations did, while players of his generation would “break it up”, and not do that. He didn’t have any other commentary about it, suggesting to me that, if it ever came up with people played with— or with Papa Jo Jones, who mentored him, they were close— it was not a major enough concern to comment on now.
When something goes wrong
“The drummer is the first one they’re going to look at.”
Q from the audience: Did that ever happen to you?
A: Yes.
It’s a familiar notion, he made the unspoken second part clear: so you need to have your shit together.
Philosophy
His philosophy is extremely simple, do it if you want to do it, if you don’t want to do it, do something else. And if you want to do it, it takes a lot of work. The major unspoken thing from the clinic was the social aspect: be around, be on the scene.
Miles and Tony
Funny little story, with Hayes at a crux point in history— he knew Tony Williams and was hanging out with him a lot in the early 60s. Miles Davis called Hayes up to ask him if Tony could cut his gig. Hayes hadn’t heard Tony play yet, says yes. Small thing.
There we go. The lessons of the clinic were very broad things. Since I got interested I’ll be listening to more of his stuff, so maybe we’ll see some more about him soon.
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