Eric Schneider Telling It like It Is

Eric Schneider Telling It like It Is

Date Posted: January 09 2010

Written By: chicago jazz

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in his own words...Eric Schneider


Eric Schneider’s musical adventures began early. Born and raised in the Chicago area, he was able to play melodies on the piano at age three. His formal studies started on piano at six. By age eight, his tendency to try to “improve” the music inspired his teacher to give him a boogie-woogie book, which resulted in his earliest experiments in composition and improvisation.

Clarinet lessons started a couple years later and by age fifteen he’d taken up the sax. Hearing Charlie Parker turned his musical life completely around, and he heeded the call. He dropped piano lessons, neglected the clarinet and started a passionate relationship with the alto saxophone.

After graduating from the University of Illinois with a degree in Advertising, he returned to Chicago and joined Jim Beebe’s Chicago Jazz Band. Earl Fatha’ Hines, who knew a thing or two about good, young saxophone players (and had hired Charlie Parker some thirty years earlier) heard about Eric and requested an audition tape. This resulted in a four-year stay, touring all over the world, as well as the LP, Eric and Earl (Hines insisted on second billing).

With Hines’ blessing Eric accepted Count Basie’s offer to join the Basie Orchestra and subsequently occupied the “hot” tenor chair for two years, following in the footsteps of his other main musical influence, Lester Young, who held the chair from 1936 to 1940. During his tenure with Basie, Schneider recorded three albums, including the Grammy Award-winning 88 Basie Street. These six years of nonstop touring brought him into the company of some of America’s greatest artists, including Ella Fitzgerald, Dizzy Gillespie, Benny Goodman, Sarah Vaughan, Tony Bennett, Clark Terry, Mel Tormé, Sammy Davis, Jr., Joe Williams, Ray McKinley, Rosemary Clooney and Billy Eckstine. He’s also worked with former Charlie Parker employers, Jay McShann and Sir Charles Thompson, with whom he recorded two CDs.

Abandoning the nomadic life and returning to Chicago, Schneider embarked on a richly diverse career that blends studio work, concert performances and jazz festivals, and featured positions alongside visiting jazz heavyweights. The many calls for his services on clarinet rekindled his love affair with the instrument, and he is now in constant demand on clarinet and saxophone, alto and tenor, by both small groups and big bands that need a soloist possessing both erudition and passion. Offers for extended travel are given special consideration if golf or skiing can be incorporated in the tour.

Schneider represents the true spirit of jazz: walking in the footsteps of the giants while expressing a vision that is entirely his own. His career and music represent a multitude of facets––constantly growing and responding to the challenge of remaining true to the great traditions of the genre while continuing to evolve as an artist.

Schneider’s website is under construction, but he may be contacted at esamchi@aol.com.

Chicago Jazz Magazine: What prompted you to transfer from North Texas State to the University of Illinois?

Eric Schneider: North Texas just wasn’t working for me. I didn’t play tenor then. Not a lot of improvising for alto; the emphasis was on sight-reading, doubles and triples. It was heavily into Kenton and Maynard, but I preferred Basie and Ellington. Friends, most notably Joel Spencer, hectored me to leave Denton and go to the U of I.

Ron Dewar, one of my musical heroes, was there, and so were lots of other great players. Joel was telling me about all the fabulous jam sessions and I wasn’t doing much more at N.T.S.U. than eating lots of chicken-fried steak and playing pinball. It was a great school, but I realized Music Ed wasn’t for me. What to do? What’s creative and will allow me to make a decent living?

Ah-ha, advertising. Sophomore standing had to be completed before one could transfer into the College of Communications, but I could transfer to Parkland Junior College in Champaign and play in one of the U of I jazz bands, take private lessons and music classes. I transferred. The dean, Ted Peterson, was a huge jazz fan, and we became lifelong friends.

Chicago Jazz Magazine: Were you ever serious about advertising?

Schneider: Yes. I envisioned being a hotshot copywriter with Leo Burnett, my girlfriend would become a lawyer and we’d be what became known as yuppies in Chicago or New York. Got my advertising degree in June of 1976, I’m having a grand old time working two or three nights a week and doing some teaching at the U of I––without a Music Ed degree.

I’m easily covering the rent and attending jam sessions and parties––lots of jam sessions were parties. What a great life! Deep down I suspected it wasn’t going to last. It didn’t; my girlfriend dumped me. There was no plan B. Around September, I got a call from Jim Beebe, wondering if I’d be interested in joining the group he was forming that would play at the Blackstone Hotel in the room that ultimately became the Jazz Showcase. I happily accepted and moved back to the Chicago area.

Beebe had a great band: Spanky Davis, later replaced by Ric Bendel on trumpet, “Bee” on trombone, Steve Behr on piano, Duke Groner on bass and Marshall Thompson, then Jimmy Slaughter and finally, Barrett Deems were the drummers. I did that for a about a year; it was a wonderful experience, both musically and personally. While with Beebe, Penny Tyler called: “Eric, Earl Hines’ drummer is going to be at Jazz At Noon. Earl’s looking for a sax player. You should come by.” I did.

Eddie Graham, Earl’s drummer, recorded the gig and presumably gave the tape to Earl. This was late summer or early autumn. Never heard from Earl, but I was quite happy working with Jim. In late December/early January of 1978 I was on vacation in St. Lucia. I was told there were several calls for me, but the phone system wasn’t the greatest. I finally reached the party who’d been calling me. It was Earl Hines. I didn’t know whether to call him “Mr. Hines,” “Earl” or “Fatha’.”

He told me to have a black suit, a tuxedo and my passport and get to Oakland. We’d rehearse for a few days; the first concert was January 16th at U.C.L.A. I did four years with him and two with Basie. By the time I left Basie I was thirty years old and didn’t want to be starting at the very bottom with an ad agency.

Chicago Jazz Magazine: It’s amazing that by the time you were thirty you had played with two major touring bands.

Schneider: It was. I regret I didn’t have the knowledge, musical and otherwise, that I do now––I could have done a better job, both with Earl and Basie.

I probably knew as much as most at my age about trad, swing and bebop. No doubt someone knew more about one or two of those styles, but it’s unlikely he or she knew, respected and revered all those styles, and could play them. I still have gaps in my musical education, but I’m always trying to learn, and fill in those gaps. Sometimes I play with traditional jazz musicians who call tunes I’ve never heard of. And they’ll discuss if they’ll play, say, the way Louis did it on the earlier or later recording.

I have pretty good ears, fortunately. Those gaps become larger when it comes to music from about the mid-1960s on. I didn’t even start playing the saxophone until high school; I played clarinet. I confess the first time I heard Miles or Coltrane from that period I wasn’t a big fan. Jazz was going in many different directions then, not all of them good. Look at it this way: Bird died in ’55 and Trane died in ’67.

Consider how much things changed in those twelve years. Jazz is a relatively young art form that had changed radically every decade or so. Louis Armstrong made his first Hot Five recordings in 1925. Ten or twelve years later the swing era had started. Within a decade or so bebop was happening, then hard or post bop and the “cool school.” Ornette starts making an impact in the very late fifties, Miles is still swinging and Trane’s evolving. That’s all within thirty-five years; not that long a period of time.

It’s inconceivable jazz could continue evolving so rapidly and dramatically. All sorts of incredibly gifted and not-gifted-at-all musicians have developed new styles and tried new things—as they should. The jazz publications don’t know what to do. I read DownBeat, Jazz Times and, of course, Chicago Jazz Magazine. Some of the “musicians” on the covers, whew! I want those publications to be successful. I hope those publications make money. Lots of it.

They won’t make money writing about Al and Zoot, no matter how much I like them. Who buys the magazines? Kids. Students. They want to read about Chris Potter. God bless them and God bless Chris Potter, but I’d rather listen to Ben Webster. I’m not dissing Chris Potter––or Michael Brecker. They’re two of the most amazing saxophonists ever. But I’d rather listen to Lester Young or Ben Webster.

Chicago Jazz Magazine: How can you recognize Brecker and Potter as being two of the most amazing saxophonists ever and square that with the idea that you’d rather be listening to Ben Webster?

Schneider: Their facility on the horn is amazing. I heard Chris about a month ago with Dave Holland’s group––I don’t think there was one measure of four-four time. As great as those musicians are, it didn’t move me.

Chicago Jazz Magazine: You talked about music as always trying to come up with the next thing. Do you think that in that process music has become more cerebral––a cognitive exercise rather than focusing on emotion?

Schneider: The cerebral element has been around for a long time. Listen to what Lennie Tristano was doing in the forties. Perhaps now there’s a higher percentage of what could be termed “cerebral.” But today, there are lots of long, ponderous and pretentious compositions, grim faces on the musicians, grim faces in the audience––those who aren’t asleep. Still, you can’t blame someone for trying, and I applaud the effort.

I’ll applaud at the end of the piece… if it’s any good, although sometimes I’ll applaud just because the damn thing’s over.

Chicago Jazz Magazine: Trombonist Bill Porter, who runs a big band you’ve often played with, says music took a change for the worse once it was no longer dance music.

Schneider: I agree to some extent, but remember, Louis played some very fast, “undanceable”—if there’s such a word––tempos in the twenties. I defy anybody to dance to something in five or seven or thirteen.

Chicago Jazz Magazine: Let’s get back to U of I. John Garvey was running the program down there at the time. What kind of an influence did he have on you and your playing?

Schneider: Not much. Don’t get me wrong; it was an honor to be his band. Some amazing players. I played third alto. John Hutchens, an extraordinary musician, played lead. I learned a lot playing with Hutch. A few years ago Hutch was a last-minute sub with the Chicago Jazz Orchestra, playing lead. I was playing tenor.

It was like a refresher course in musicality. By the time I made the first band, Dewar, Ric Bendel, Jim McNeely and Charlie Braugham were still in it. Wow! I don’t think Garvey liked small-group jazz, but he was brilliant at interpreting contemporary and difficult pieces. Jim Knapp wrote unbelievably complex and beautiful compositions and arrangements. The most remarkable thing about the U of I was the scene; all the players, jam sessions, parties and socializing. I heard the scene was even more amazing in the sixties, but lots of great players left before I arrived.

It was John Garvey who developed the jazz program, battling idiots in the music department who were vehemently opposed to jazz. Garvey’s program attracted the great players who made the scene what it was. Kudos to John. He was an exceptionally bright, well-rounded and idiosyncratic person. However, the tobacco he put in his omnipresent pipe smelled like dirty socks. God bless John Garvey.

Chicago Jazz Magazine: Who at U of I was an influence on your playing?

Schneider: Ron Dewar was a big influence on my clarinet playing, but that manifested itself much later. There were the Dewar tenor sax disciples, but I wasn’t one of them; I didn’t even own a tenor until shortly before I left Champaign. Ron had a certain way of moving his shoulders when he played. Same with the disciples.

He’d sit/squat a certain way and was really into African rhythms and clapped his hands in a distinctive way. So did the disciples, not all of whom were sax players. I just loved––and still do––his playing. Dewar should have been awarded a MacArthur Foundation genius grant a long time ago. Jodie Christian, too.

It’s criminal Jodie doesn’t have international acclaim. A bunch of us used to hear Ron in various clubs in Champaign-Urbana. There were nights he was so “on” it was ridiculous. He’d play something absolutely stunning and I’d look at people at the table as if to say, Did you hear that? They’d have the same look. And we’d start laughing. I’ve played a lot, I mean a lot of shitty gigs, but Ron has played even more. [laughs] He used to play in Country & Western toilets or with a group that had a piano player who only played in “C”, and a drummer, for whom metronomic precision wasn’t an overwhelming concern.

He sounded great with them, thus proving Clark Terry wrong; you can polish a turd. One can hear the influences of Lester Young and Eric Dolphy. How’s that for a combination? But his playing is unique. God bless Ron Dewar.

Chicago Jazz Magazine: When did you know that your advertising career wasn’t going to happen? Was it after you had gotten involved with Earl Hines and Basie or was it earlier on?

Schneider: When I was with Basie. My heart always said music was “it,” but I wasn’t sure I could make a living, and there was a lot more work back then. After I left Basie I had a perfect combination of all kinds of gigs: jazz clubs, lucrative corporate and jobbing sessions, jazz festivals and jazz parties, domestic and international. That certainly has changed.

Who knows what might have happened had I gone into advertising. Maybe I’d be filthy rich, or retired and bored or have ulcers. I’m pretty sure I’ll never have “eff you” money playing music. Maybe one day I’ll have “no thank you” money. But I enjoy what I do. If I won a large lottery I’d probably play more than ninety percent of the gigs I do now; I like the music and the musicians with whom I work.

Chicago Jazz Magazine: Did having that much success early on go to your head?

Schneider: I’d like to think not, but I know there were times when I acted like a complete jerk. Probably still do. So I apologize to those I offended. I had some great mentors, including Eddie Johnson and Von Freeman. Another was Duke Groner, from Beebe’s band.

People called him “Daddy Duke,” and he looked out for a whole bunch of younger cats. Duke had friends everywhere. One night with Earl, in New Orleans, I believe, I didn’t comport myself properly. Two or three months later I’m back in Chicago and get a call from Duke demanding an explanation. I worked hard and was damn proud to be with Basie. It took a while before I was able to get the proper member-of-the-Basie-sax-section look. You know, the “Mount Rushmore” look; no expression whatsoever.

One night I could be trading fours with Ella, or playing a figure behind Sarah Vaughan, or playing a solo trying to crack up Sammy Davis, Jr. in Tahoe––and two hours later I’m playing blackjack with him––or Basie; how can that not affect one’s attitude? Here’s an example of how it was: The closing-night concert is over, after a week somewhere in Long Island and a week in King of Prussia, Pennsylvania, where I got the worst haircut of my life––the guys in Basie’s band laughed with good reason when they saw me.

The bill was Basie, Rosemary Clooney and Tony Bennett. Tony, some of his guys and some Basie guys were hanging out. We closed one bar, went to the Hilton and closed that. Nobody was loaded, but it was a great hang and nobody wanted it to end. Someone inquired if there was any place where we could get another drink.

There had been a bar mitzvah in the hotel earlier that day and the liquor cart in Mr. So-and-so’s suite was still there. Someone called So-and-so and explained what was happening. He was a bit bewildered at first, but was delighted to be part of such an illustrious group.

Chicago Jazz Magazine: Let’s talk about some of the people you’ve met. Didn’t you play with Benny Goodman?

Schneider: Once. I sat in for a handful of songs. When Mayor Byrne started the series of neighborhood festivals, somewhere on the far North Side I played on the B-Stage and Benny was to play on the A-stage. George Spink of the Mayor’s Office asked me if I wanted to play with Benny after my set. Of course I did! Don’t remember the songs but I was aware of Benny’s mercurial reputation. I made sure I didn’t get in his way or upstage him or do anything to upset him. Benny couldn’t have been nicer or more gracious. George paid me extra for playing with Benny, although I would have paid to play. My father recently reminded me of my previous encounter with Benny.

We’d gone to hear him––don’t remember the venue. I was ten, maybe twelve. Benny’s doing the Mozart Clarinet Concerto and his reed or horn was giving him fits. The performance was halted and some guy came out with two or three clarinets, on a tray.

Benny tried them all, selected one and continued with the performance. At the end of the concert we were backstage along with practically everyone Benny ever knew in Chicago. Somehow we eventually got to meet him. “Gosh, Mr. Goodman, how did you get to be as good as you are?” He patted me on the head and said, “Practice, son. Practice.” Forty-five years later I’m taking his advice.

Chicago Jazz Magazine: Ella.

Schneider: One of the nicest human beings I’ve ever met, and God, could she sing! One time she gave shirts to all the guys in Basie’s band and I still have mine. If there’s anyone who’s capable of doing what she did, I haven’t heard her or him. Listen to Ella in Hollywood. Those seven- or ten-minute improvisational tours de force. Incredible! Bird told her he was glad she didn’t play a horn; she’d take a lot of gigs from musicians.

Chicago Jazz Magazine: Sarah Vaughan.

Schneider: Sass had more of an edge than Ella. If Ella was unhappy with something, she certainly didn’t let on. I remember doing a concert with her at Carnegie Hall. The monitor setup was disgraceful, but she didn’t say a word. If Sass was unhappy it was not kept a secret. She wouldn’t hesitate to call someone every name in the book. Happily, I was never the object of her wrath. She had perfect pitch. I heard every once in a while on a song that started a cappella, she’d start a half step up or down, on purpose, just to mess with her accompanist. When Basie played Disneyland and if Sass had nothing to do she’d just hop on the bus and hang. I like cognac and invariably had a flask. Sass liked cognac, so we’d have a little––just to ward off that chilly Anaheim air. What a great voice!

Chicago Jazz Magazine: What was it like working with Basie? Was he a disciplinarian?

Schneider: No. There was no need. “Chief” was also an extremely laid-back guy. There was a tremendous amount of pride in that band. Two rules were, be on time and be in whatever the uniform of the day was. If the bus to the airport was supposed to leave at nine o’clock, you were on the bus before nine. If you got on at nine-oh-one, you’d hear about it. If you were habitually late, well—one guy wound up having to get to Tokyo on his own. Booty Wood had the seat directly across from mine on the bus and he told me stories about playing with Ellington’s band. Completely different. If the bus was supposed to leave at nine, the first straggler might get on at nine-thirty.

Chicago Jazz Magazine: When did you first meet Basie?

Schneider: After I joined the band and had played three concerts. That might sound strange, but the band had three gigs after an extended stay in Vegas, and that was the end of a tour. Basie had to miss those concerts for health reasons. I met him a few weeks later, when the next tour started.

Chicago Jazz Magazine: How did you get the gig?

Schneider: Ed Crilly, a Chicagoan and a very nice guy, was a friend of Basie’s. Basie mentioned one of his tenor players was leaving and asked if Ed knew anyone who could take his place. Crilly said he knew a guy who would be perfect… but he was referring to Eddie Johnson. Eddie didn’t want the gig, but recommended me. Crilly called me, but I didn’t know him and thought he might be putting me on. I called Eddie, who told me Crilly was legit. Crilly wanted to meet me, so Ed, his girlfriend, Nora––my fiancée and soon-to-be wife––and I met at Rick’s Café. I soon learned when Ed rotated his hand in a quick and agitated manner, that was a signal for another round of drinks. I used to call that motion the “Crilly circle.” The more circles, the groggier I was the next morning! Going back to those three gigs: they were the audition. Funny story: when Chicago’s-own Sonny Cohn, Basie’s road manager and a fine trumpet player, asked me what salary I wanted, my thought process went something like this: Okay, I’m making “X” dollars with Earl; I’ll ask for one hundred more than that, but will be prepared to accept fifty dollars less. Cup, short for “Buttercup,” offered me “X” plus two hundred. I’m a tough negotiator all right.

Chicago Jazz Magazine: Did you spend a lot of time with Basie?

Schneider: Not really. He was in a wheelchair by then, and there were always lots of people around him. We flew everywhere, but on the bus to the hotel, gig or airport, each musician had a seat and the seat next to it—unlike Ray Charles’ band—may he rot in hell, but that’s another story.

When I first joined the band I met them at an airport somewhere in Ohio. Eric Dixon, the other tenor player, introduced himself and showed me to my seat. “This is your seat. This is where you sit until you die or leave the band, whichever comes first.” He’d talk with a cigarette or cigar in his mouth and deliver hysterical one-liners and stories. Very little seat-switching went on. Since I replaced Kenny Hing, I got his seat. It was a good one. Eric Dixon was in front of me, Bobby Plater, who wrote “The Jersey Bounce,” was in back. Across from me was Booty Wood, who’d been with Hamp and Ellington. In front of him was Sonny Cohn. Freddie Green wasn’t too far away, and when these guys told stories, it was incredible.

Bobby was a very soft-spoken guy and was the straw boss––the arbiter of all things musical, only Basie could overrule him, but there were never any disputes; everybody knew what to do. Anyhow, long before I joined, a guy in the band was having problems with booze or drugs or something, and picked a fight with Bobby. Bobby tried to diffuse the situation––walk away, or whatever––but this guy was determined to start something. Big mistake. Bobby knocked him out with one punch––he’d been a semi-pro boxer.

Come to think of it, I did spend some time with Basie when we played Disneyland. The bands’ hotel was on Sunset Boulevard. Basie stayed at a hotel in Beverly Hills, about three blocks from my uncle’s house, where I’d stay when the band played in the L.A. area.

Basie invited me to ride with him when he found out where I was staying. Sometimes I’d ride with the band, sometimes with Basie and sometimes I’d drive by myself. Basie liked to sit in the front seat with the limo driver. His valet or assistant or whatever you want to call him in the back seat with me. His assistant, Raymond McGuire––we never called him anything except “Mr. McGuire”––had known Basie since they were both kids.

He’d retired with more money than he’d ever need and just wanted to hang out. Another wonderful person. He spoke three languages and had lived all over the world. He was the only guy to call Basie “Bill.” He also called him “Shit-head” on occasion, something that even Freddie Green wouldn’t do. Mr. McGuire loved Hershey bars, and I sent him the biggest damn bars imaginable at Christmas.

Chicago Jazz Magazine: How would you contrast that with the Hines experience?

Schneider: In addition to Earl on piano, the group was comprised of bass, drums, sax and singer. I chose my solo features. I had solo features with Basie, but they had been Kenny Hing’s before. Basie often opened with “Wind Machine,” which is loosely based on “Call Me Irresponsible.” I ran into Kenny somewhere and told him I felt it wasn’t a particularly inspiring song off of which to improvise. He agreed. I met Betty Forrest, the widow of Jimmy, who was Kenny’s predecessor. She told me he didn’t care for that song. Being one of only five people including Earl, I had a definite impact on the music.

If I’d had an impact on the sound of the Basie band on anything other than my solos, that would have meant I wasn’t playing in the section correctly. A lead alto, trumpet or trombone will have an impact. A tenor player shouldn’t. Earl was one of Basie’s idols. It’s a shame how many people aren’t aware how great Earl was. One of my jobs was to introduce him every night: “The progenitor of the modern jazz piano, ladies and gentlemen…”

Chicago Jazz Magazine: Basie had such a long career, did you have an enormous amount of material to do, or did he focus on a particular set list?

Schneider: Supposedly there’s a hotel room in New York that is filled from floor to ceiling with Basie music. True? Don’t know. Each musician had a leather folder with a couple hundred songs, and also had a small case that held another thousand or so songs. When I joined the band, third alto player Danny Turner––who moved to first when Bobby Plater died in Tahoe––told me to get my book. He took me through thirty or forty of the most played songs and told me things like what cuts are good on this song, that song starts at measure sixteen, Basie’s cue on this song is... et cetera.

Eventually I memorized some of the parts. When Basie played an intro, some guys scrambled to get the music, but some guys knew them by heart. I wanted to be part of the latter group, so one by one I started memorizing the music. The first night I attempted to play “Splanky” without music I nailed it––except for the very last note, which I played exactly one half-step off. Oops! The lead trombone player, Grover Mitchell, blatted the correct note in my ear.

I turned around and said something. I shouldn’t have; he was a big cat––six feet five, maybe two hundred forty or fifty pounds. He just growled at me. About twenty years later I saw Grover when he was leading the Basie band, and I apologized. “Groove, you probably don’t remember, but at the end of ‘Splanky’ I played a B-natural; it should have been a B-flat or whatever it was; you played the right note for me and I said something flippant. I’m sorry.” I’d have been amazed if he remembered the incident. He hadn’t, but thanked me for the apology, although he didn’t think it had been necessary. I’m glad I did, though; he died a few months after that.

Chicago Jazz Magazine: What compelled you to leave the band?

Schneider: Kenny Hing wanted to come back. Apparently there’s a rule if a guy leaves on his own accord, he can come back. Maybe Basie or someone wanted me out. I know Norman Granz didn’t like me. I had two wonderful years. It wasn’t the Basie band of the thirties––“Old Testament Basie”––or even the fifties or sixties––“New Testament”––but still, it was the Count Fuckin’ Basie Orchestra!

No hard feelings on my part. I benefited in many, many ways due to my association with Basie. It was and still is my favorite band of all. Before I’d joined, someone told me Sal Nistico, the brilliant tenor player who’d been with Woody Herman for a long time, had been given the cold shoulder because he was white. Don’t know if that’s true, but there was zero black/white stuff when I was on the band. The only thing that mattered is if you took care of business.

Chicago Jazz Magazine: Why have you recorded so little?

Schneider: I’m actually on a fair number of recordings, but haven’t recorded under my own name since 1989, and haven’t recorded anything with any sort of distribution since 1981. I guess I’m due.

When I listen to my recordings, every solo, phrase or even note I play that didn’t meet my standards is like a kick in the testicles, and my standards are extremely high. About three years ago I finally developed what I think is my style.

Some people get theirs in their twenties, some never do. Non-players don’t know how hard it is to be a good, let alone great player, and once that’s achieved, if ever, how hard it is to maintain that standard. That’s why it drives me nuts if a player is criticized because he or she doesn’t re-invent himself every few years. We’re talking about music, not fashion or image. Madonna may need to re-invent herself; Johnny Hodges doesn’t, although his playing changed greatly throughout the years.

Chicago Jazz Magazine: You said that music has gone in to decline. Was it strictly downhill for you after the Basie Band?

Schneider: Not at all. I left Basie over twenty-five years ago and since then I’ve played all kinds of gigs with some of the greatest musicians in the world, performing all over the globe.

Chicago Jazz Magazine: Some musicians, particularly older musicians, have something of a chip on their shoulder. They put their whole life and energy into a career that doesn’t get respect they think it deserves.

Schneider: Nothing’s changed. Some overnight sensations haven’t paid their dues, or even worse, can’t play. I’d be angry, too. Clark Terry deserves every award or honor he’s received––and more! Phil Woods, God bless his crabby self. Sonny Rollins, God bless him. May they play as long as they still get joy out of performing.

Chicago Jazz Mag-azine: What do you think of Coltrane?

Schneider: A giant among giants––one of the greatest saxophone players of all time. He did things on the saxophone nobody had done before, and brought an intense spirituality to the music. He occasionally was guilty of “chorusitis,” which is when one plays too long. I’m not criticizing him; Miles told him that, although not in those words.

Chicago Jazz Magazine: Coltrane wasn’t locked into one style. How do you categorize what he did?

Schneider: I don’t categorize it. I believe his last album was Interstellar Space, just ‘Trane and Rashied Ali. Haven’t heard that in years, but it’d be interesting to go back and listen to it. What year was the Coltrane and Johnny Hartman album?

Chicago Jazz Magazine: Nineteen sixty-three.

Schneider: As far out as he could take it out, Coltrane knew how to play a melody––the melody––and he could play it beautifully. Too many guys today don't bother learning the melody, or anything closely resembling it. I play with certain musicians who correct me, in a nice way, when I’m wrong.

I recently played “Night and Day” with Joe Vito and played a wrong note in the bridge. It’s a small thing, sure, but it does affect the song. Guys like Joe Vito, who know eighty million songs and know the correct melodies, are a treasure, and there aren’t many of them. School is in session for me every time I play with Joe. The more you know about music the more you can enjoy it––if you have ears. You have to have ears and you have to know music. For example, the first sixteen measures of “Just Friends” are different from the second. Bird played them the same. If you listen you can hear that, but a lot of players to this day play the melody incorrectly as a result. Bird played the melody correctly on the album he did with strings. If you know Louis’ “West End Blues” intro, you’ll be astounded to hear Bird quote it. Or Elvin Jones playing with what’s essentially the Duke Ellington Orchestra.

Sonny Rollins, perhaps the greatest tenor saxophonist of all time, quoting Bird, or playing a snippet of Prez. Part of “Blue Monk” was taken from Artie Shaw’s “Pastel Blue,” which was written in the thirties. Was Artie dissing Benny Goodman by what he played on the first break of “Oh, Lady Be Good?” Hearing Coltrane play alto is a joy and an ear-opening experience.

Bird is my all-time favorite musician, but if you have ears you’ll find it interesting or at least notice he butchered the bridge on the recording of “Four Brothers” he did with Woody Herman’s band. I feel sorry for anyone who thinks jazz started with Miles’ Bitches Brew.

Chicago Jazz Magazine: What’s your ideal set-up these days?

Schneider: Probably piano, bass and drums. Maybe guitar in addition to or instead of piano. Another horn can be nice. It also depends on what kind of jazz I’m playing. More important is who’s in....
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