compiled an inventory of her songs and recordings, and presented it to her. She then proceeded to contact the labels and publishers, from whom she collected long-overdue royalties. I chided her for disregarding my entitlement to compensation for my work, and she was clearly ashamed. I didn’t press the matter, because I knew her to be charitable and supportive of her fellow musicians.
Did these early associations help you in subsequent relations with musicians?
While I was working for Flo Kennedy, Dizzy Gillespie was in touch with her, and it occurred to me that I might do some work for him, since I was then engaged in research regarding the copyrights of the Parker and Holiday estates. I called Lorraine Gillespie, his wife, and introduced myself, suggesting that perhaps I could be helpful to him in this area. She replied, “Dizzy will want to speak with you.” She set up a meeting, and I visited him at his home in Corona, Queens. I worked for him for about two years, attending his performances in New York City, and succeeded in recovering his copyrights from Norman Granz, the producer and record label owner.
After you left the offices of Lovette and Wright, you then had a new round of musical adventures.
I migrated over to Broadway and became acquainted with black R&B writers who were starting to write for white rock-and-roll artists. They hung out in the bars on 52nd Street. There was Charlie Singleton, one of the most prolific and successful figures. “Horse” was a large, soft-spoken, dignified, and congenial individual. Otis Blackwell wrote Presley’s biggest hits. We three formed a publishing company, whose songs included “Breathless” and “Hey, Little Girl,” but it was short-lived. The songwriters were streetwise and engaged in monumental battles with publishers. They would sell a song to one publisher, get an advance, then sell it again to another publisher. It was too fast a crowd for me, so I left the scene, after winning my first court case for a songwriter.
David Curlee Williams, a Kentuckian, had written a hit song, “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On,” and the publisher had left town with the earnings and could not be found. Curlee was broke, and I agreed to represent him. I sued the publisher in Supreme Court, New York County, and won a default judgment. When I gave Curlee the good news, he said nothing, but went to Lee Eastman, a prominent publisher, and published the song with him. I phoned Eastman, who had earlier interviewed me for a job, and informed him that I had just won the suit and had a contingent retainer agreement with Curlee that would entitle me to a 25 percent interest in the publishing rights. Eastman replied matter of factly, “I guess you’ll have to sue me.” Disheartened by the experience, I decided that I did not wish to be a lawyer in popular music.
Given your contacts in the jazz world, were you going out much to hear live music?
Sporadically. I was naive, and my responses were totally spontaneous. I was just providing legal services for people in that sector of music.
So, if you were not an aficionado, what kept you going in that realm of music and law?
The artists I encountered in the so-called jazz sector were serious composers and performers. They conducted themselves with dignity, reserve, and integrity. They were profound philosophers and articulate; I had and still have great respect for them.
Around 1963 Stollman persuaded his parents to buy a large co-op apartment at 180 Riverside Drive on the Upper West Side. The apartment included a tiny maid’s room (and bath) on the top floor of the building, where he lived for the next few years. He continued to provide legal services, usually without charge, for composers and performers of the new music.
I was visited by a young woman choreographer. I welcomed her to my parents’ apartment, where I conducted my practice. She said, “Why aren’t you helping Ornette and Cecil?” I said, “Ornette and Cecil who?” She was clearly taken aback. “You don’t know who Ornette and Cecil are? They’re the princes of the new music. I’ve talked with both of them, and they want you to manage them.” I met both of them to discuss their concerns.
I didn’t do very much for Cecil, except to get his pianos fixed. He had a loft on Chambers Street, and his two Steinway grands had been damaged by rain from the skylight. I contacted Steinway, and they repaired both pianos without charge. Gil Evans had made Into the Hot [Impulse, 1961], and half of it was written by Cecil Taylor, who also performed on it, but they called it a Gil Evans record. I contacted the label, and they surrendered their claim to the publishing rights to Cecil for his publishing company, whose catalog I now represent globally. The percussionist Sunny Murray, who toured for years with Cecil, reminded me recently that I was instrumental in getting them booked in Europe for the first time. In 1965 Cecil asked me to manage him. I surmised that others could do a better job for him and declined his offer. We hadn’t been in touch for many years, when I invited him to dinner at his favorite restaurant recently. As we ate, I said to Cecil, “The answer is yes.” He said, “The answer to what?” I said, “The question you asked me in 1965 was whether I would manage you. I’m sure you could use some help.” I negotiated a booking for him into the Iridium, the midtown Manhattan club. He was pleased with it. And they were pleased with my participation.
When I met Ornette, he was already famous, having been featured on a Time magazine cover with his plastic horn. But he was in a protracted depression. He had already done all those records on Atlantic. They were about to release a new one, for which they had not made a contract with him. At Ornette’s request, I called Ahmet Ertegun, the president of Atlantic, and cautioned him that he had not acquired the rights for this release. Subsequently, they paid him a substantial advance and issued the album. He never paid me for my services. In fairness to Ornette, I should mention that I never billed him. This was typical of my conduct, effectual for my clients but not self-protective. To support Ornette, I saw John Hammond at Columbia, Alfred Lion and Francis Wolff at Blue Note, and Bob Thiele at Impulse. I offered Bob Thiele a license for Ornette’s self-produced concert at Town Hall for a three-year term. He liked the idea, but then he said, “You manage Ornette?” “Yes.” He looked skeptical. That was intended as a hint, which I did not pick up. I went back to Ornette and said, “Hammond is interested in working with you, Lion and Wolff at Blue Note are interested, and I have a proposal to Bob Thiele at Impulse, and this is the deal.” The following day, Ornette went to see Bob Thiele on his own. He also saw Lion and Wolff at Blue Note and made a deal with them for the Town Hall concert tapes. He then went to John Hammond, and Skies of America eventually followed from that. I had laid the groundwork. His morale improved, and his momentum was restored.
When we first met, Ornette had handed me the tape that he had produced of the Town Hall concert with David Izenzon, Charles Moffett, and a string ensemble. Izenzon couldn’t hear himself, so he turned up his amplifier. His bass track was totally distorted, and they couldn’t use the tape. I went to Dave Sarser, a remarkable engineer and a friend. At his studio, I met Ralph Ellison, author of Invisible Man, and Horace Parlan, the gifted pianist. David compressed the track; the distortion disappeared and the bass sounded normal. I brought the tape to Ornette. He paid for the engineering work and asked to borrow the tape. I gave it to him.
During that period, in August 1964, Bud Powell returned to America with Francis Paudras. Francis and I had corresponded regarding Bud. I invited Francis to dinner at the Carnegie Hall Tavern. As we ate, I urged him to return with Bud to Paris. “How can Bud survive the pushers here?” He replied that they were bound by contract to perform for two weeks at Birdland. “They flew us here and we must go through with the deal.” I could see Birdland from our window seat, and I spotted a tall, portly man in a tan suit, running around the block, and recognized him. “Isn’t that Bud?” Shamefacedly, he explained, “On our way over, I gave him the wrong pills.”
About a month following Bud’s arrival, I got a phone call from Nica Rothschild, the Baroness de Koenigswarter, whom I didn’t know. “Bud has disappeared. Mary [Lou Williams] says that maybe you can help.”
