Homage To The Great Jazz Organist, Trudy Pitts
Sometimes I think about life, the fates...whether or not my path is one of subconscious direction, poor planning, luck. Maybe all of the above. One thing is for certain, living a life at sea may be hard work, but it has afforded me great happiness these last 9 years. Outside of the ‘demic, we go where we want, when we want. Play where we want, for whomever we want and not for those whom we don’t. We are blessed to live a life of freedom that is very difficult to attain in nearly any other lifestyle. Freedom ain’t free, but if you can get it through honest, hard work - take it. You’ll get where you’re going.
In my life before the sea, my main focus was jazz. The moment I was introduced to the sound of Thelonious Monk’s solo album “Criss-Cross,” I simply could not get the sound out of my mind. It was primal arousal. The angst, the tension, the release, the beauty. It’s unreal how it changed everything for me. I was 18, way behind the curve to accomplish anything in music as far as high society and the arts were concerned at the time. There was no YouTube. No way to skip the line. If you wanted it, you had to earn it, bloody knuckles and all.
I’ll grant you, I had it easy. A well-to-do family living on the river, honestly I couldn’t have wanted for anything - except for the one thing that seemed so far out of reach it was nearly alien - just the most basic understanding of that sound. I can tell you, the day I told my father I wanted to pursue music, and jazz music in particular, instead of following in his footsteps as a Radiologist was like a tectonic disturbance. Not that he ever had pushed me in that direction, no, I had worked quite hard on my own behest towards that goal. That I had at the last moment made the choice to change course in such a distinguishing way had shaken me to my own core, to the point that I even had difficulty in believing it. How could I suck my family into this craziness? A Mays Landing river-rat playing and writing jazz? It really was too much.
What transpired after was a real whirlwind in retrospect. Seemed like an eternity at the time, but hindsight really does speak truth. I managed an acceptance to the Philadelphia College of Performing Arts, and found myself in this incredible conservatory setting with some of the finest jazz artists and instructors in the country. They could have given a rat’s ass how I got there, how any of us got there. You had to dig in, do the work. Grow. Improve. In that kind of setting, every 10% you give gets you 50 back. Everyone is so amped about the spot, about the music, it’s like a tinderbox. One’s opportunities for the artistic explosion are amplified by the group as a whole, professors included. Triple-chocolate-double-fudge brownie rich.
In this timeframe, I fell for the Hammond Organ. It wasn’t any particular artist at first. Honestly, modern rock hipped me to the sound of the damn thing. I couldn’t have told you one player’s name - maybe Gregg Allman. It was the sound. After a couple of half-assed attempts at understanding the machine on my own, a truly pathetic attempt mind you, I somehow found myself at the feet of Trudy Pitts - another testament to my sad state of ignorance being of course that I barely had a clue who she was. I had been nudged to her direction, most thankfully, by the great guitarist Jimmy Bruno. Jimmy’s entry to the A-list of jazz players is a story worthy of its own film, to be frank. He punched Buddy Rich in the mouth after receiving a real running through for not being able to read charts to Buddy’s standard. Jimmy was in his teens, and Buddy sent a limo the following day to retain him on the tour. The rest is history...no shit.
Jimmy ‘suggested’ I get a copy of Pat Martino’s album “El Hombre,” on which Trudy played the Hammond. I swear it killed me - it was like my first go with Monk - the difference being she was right there, accessible to me in some way. I could actually speak with her, ask her any question that came to mind. I jumped on it immediately and can say that the short amount of time I was given with her was pound-for-pound some of the most rewarding instruction I was lucky enough to experience. I have to credit a lot of that experience to my primary piano instructors - pianists Dave Hartl and Edward Simon - for they really taught me how to learn, and not only promoted my seeking out my own voice but respected it. Trudy did the very same thing with the Organ. All of these cats were truly humbling. It was like they were teaching us how to live, not just play. Man, I really owe all of you...
When Trudy passed in 2010, I was really heavy into playing the organ. I had managed to get some support from Hammond Suzuki and was running a jam session in Brooklyn. I had put out several records. I was probably one of the last dumbasses to cart a Hammond and Leslie around to gigs - in a Kia Sportage no less. That shit was comical - drunk-ass white guy moving a Hammond between a 10-step walkup, a “compact SUV,” various clubs (some with their own “creative” entryways), and back. That I was only arrested once during this time is a friggin miracle. Thankfully I’m laying off the booze these days. Nobody’s perfect.
I was so focused on trying to get my own shit together I had lost touch with all of these great musicians who had given me so much. Trudy’s death broke me in a way that was not unlike watching my own father struggle with a severe stroke and happened at the same time. I had lost something, something wonderful, and wasn’t getting it back. Right there I made the choice that one day I’d do something, a project, a tribute record. A spiritual tattoo to indelibly mark me with the tutelage of this great woman. This incredible musician who had worked with some of the greatest jazz artists to ever walk the face of the Earth - Coltrane, Rashan Roland-Kirk, Pat Martino. This woman who chose her family before fame, who treated all of her pupils as though we were her own children. This amazing black artist who held nothing back at the keys, from her audience or her students, who probably had more reasons to than to not.
So now I finish it. I initiated this project 10 years after its first thought and will be releasing this work into the world - with hubris in my confidence and humility in my roots. I’ll step up in this ring with anyone, never fearing what may or may not be - because I was taught to be in this moment. This bright moment.
Thank you, Trudy, from the bottom of my very soul. I never had the opportunity to give back to you while you were in this life, but I send these vibrations into the universe and pray they reach your life force, your soul, and add a little to your wonderful smile. I think of it every time I sit at the organ.
“To me music is a feeling, then after that come all the tools...It’s an art form, and all art forms are born in your spirit as a feeling.”
Trudy Pitts Selected Discography
Trudy Pitts, Me, Myself And I (Independent, 2003)
Trudy Pitts/Mr. C, Vintage Series - Volume 1 (Independent, 2003)
Trudy Pitts/Pat Martino, Legends of Acid Jazz (Prestige, 1999)
Rahsaan Roland Kirk, Return of the 5000 lb Man (Atlantic, 1975)
Willis "Gator" Jackson, Star Bag (Prestige, 1968)
Trudy Pitts, Excitement of Trudy Pitts (Prestige, 1968)
Trudy Pitts, Them Blues of Mine (Prestige, 1967)
Pat Martino, El Hombre (Prestige, 1967)
Trudy Pitts, Bucketful of Soul (Prestige, 1967)