Funny enough, Sonny Rollins wasn’t on that list, because Sonny had one bass player — and one bass player only — since the early ’60s: Bob Cranshaw. He had that gig on lock. I used to wonder if Mr. Cranshaw had signed some kind of contract guaranteeing that no other bass player would ever play with Sonny. 😂

When I first saw Sonny Rollins live in the summer of 1987 at Penn’s Landing in my hometown of Philadelphia, it was beyond incredible.

Even at age 15, I was well aware that I was watching perhaps jazz’s greatest improviser. Nearly every saxophone player in Philadelphia was at that concert. I went with my main man, Joey DeFrancesco, as usual.

We were in awe the whole night. What a concert.

By then, I had already studied so many of Sonny’s records — the sessions he made at age 18 with Bud Powell, the records with Clifford Brown and Max Roach, and his own albums like Freedom Suite, The Bridge, Newk’s Time and more. To hear him live was an honor.

A few years later, now living in New York, I discovered that Mr. Rollins presented himself regularly at Carnegie Hall. At those concerts, he often invited special guests to join his working band. Guests would include musicians like Jackie McLean, Donald Byrd, Percy Heath, Jim Hall, Max Roach, Wynton Marsalis, Joshua Redman and more. The Carnegie Hall shows were always a sold-out, major event.

One jazz legend I was incredibly honored to know and work with extensively was the iconic drummer Roy Haynes. I had been working with Roy since the early ’90s — in his groups, and projects with Chick Corea, McCoy Tyner, Joe Henderson and Pat Metheny.

One night in early 2007, I was in Los Angeles with a night off and discovered that Roy was performing at Catalina’s Bar and Grill with his quartet. I had to go say hello.

It was a great night. Roy invited me to sit in and we had a ball.

After the set, while hanging out at the bar, Roy casually dropped a question so heavy and so out of left field that I couldn’t process it.

“Hey man… did Sonny call you?”

😳😳😳😳😳

“Say what? Sonny…..Rollins?”

“Yeah. Sonny Rollins.”

“Um… no.”

“Oh. Well, expect a call from him soon.”

😳😳😳😳

I was floored.

“What does he want?”

“I’ll let him tell you.”

Thanks a lot, Roy. 😂

For the next several days, I tried to forget what Roy had told me.

About a week later, a friend of my mother-in-law, Donna Wilson, was staying at our house. The phone rang.

Donna came downstairs to my office and said:

“Christian… Sonny Rollins is on the line.”

Man, I almost jumped out of my skin.

I nervously picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

In that beautifully quirky, almost Kermit The Frog (down an octave) voice, I heard…

“Hello, Christian. This is Sonny Rollins.”

What he told me next exceeded anything I could have imagined.

He was preparing for one of his Carnegie Hall concerts, but this one would celebrate the 50th anniversary of his first appearance at the legendary hall.

At that 1957 concert, he performed in a trio with bassist Wendell Marshall and drummer Kenny Dennis. For this anniversary, he wanted to put together a new trio with Roy Haynes and me.

I could have dropped the phone. In fact, I might have. 😂

I said, “I’d be honored to be part of such a historic night.”

He said, “I hope you can make it.”

I said, “Whatever the date is, I’ll be there.”

And that was the truth. Even if I had been booked already, I would’ve gladly un-booked myself.

Then he added something that nearly made me tear up.

“I was talking with Roy about this, and he said you were the bass player who should play this gig. Roy really loves you, man. And I’ve been curious about you for quite some time. You’ve been tearing it up, young man.”

🥺🥺🥺🥺

Oh, man.

The concert was set for September 18, 2007, at Carnegie Hall. Some of the music would also be used for an upcoming release.

You mean I get to be on a Sonny Rollins record, too?

Sonny said he would book rehearsal time so we could “feel each other out.”

I didn’t realize he meant just the two of us!

Rehearsal was scheduled for September 15th at 1 p.m. I made sure to arrive an hour early. I wanted to get my head in the game and be ultra-ready.

When I arrived at S.I.R. Studios in Manhattan, Sonny was already there practicing.

I panicked. I thought maybe I had gotten the time wrong.

I said, “Mr. Rollins, I’m deeply sorry. I thought you said 1 p.m.”

He said, “I did. You’re early.”

Then he added:

“I decided to come an hour early to practice a little.”

There he was, practicing with sheet music spread all across a table.

That hit me hard.

Very few of us who claim to be serious about music probably have the drive to practice like Sonny Rollins.

Curiously I asked, “What are you practicing?”

“Oh, just some scales I made up and some other things.”

Imagine that.

The endless drive, creativity and curiosity of the world’s greatest living improviser was astonishing.

For the next three hours, I got to play duets with Sonny Rollins.

It was easily one of the greatest days of my life.

Thank goodness photographer John Abbott was there to document it.

For three hours, we played the three tunes we’d play on the concert: “Moritat (aka Mack the Knife)” “Some Enchanted Evening” and “Sonnymoon for Two.”

That first hour was devoted entirely to “Sonnymoon for Two.” Imagine getting to play one blues for an hour with Sonny Rollins.

Man.

He played about, I don’t know - 30 incredible choruses - then sat down and listened intently while I improvised.

No pressure. 😂

After I finished, he played another 15 mesmerizing choruses.

The time. The flow. The ideas. The weight.

Unbelievable.

The concert was heavily anticipated and drew attention from everywhere.

When we finally rehearsed with Roy two days later, the great writer Ted Panken and several cameramen were there documenting everything.

Perhaps the most memorably charming moment of the day (next to the music, of course) was a lengthy discussion about the history of black men’s hair care products. 😂

There are no Black men of a certain age who don’t know the legacy of Murray’s, Dax, and Nu-Nile (Murray’s spin-off brand).

Sonny and Roy gave me a thorough breakdown of how, during the days of the “Conk” (short for “Conkalene”—look it up), every Black man in Harlem had one of those products sitting on his dresser.

While they came from the Conk generation, I came from the Jheri Curl generation. But products like Murray’s, Dax, Nu-Nile, and my generation’s Snap Back and Luster’s S-Curl (which I used briefly in high school) prove that Black hair products are an institution nearly as deep and enduring as jazz itself.

I asked each of them which product they preferred.

Without hesitation, they both answered:

“Murray’s.”

Roy then added:

“Dax was for them extra-hood brothers!”

😂😂😂

After rehearsal, we did a photo shoot with John Abbott.

Another surreal moment.

There I was, standing beside perhaps the two biggest living titans in jazz: Sonny Rollins and Roy Haynes.

The concert, as expected, was a triumph. Nearly everyone in the jazz world was there — musicians, writers, critics. The hall was packed.

Sonny Rollins at Carnegie Hall 2007 - Before and After

Our version of “Some Enchanted Evening” later appeared on Sonny’s album Road Shows, Vol. 1.

I assumed it would be a one-and-done.

I had just played one of the most anticipated jazz concerts of our time with two titans. Why would I expect lightning to strike twice?

But then came 2010.

As Sonny approached his 80th birthday, he called again.

He wanted to reunite the trio for his birthday concert at the Beacon Theatre.

The first half of the concert would feature Sonny’s working band with special guests Jim Hall and Roy Hargrove. The second half would be the trio with Roy and me.

The performance would also be recorded for Sonny’s next album, Road Shows, Vol. 2.

So now I was going to appear on TWO Sonny Rollins records with Roy Haynes. 😃

This night at the Beacon turned out to be very different from Carnegie Hall.

At soundcheck, Sonny told Roy and me:

“I spoke with Ornette Coleman this morning, and it’s looking like he’s going to show up.”

😳😳😳😳

You mean… show up to observe?

I almost didn’t want him to clarify.

But I had a feeling.

During our set — which this time consisted only of “Solitude” and “Sonnymoon for Two” (you can never play enough blues) — Sonny suddenly stopped in the middle of his solo and announced into the microphone:

“He’s here.”

Then Ornette Coleman walked onto the stage.

This was unreal.

Sonny Rollins. Roy Haynes. Ornette Coleman… and me.

I was almost embarrassed.

But I told myself: “Well, I’m up here. So I guess this is where I’m supposed to be.”

Then something fascinating happened.

When Ornette started to play, he did what icons do: he changed the polarity.

Sonny had been soloing mostly in and around B-flat, with some heavyweighted eighth notes.

Ornette did neither.

What do I do now?

Roy wasn’t about to budge from the tempo or the form. Ornette could play as freely as he wanted, but Roy was going to keep swinging and marking the top of every chorus.

Part of me wanted to stay with Roy.

Another part of me wanted to follow Ornette into orbit.

So how do you visit both planets simultaneously?

I don’t remember exactly what I played, but I remember trying everything: a pedal point here, a broken bass line there, joining Roy for a stretch, then drifting back toward Ornette.

I enjoyed being stumped.

Once Sonny came back in, he met Ornette head-on in abstraction.

It’s a strange feeling to be inside a moment that you know is historical while it’s happening.

After we finished the tune — more than 20 minutes later — I wasn’t sure of what had just happened.

All I knew was that I was taking a bow onstage with Sonny Rollins, Roy Haynes and Ornette Coleman.

Damn.

That performance of “Sonnymoon for Two” later appeared on Road Shows, Vol. 2.

There will never be another jazz concert like that in our lifetime.

And I knew it then.

But my story with Sonny was hardly over.

The following year, in 2011, Sonny was named a Kennedy Center Honoree.

Imagine my shock when CBS called and asked if I would produce Sonny’s segment.

At that time, the Kennedy Center Honors was still produced by the Stevens family. Michael Stevens and his wife, Ali Gifford-Stevens, had taken over the televised production from Michael’s father, the legendary George Stevens Jr., in 2006.

The musical director was pianist, arranger and composer Rob Mathes, who was a friend.

Rob got me on the phone with Michael and really went to bat for me.

He explained that to properly honor Sonny Rollins, I needed to be behind the steering wheel.

For Sonny, I wanted the greatest band imaginable.

I invited a multi-generational group of musicians:

Benny Golson, Jimmy Heath, Ravi Coltrane, Joe Lovano, Roy Hargrove, Jim Hall, Herbie Hancock, Jack DeJohnette and Billy Drummond.

It was incredible.

Yes, I had already served as musical director for major events and had been Creative Chair for the Los Angeles Philharmonic’s jazz programming from 2006–2010, but I had never produced television before.

Triple yikes. 😱😱😱

I remember rehearsal day, looking around the room and thinking:

“Holy shit.”

Then Herbie Hancock looked up and said:

“So what are we doing, boss?”

😂😳😂😳😂😳

My mouth was dry as a desert, but because all of those musicians were friends — and above all, because they all loved Sonny — we poured everything into it.

Sonny was deeply moved.

The 2011 Kennedy Center Honors

I’ll forever be grateful to Rob Mathes, Ali Gifford-Stevens and the late Michael Stevens for trusting me to co-produce that segment.

It was all for the colossus: Sonny Rollins.

Watching Sonny hang out afterward with Benny Golson, Jimmy Heath and Jim Hall was worth everything.

Four old friends becoming 20-year-olds again.

I never saw Sonny again after that, but we spoke many times.

When I joined the NPR family in 2014 as host of Jazz Night in America, it became a thrill to occasionally appear with Audie Cornish on All Things Considered.

In 2017, the two of us spoke with Sonny after he donated his personal archives to the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture at the New York Public Library.

Sonny Rollins on All Things Considered with Audie Cornish and Christian McBride. June 12, 2017

After that, Sonny and I spoke occasionally, and I was always struck by his warmth.

One thing that always sticks in my mind is how he spoke about his old friends - Max, Miles, Monk, Bud, Clifford and more, with the same kind of reverence and awe that we younger musicians did.

He spoke with love and excitement about growing up in Harlem. He spoke with enthusiasm about stories he had probably told a million times before.

He told me stories about what Joe Louis meant to him and his generation, Willie Mays and the old Polo Grounds, how his mother marched in the streets of Harlem protesting various injustices before the Civil Rights movement took shape.

Most importantly, he didn’t have a bad word to say about anyone.

He never stopped practicing until health issues in his late 80s forced him to.

But even then, he never stopped learning.

He never stopped listening.

He never stopped loving.

He never lost faith in the human condition.

That’s rare.

I’m honored to have been in his orbit.

Thank you, Mr. Rollins.

“You gotta learn the correct chord changes.”

The problem was… nobody seemed to agree on what the correct chord changes actually were.

As a 17- and 18-year-old jazz bassist newly exposed to the sharp teeth of the New York jazz scene, I stepped on plenty of landmines playing the wrong ones. Many nights, playing jam sessions at Augie’s, or later on at Bradley’s with someone like Larry Willis, John Hicks, James Williams, or George Coleman, an old standard would be called and I’d confidently play chord changes that came straight from some Blue Note record, a Miles or Coltrane record, or even The Real Book—the Cliff Notes for jazz musicians.

Apparently, songs I thought I knew well—My Funny Valentine, Misty, My Foolish Heart and plenty of others—were interpreted differently by almost everyone I played them with.

More than once, the set break would feature a lecture.

“You better learn the correct changes, man!”

It was driving me nuts.

But who actually played the correct changes?

Miles Davis himself took liberties with even Thelonious Monk’s tunes. Most of us played Miles’s changes because, well… it was Miles. Particularly at jam sessions, so many people went to G7 on the bridge of Monk’s “Well, You Needn’t.” Yes, I knew that what Monk wrote went to D-flat, but on gigs it was about fifty-fifty whether Monk’s changes actually got played.

It depended on whose gig it was.

I was going crazy trying to figure it out.

Then came Ray Brown.

Besides being the iconic bassist (and second dad) that he was, Ray had instant recall of hundreds of tunes. Watching him pull standards out of thin air was something to witness. When I got to know him better, I realized he might be the man who could finally crack this mystery for me.

So one day I asked him.

Who played the correct changes to these old standards I was trying to learn?

Oscar? Miles? Bird? Coltrane? Hank Jones? Tommy Flanagan?

Help!

Ray listened to my question and said something that changed my musical life.

“You have to listen to singers. You can’t just learn the changes—you have to learn the melody and the lyrics, too.”

The thought had never crossed my mind.

I had been so worried about screwing up the changes on any given gig that even when I played with singers, I wasn’t really listening to the melody or the words. I was watching the piano player. Or the guitarist.

So I asked Ray who I should start with.

He said, “Nat, Ella… and Frank.”

Nat “King” Cole and Ella Fitzgerald I understood. But Frank Sinatra?

Nobody I was playing with ever mentioned Sinatra.

I paused.

“Frank Sinatra? Really?”

Ray looked like he wanted to slap me silly.

“Yes. Frank Sinatra.”

If Ray Brown says listen to Sinatra, you listen to Sinatra.

When I asked where to start, he said, “Listen to any of the records he made with Count Basie. You’ll like those.”

So I went to Tower Records and bought as many Sinatra CD’s as I could carry.

What immediately struck me was that Frank recorded so many incredible versions of songs many instrumentalists considered old, worn-out jam session tunes.

But the real turning point came when I heard Sinatra sing “Stars Fell on Alabama.”

I had already recorded that tune on my debut CD “Gettin’ To It,” but the version I knew came from Cannonball Adderley.

Then I heard Frank sing the lyrics.

And suddenly it hit me.

So THIS is how it’s supposed to go.

https://youtu.be/lq2xfCgIzk4?is=mG9Yb8DoN7XZtPIN

I was embarrassed.

It turned out I didn’t really know the song at all.

We lived our little drama…

We kissed in a field of white…

And stars fell on Alabama…

Last night.

The timing.

The phrasing.

And yes—the changes.

Why hadn’t I learned this before?

Well, I was only twenty-two, so I forgive myself. ☺️

After that moment, I fell hard down the rabbit hole—Ella Fitzgerald, Nat King Cole, Billy Eckstine, Carmen McRae… and especially Ol’ Blue Eyes.

From then on, I paid attention to everything Frank sang: the lyrics, the emotion, and the harmonic movement underneath it all.

And that’s when the final revelation came.

Ready for this?

Almost nobody plays the right changes.

Most of the changes musicians play are variations on what the original, Broadway changes were. Depending on who you’re playing with, those “right” changes can vary. Cats just play what they like. And that’s fine!

In the bebop era, when Bird, Dizzy, Monk or Bud wanted to play a Broadway show tune, they’d custom tailor the chord changes to fit jazz improvisation. Somewhere along the way, those chord changes became the “right” changes.

And even those changes have evolved.

But technically, those aren’t the “right” changes. Not according to the original published scores of Cole Porter or Irving Berlin.

I remember once being at a soundcheck with the late, great guitarist Herb Ellis. He verbally pop-quizzed me.

“You know “Georgia On My Mind?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In C?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know the correct bridge?”

(Pause. This feels like a trap.)

If that question had come from Hank Jones, it would have been followed with “Just in case you’re not sure, it goes like this…..”

I said, “Yes, I believe I know the correct bridge.”

Mr. Ellis says….

“Say them out loud. Bar by bar.”

(I knew this was a setup! 😡)

After I recited them, he says….

“Ok, you DO know it!”

🙄

I don’t blame Mr. Ellis. He wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to play some “too hip” sharp 5 substitutions while he and Hank played the traditional ones.

Know who you’re playing with.

But back to Frank and singers—especially the great ones—they hold the key to musical maturity.

If you really want to understand the harmony of a song, learn the melody. Learn the lyrics. Understand the story.

The melody is the navigation.

Not the other way around.

As I fell deeper down my Sinatra rabbit hole, I started buying DVD’s of his television specials from the 1960’s. One night I was watching his 1969 NBC special simply titled “Sinatra.” At one point the camera pans across the orchestra behind him.

And there, clear as day, was the bass player.

Ray Brown.

I nearly jumped out of my chair.

I called Ray and said, “You didn’t tell me you actually PLAYED with Sinatra!”

Ray, completely unfazed, said,

“Yeah, a bunch.” 😂

Turns out he played on several of Sinatra’s albums and television specials. He played on the “That’s Life” album, the “Sinatra & Company” album - he played on almost all of his NBC television specials in the late ’60s—including the 1967, ’68, and ’69 shows—and later on the Ol’ Blue Eyes Is Back special in 1973 (which was also the name of an album released that same year.) Years after that, he was even on Sinatra’s final collaboration with Quincy Jones, the album, L.A. Is My Lady.

My two heroes.

Together.

And suddenly it made even more sense that Ray had told me to listen to Frank.

He wasn’t just giving me advice.

He had already been standing right there behind him and every other singer he told me to listen to—taking it all in himself.

I would fall so deep into a Sinatra hole, that it would eventually lead me to friendships with his two daughters Tina and Nancy, and Willy Rizzo, whose father, Jilly, was Frank’s closest confidant for decades.

In 2015, I received a call for one of the most prestigious gigs of my career, when I was named musical director for the Sinatra Centennial celebration at the Hollywood Bowl, conducting and playing with none other than the Count Basie Orchestra led by Scotty Barnhart. Seth MacFarlane, Seu Jorge, Carmen Bradford, John Pizzarelli, Luciana Souza, Jose James, and Kurt Elling were among the many performers that evening.

We dedicated a specific segment of that concert to Frank’s work with the late, great Gene Kelly, showing clips from On The Town, Anchor’s Aweigh and Take Me Out To The Ball Game.

Patricia Ward-Kelly, Gene’s wife, was also in attendance that evening. I was able to introduce her to Cecilia Brown, Ray’s wife. They became good friends, too.

Ray Brown, Frank Sinatra… melodies, lyrics, chord changes—all of it somehow bringing people together.

And that’s when it really hit me.

All those years I spent worrying about the “right” changes…

The answer was never just in the harmony.

It was in the story.

The melody.

The words.

The feeling behind every note.

Ray wasn’t just teaching me how to play the right changes.

He was teaching me how to understand the music.

And once I finally heard Frank…

I understood.

Thank you, Ray.

Thank you, Frank.

I experienced one of those nights last week in Montreal.

Last year, I ran into my friend, the great comedian Alonzo Bodden on a tour stop in Chicago. While we hung out at Miller’s Pub after our respective gigs, he told me about a big gig he had in Montreal that he was going to record. The catch?

He specifically wanted to be accompanied by an acoustic bass. That’s something I’m sure no comedian has ever said. 😂 He asked, “Who would you recommend?”

My brain scrambled a little. As in “…..why wouldn’t he just ask me?” I think he read my face and immediately said, “I’m not asking you because I’m sure I couldn’t pay you your normal fee.”

Clearly he doesn’t know what “normal” jazz fees are. 😂

I volunteered.

He was sweetly surprised.

“Seriously? Really?”

I was excited to enter a new realm - accompanying a comedian.

After a few days, something hit me.

I just said “yes” to accompanying a comedian?? What have I done? I’m setting myself - and possibly Alonzo - up for disaster.

I’ve played with a lot of people in a lot of situations. I’ve played with string quartets, big bands, combos, singers, gospel choirs, funk bands, even accompanied poets.

When I’ve accompanied poets like the great Sonia Sanchez or the late, great Nikki Giovanni - also only with bass and voice - yes, I was slightly nervous with them, also. But laughs weren’t on the line with them. This was different - one man, a microphone, and a room full of people waiting to laugh. And somehow, in the middle of all that, there was supposed to be… a bass player improvising.

Honestly, that’s kind of funny already.

In preparing for the gig, Alonzo sent me a recording of one of his recent performances and said that what he’d do in Montreal would be loosely based on that.

Loosely.

I still wondered - did he want me to play underneath him constantly like on those old Mantan Moreland records? Answer his punchline with a bassline? Maybe not play at all in some spots?

Alonzo’s answer to all three questions was “maybe.”

You see, Alonzo and I have history.

I met Alonzo over a decade ago on the annual Jazz Cruise. We hit it off instantly. He’s a brilliant comedian. In 2022, he was the roastmaster at my all-star Celebrity Roast at NJPAC. (No, there’s no footage, so don’t ask) Along with Jeff Ross, George Wallace, Amanda Seales, Yamaneika Saunders, my wife Melissa, Savion Glover, the CEO of NJPAC John Schreiber, and my old high school band director, Mr. Lovett Hines, they raked me across the coals relentlessly - and I loved every minute of it. We raised lots of money for Jazz House Kids and NJPAC that night. Alonzo lovingly asked, “Who has ever ASKED to be roasted?” Me, that’s who. And what I learned that night is to never piss off a comedian, so I wanted to make his Montreal gig special.

This was going to truly be a jazz experience. Neither one of us knew if this would work or not, but we were both willing to jump out of the plane together.

Would it work?

Would it be distracting?

Would it be corny?

The gig was at the PHI Center in Montreal, which is a beautiful room. Alonzo had the whole thing professionally produced and recorded. This was the real deal.

Comedy is all about timing. Jazz is also all about timing. But they’re two very different kinds of timing. In jazz, you’re responding to harmony, rhythm, and interaction. In comedy, you’re responding to silence… and then laughter.

That’s a whole different bandstand.

So I just listened.

Alonzo would hit a punchline, and I’d play a little sting. Sometimes just a couple of notes. Sometimes a quick figure. Sometimes I played behind the entire routine. Sometimes nothing at all. I was giving him an improvised soundtrack.

But the whole time I’m thinking, “Man, I hope I’m not messing this up.”

After the first show ended, I walked backstage feeling a little unsure.

Before I could even say anything, Alonzo shouted:

“THAT WAS PERFECT!”

I looked at him and said, “Really? You sure?”

He said, “Hell yeah! The second show is going to be even better!”

And you know what?

He was right.

By the second show, I started to relax a little. Once you understand the rhythm of a comedian’s voice, you start to hear the groove in it.

Alonzo’s delivery has its own pocket.

Once I found that pocket, it felt a lot like playing with a soloist. You leave space. You support the moment. You jump in when it feels right. And sometimes the best note you can play is no note at all.

It was weird.

It was fun.

And it actually worked.

The opener was comedian Mal Hall, who is a fantastic guy and really, really funny. We had a great time hanging out before and after the shows. Comics have their own road culture that reminded me a lot of musicians—stories, roasting each other, talking about the craft.

Different stage, same spirit.

And here’s the funny thing: without even realizing it, Alonzo helped me fulfill a little dream I’ve had for years.

I’ve always loved comedy.

I’m a student of it. I know the history. The legends. The timing. The eras—from Foxx to Rickles to Cosby to Flip to Pryor to Carlin to Eddie to Chappelle.

I never imagined myself even remotely getting a glimpse into that world.

Certainly not like this.

Alonzo even let me have a microphone and had me drop a couple of harmless one-liners in on occasion.

After the show we were talking backstage and Alonzo said, “Man, we might be starting something here.”

Maybe we are.

Maybe this is the beginning of some weird new hybrid where a bass player becomes part of the comedy act.

Who knows?

Alonzo is also good friends with Robert Glasper and Marcus Miller, but he told me he asked me to do this because I’d “get it.” He figured I’d understand the spirit of it.

I think he was right.

I think I also know the real reason why I was so nervous in the beginning. I was accompanying something that already had a rhythm. Comedians are used to working alone. I could have really disrupted that rhythm - not just for Alonzo, but for the audience.

And let’s also be real about this part -

Had it not worked, all Alonzo had to do was roast the hell out of me onstage. Make some bass jokes and all of a sudden, destroying the bass player becomes part of the routine. I didn’t want that.

Plus, Alonzo’s a really, really big dude. 😂

So now we’ll see what happens. The whole thing was professionally recorded, and we’re hoping Netflix or Hulu might pick it up.

Imagine that.

I may have accidentally wandered into the world of stand-up comedy.

Life is funny like that.

You spend decades mastering one craft, and then one day you get a call to accompany……a comedian. 😂

And suddenly you realize that rhythm, timing, storytelling, and laughter might not be that far apart after all.

Who knows.

I might have a new side hustle. 😜

And if that happens, just remember:

You heard it here first—the bass player walked into a comedy club… and stayed.

On a hot July afternoon in 1968, a television talk show drove its cameras into the heart of Harlem and pointed them toward the street.

The address was 115th and Fifth Avenue, in front of the newly built Martin Luther King Towers. The crowd—estimated at nearly ten thousand people—spilled out of apartment windows and onto fire escapes, packed the sidewalks, and climbed anything that offered a view. It was not a television studio audience. It was a neighborhood.

Three months earlier, America had watched the assassination of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. ignite uprisings across the country. Just weeks before the show, Robert F. Kennedy had been murdered. Cities were raw. The national mood was brittle.

Most television producers, confronted with such tension, would have chosen the safety of a studio discussion panel.

But Merv Griffin decided to do something else.

He brought the entire show to Harlem.

The guest list alone reads like a cultural constellation.

Then-exiled heavyweight champion, Muhammad Ali.

The Mayor of New York, John Lindsay.

Hollywood activist, Burt Lancaster.

Gladys Knight and The Pips, Joe Tex, comedian Godfrey Cambridge, ventriloquist Willie Tyler and his puppet Lester, the sunshine-pop group Spanky and Our Gang.

And standing in the middle of it all, surrounded by thousands of Harlemites and guarded by Nation of Islam security, was the most electrifying performer in America:

James Brown.

A talk show episode, broadcast from a housing project courtyard, surrounded by ten thousand residents.

Even by the chaotic standards of 1968, it was extraordinary.

When the cameras returned from its final commercial break, the crowd was already screaming.

Before Merv could even speak, the sound of thousands of voices overwhelmed the broadcast.

Finally, over the roar, Griffin shouted:

“Alright—here he is… James Brown!”

What followed was eighteen uninterrupted minutes of musical fire and emotional release.

Brown and his band launched into a relentless sequence:

“Cold Sweat.”

“I Got the Feelin’.”

“There Was a Time.”

“Licking Stick.”

There were no interviews. No speeches. Just rhythm.

The crowd responded like a revival meeting. Harlem, in the middle of a painful summer, answered James Brown’s grooves with pure release.

At the end of the show, with Brown’s orchestra still thundering behind him, Griffin turned to the camera.

Instead of a light television farewell, he delivered a plea.

He thanked the community organizations that helped make the show possible—the Five Percenters, neighborhood groups, Harlem youth organizations—and then asked viewers across the country to consider the struggles in their own cities.

“Harlem is one place,” he said, “but it isn’t the place so much that’s important. It’s the people.”

Then came the line that still echoes through the surviving audio:

“Give jobs. Give money… give a damn.”

The Tape That Vanished

The broadcast aired nationwide on July 10th.

And then, like so much early television, it disappeared.

A warehouse fire decades later reportedly destroyed many episodes of The Merv Griffin Show. The Harlem broadcast is believed to have been among them.

No known video copy has surfaced.

But the legend persists.

Collectors search archives. Historians scan old affiliate stations. Researchers ask former engineers if a reel might still sit on a forgotten shelf.

Because if it exists somewhere, it would capture something rare: a moment when television stepped out of its studio and into the raw energy of America in 1968.

(Very special thanks to Alan Leeds for the photos)

I don’t know what to write!

That’s not entirely true, of course, but one thing jazz doesn’t need is more opinions, so I’ll probably keep my writings to stories and experiences. I got a lot I’m working on these days. 2025 was quite a big year professionally and hopefully 2026 will be just as good. One very big thing I’m working on I can’t tell you about just yet (no, it doesn’t involve a new artistic directorship - at least not to my knowledge 😂), but it’s big. Melissa continues to slay the world with Jazz House Kids, so that story keeps on keeping on, but stay tuned. It’s gonna be a good year.

I’m about to head out to sea for the first McBride’s World At Sea. In case you didn’t know (heh heh!), it’s my first cruise which will feature Samara Joy, Ledisi, Angelique Kidjo, Cécile McLorin Salvant, Jose James, Melissa Walker, George Wallace, Alonzo Bodden, Christian Sands, Dan Wilson, Sullivan Fortner, Ben Williams, Russell Hall, Matt Brewer, my groups Ursa Major, Inside Straight, the Remembering Ray Brown Trio with Benny Green & Greg Hutchinson and my Big Band, and lots more! It’s gonna be a PAR-TAY!! If you didn’t buy tickets, well, bless your heart. 😂

In the meantime, this year I’ll have lots of tour dates with Ursa Major, some more duo gigs with Brad Mehldau, some duo gigs with my bass brother Edgar Meyer and some other cool stuff.

Stay tuned!

And I’ll write more when I think of something.

Be kind to yourself and everyone else.

Later!

McBride

In the mid-90’s, as jazz’s “young lion” era was just about to crest, D’Angelo’s debut CD Brown Sugar dropped. I vividly remember sitting in my hotel room in Montreal with Greg Hutchinson and Anthony Wonsey listening to it, marveling. Just like jazz had done, it seemed as if classic soul and R&B was about to start its own renaissance of sorts. Brown Sugar sounded old-school, but with a decidedly contemporary feel. The whole CD was our jam. I noticed that guys like Roy Hargrove, Mark Whitfield, Frank Lacy - my guys - were working with him. Well, I mean, I think I’m funky, too. Can I get a piece? 😂

Who else would finally put us together but my homie, Ahmir “Questlove” Thompson. Early In 1999, word on the street was that D’Angelo was finally in the studio working on his follow up recording. One day, I got a call around noon from Quest saying, “Boots, what are you doing tonight around 6 or 6:30?” “Nothing, what’s up?” “D wants you to come by Electric Lady.” I said, “Bet! I’ll be there.” He added, “Bring your upright and your electric.” I couldn’t have been more excited. I finally got invited back, musically, to my “old neighborhood,” if you will. Questlove (along with Roy and Joey DeFrancesco) was one of the few who knew that people took my Ray Brown/Wynton Marsalis/straight-ahead-young-lion reputation a bit too literally. Until this very day, Ahmir always says, “These jazz fans still haven’t quite figured you out yet, huh?” 😂 (Actually, it’s the NON jazz fans who haven’t figured it out yet. 😉)

When I got to the studio, D had not yet arrived. Only Steve Mandel was there behind the board. Slowly, they started coming in - Spanky Alford, Charlie Hunter, Ahmir. When D finally arrived, he gave me a hug. It was a thrill to finally meet him. I asked him what were we going to play? He said, “I don’t know. Let’s jam on something!” Oh, ok! This was going to be a loose session. When we got setup in the studio, D’Angelo says to Steve, “You ready? You got sounds? You rolling in there? Ok, let’s go!” And he starts playing. Ahmir says, “Wait, hold up!” I said, “Whatcha’ got?”

“You know what it is!”

And off we went into Funky Drummer. It was so quick, I didn’t even have the electric bass strapped on yet. For the next nine minutes, we played Funky Drummer with D reciting James Brown’s utterances verbatim! After we recorded, I was happy to know that D was in the “James Brown Secret Society” that me and Ahmir started in high school. Soon after Funky Drummer we jammed on Talking Loud and Saying Nothing. Again, D knew all of JB’s lyrics and dialogue verbatim.

After that, more people showed up and it got just a bit chaotic. Ahmir had to leave to go to a gig and I never did wind up playing my upright bass. Soon, nobody was playing anymore, just hanging out watching TV, playing video games, etc. I think around midnight, I snuck out without anyone noticing. It was totally ok, though. Getting to stop through Electric Lady and jam with D’Angelo and Ahmir on two James Brown songs at D’Angelo’s request was worth every minute.

Fifteen years later…….(that would be 2014 😜)

I was asked to coordinate and produce a James Brown Tribute at the Hollywood Bowl. The JB biopic “Get On Up” had just been released. Other than playing with James Brown himself (which also happened at the Hollywood Bowl), this tribute concert was the ultimate thrill. I called on Clyde Stubblefield, John “Jabo” Starks, Fred Wesley, Alfred “Pee Wee” Ellis, Danny Ray, Robert “Mousey” Thompson, Spike Nealy, Eric Leeds, Yonna Kari and so many funk kings and queens who had (and hadn’t) been associated with Mr. Brown to be a part of this concert. It was the ULTIMATE James Brown tribute. Chadwick Boseman was the evening’s host, alongside Mr. Danny Ray. Our four vocal stars that night were Bettye LaVette, Aloe Blacc, Angelique Kidjo (who smashed it!!) and making his triumphant return to the stage, D’Angelo. Anyone who had followed D’s career knows that when he was off the scene, he was OFF THE SCENE! He had the ability to vanish like Houdini. For his entire career, questions of “where” “what” and most especially, “when” were constants. “Where is he?” “What has he been doing?” “When is he coming back” “When is he going to release another album?” From the end of 2012 to this Hollywood Bowl concert, I don’t believe D’Angelo had played any shows, or at least very few, in the USA. No gigs, no social media posts, no trace, no nothing. And of course, you know how we collective haters of privacy (others privacy, that is) are. When we don’t know something, we just make it up. “I heard he’s retiring.” “No, he’s in rehab.” “He moved to Europe.” “He’s a born again Christian now.” Just sad, the rumor mill is. Thanks to another friend, Alan Leeds, who was managing D’Angelo by now, he was able to confirm D for the Bowl show. This made the anticipation for the concert even greater. We all couldn’t wait to see D’Angelo after such a long wait.

When we had rehearsal at Centerstaging in Burbank the night before the performance, he was amazing. He chose for his songs “I Don’t Want Nobody To Give Me Nothing,” “Maybe The Last Time,” and “Soul Power.” As an added bonus, he invited Chadwick Boseman to play the Bobby Byrd to his James Brown for “Soul Power.” This concert was going to be pure fire.

The following night at the Bowl, the concert was split into two halves. The first half featured the band for two songs, Bettye LaVette for three songs, and Aloe Blacc for three songs. The second half again featured two instrumentals, Angelique Kidjo for three songs, and closing out the night, D’Angelo.

But, come on, there HAD to be a little drama.

During the intermission, there was widespread panic as there was no sign of D’Angelo. I was sort of prepared for that, so I didn’t get too nervous. A little, not a lot. Certain stars just always show up immediately before it’s time to hit. Out of the four singers we had that night, I knew he’d be that “one.” 😂 To cover our hinds, juuuuuust in case D’Angelo missed his entrance, I went to Chadwick Boseman’s dressing room (you probably heard me tell this story before) and asked if he would be willing to step in and perform in case D’Angelo was either late or pulled a no-show. His eyes nearly popped out of his head. 😂 He said, “But I haven’t prepared anything! I haven’t rehearsed with you guys! I don’t wanna look foolish!” I assured him that not only did he have the band to completely get his back, but he probably never looked foolish in his life. After deep breathing a couple of times, he said, “Ok, what about “Night Train?” I told him that with Fred, Pee Wee, Jabo, Clyde, Mousey, Spike and me, that we could play “Night Train” just like The T.A.M.I. Show on the spot! He hesitantly said with a smile, “Ok, man, I’ll do it, but I sure hope D’Angelo gets here soon.” 😂

We went back out for the second half, and while Angelique Kidjo almost literally set fire to the stage with her energy, I looked in the wings and Chadwick gave me the most relief-filled “D’Angelo”s here!” sign.

D came out and picked right up where Angelique left off. He did his three songs and gave everyone what they wanted - a great, great performance with plenty o’ soul. Mr. Brown himself I’m sure would have approved. For the finale, D called out Chadwick and we played “Soul Power” reminiscent of the version on James Brown’s 1971 “Revolution Of The Mind” album. Many clips of this night are on YouTube.

A great night was had by all.

But the sweet, reflective moment came after the show. I went into D’s dressing room to thank him for being a part of such a special night. He asked me to sit and hang and meet some friends of his. I was deeply touched. This was the only time D’Angelo and I ever got to play together live and it seemed to mean as much to him as it did to me. As he introduced me to some of his friends, he revealed some astounding, mind-blowing news that I never knew.

He told me that he originally wanted to be a jazz pianist. He said that he’d planned on attending his hometown school, VCU (Virginia Commonwealth University) specifically to study jazz piano with none other than Ellis Marsalis. My mind was blown! Much to his disappointment, Mr. Marsalis retired the year before he graduated high school.

THAT is one of the biggest “what if’s” I could ever imagine.

While Michael Archer never became the pianist in Roy Hargrove’s quintet or Branford Marsalis’s group, we instead got a neo-soul innovator named D’Angelo who shaped an entire generation.

We are grateful to have been blessed with his presence.

May our dear brother fly freely.