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Singing, Swinging & Playing It Cool

Jay Leonhart
By Richard Johnston | August 2005

It’s impossible to sing and play the bass, asserts Jay Leonhart in his signature tune. But in performance, the jazz veteran manages to deliver his witty, wordy, and literate lyrics while accompanying himself with the kind of solidly swinging bass lines that have brought him a half-century of work on bandstands and in studios.

As a sideman, Leonhart has backed pop notables ranging from Frank Sinatra and Peggy Lee to Roger Daltrey and Queen Latifah, and his big acoustic-bass sound has buoyed jazz luminaries such as guitarist Jim Hall, sax man Phil Woods, drummer Louis Bellson, and pianist Bill Charlap. Leonhart has also recorded a dozen-plus albums of his own; his recent trio outing Cool showcases his perceptive ensemble work, eloquent plucked and bowed soloing, wryly elegant vocal interpretations, and inventive arranging.

During his productive career as an instrumentalist, Leonhart has maintained a concurrent path writing and performing songs that celebrate his distinctive views on life and music. In particular, his observations on the bass and bass playing—in songs such as “Bass Aboard a Plane,” “It’s Impossible to Sing and Play the Bass,” and his Milt Hinton homage “The Judge”—qualify Leonhart as the poet laureate of Bass Nation. (The DVD The Bass Lesson captures Leonhart’s one-man show of his sometimes poignant, often hilarious compositions and provides a close look at his masterful bass work.) Born in 1940 in Baltimore to a musical family, Leonhart began gigging on banjo in his early teens but soon foresaw a more satisfying future on upright bass. He went on to study at the Peabody Institute, Berklee School of Music, and Oscar Peterson’s Advanced School of Contemporary Music in Toronto before forsaking academics in the late ’50s to tour with big bands. In 1961 he moved to New York City, where his career blossomed on two branches: hardcore jazz gigs and recording sessions in a spectrum of styles on acoustic and electric bass. (During his 1975–95 studio heyday, NARAS picked him three times as the recording industry’s Most Valuable Bassist.) Noteworthy among Leonhart’s credits is his work with classic song stylists such as Mel Tormé, Mark Murphy, Eartha Kitt, and Maureen McGovern, and his bass lines turn up on tracks by the likes of Graham Parker, Bette Midler, James Taylor, Carly Simon, and Paul Simon.

These days Leonhart concentrates on jazz gigs and recordings (as a player and producer), solo performances, and seminars. Still a New Yorker, he and his wife, Donna, have two children who are continuing the family tradition: The resumés of trumpeter Michael and vocalist Carolyn include tours and sessions with Steely Dan. When I reached Jay during a Florida stint with guitarist Bucky Pizzarelli and singer Freddie Cole, I began our conversation with a question bassists perennially ponder.

How do you sing and play the bass?
The same way piano players and everybody else do: practice. You start by singing a simple song and playing a simple bass line. Half the battle is just getting that first song down and then trying to sing the tune so it’s somewhat musical. It’s a lot of fun, and it helps your ear and helps you play better.

You get a great sound harmonizing in 10ths above your bass solo lines. How did you learn to do that?
I learned the sound of the intervals up the diatonic scale, and I practiced to get the sound of them in my head so I would know instinctively when it should be a minor 3rd or a major 3rd. When you get that, suddenly you can harmonize anything you play. It’s nothing more than ear.

What has singing taught you about accompanying other singers?
I’ve noticed that when I sing and play a complicated song, if I overcomplicate the bass line it throws off the audience. So I’m very aware of what a singer is or isn’t trying to do. Sometimes singers don’t give a damn about the song’s storyline, so they treat it more casually and the band plays more raucously. But when a singer is trying to get the message across, I find myself playing much more sensitively, not filling my part full of notes or trying to upstage the situation with a fancy lick.

In your one-man shows, it’s just you and your bass. How did you develop the stage presence to pull that off?
I took a little acting when I was younger, and I’ve always had a bit of flare for getting onstage and keeping the ball rolling—realizing you can’t just stand up there like an accountant reading the annual report. You may think people have come to hear the music, but they’ve come to see you play it, too. If you can give them a little life, a little of yourself, it helps the group and the bookings.

If you’re interested in making a living at this, you have to follow the example of Ray Brown. He was alive on that stage. There was a magnetism about him, and people wanted him in the group, besides the fact that he was a great player—if not the greatest player ever.

You studied with Ray Brown at Oscar Peterson’s jazz school. What was that like?
I remember we’d be playing something and he’d go, “Come on! Come on! Come on!” He played on top and ahead of everyone else, driving the beat like crazy, and if you didn’t play every note like that he got impatient with you. But mainly what I got from him was the musicality of his playing; he was the most brilliant musician of anybody on the bass. And he was the rhythm player. When you hear the whole series of Charlie Parker records, every once in a while the bass is suddenly gorgeous and the notes are crystal-clear and fit the tune perfectly—and it’s always Ray Brown.

What other players influenced you?
Hearing Scott LaFaro was a turning point, the way he plucked the bass with a two-fingered technique across the strings. I played like that for a little while, but I didn’t get any musical satisfaction from it. I wanted to swing more. I like the beat. And I like the bass deep.

Did you work to develop your sense of time?
I never practiced with the metronome very much, although in the studios I worked with a click track all of the time. That can be odd—some players don’t trust their own time after doing that day in and day out. My own sense of time is innate, but I still practice by playing a certain lick in a bunch of keys just to make sure I can physically play it and it swings, so that it has that feel.

What about developing tone?
Bowing really helps your left hand. Tone also is a matter of pitch: If you’re in tune with the rest of the band, your sound comes through. You also have to play lines that allow the bass to sing—connected notes, notes that are within the range that your hand can grab them quickly.

Who are some of the most memorable artists you’ve worked with?
I always liked working with Tony Bennett. Everything had a fabulous feel to it, and he took care of business in the studio. Sinatra was the same way. He was very good at running a session and making things happen.

Any particularly painful memories?
Once I was playing the big benefit Sting holds every year, and he and James Taylor, Don Henley, and Elton John were going to sing the opening number accompanied by me. Well, I thought the curtain was at 8 o’clock, but it was at 7. So I waltz in at 7:30 thinking I’m a half-hour early, and Carnegie Hall is full and Sting is sitting there pissed—beyond pissed. That was painful. But it’s not been a difficult career. It’s been a pleasing career. I don’t have a whole lot to complain about.

Can Be Heard On
Jay Leonhart, Cool [Sons of Sound]