# Ornette and the skies of London: Video, Photos

- Link: https://jazzblues.eu/2022/04/29/ornette-and-the-skies-of-london-video-photos/
- Published: 2022-04-29T16:22:46+01:00
- Author: https://JazzBlues.EU

**Fifty years ago today, at 10 o’clock on the morning of Monday 17 April 1972, the
photographer Val Wilmer and I arrived at Abbey Road Studios to hear Ornette Coleman
recording The Skies of America with the London Symphony Orchestra. It was the first
of four three-hour sessions, held on consecutive days, during which the entire work
was committed to tape. Here’s one of Val’s pictures, reproduced by her kind permission,
and my report, published in the Melody Maker later that week.**

“This is _The Skies of America_, take one.” The smoothly modulated voice of Paul
Myers, the head of CBS Records’ classical department, halts a conversation among
the second violins.

David Measham, the conductor, counts off a bar, and the orchestra launches itself
into a jagged ensemble in which it’s hard to perceive a lead voice. But Measham 
hears a goof, and drags it to a halt.

“We’ll do it without the trumpets and trombones,” he says. “Are the horns comfortable
with this?”

“No more uncomfortable than anywhere else,” mutters a youngish, bespectacled musician,
one hand wedged firmly up the bell of his French horn.

He seems to be expressing the consensual view of the London Symphony Orchestra. 
Mild bewilderment and a certain amount of genteel exasperation are mingled with 
rather smaller amounts of genuine interest and curiosity about the nature of the
work that confronts them this morning in the famous Studio No 2.

This is quite an unusual day in the life of the LSO. _The Skies of America_ is a
new work, and they are recording it in the presence of the composer, Ornette Coleman.
It’s his first symphonic piece. And it seems to be quite unlike anything the musicians
have had to face before.

Some of the problems have been caused by the composer. Certain passages of the work,
which consists of 21 short sections and will last about 40 minutes, are almost impossible
to play. The strain on the trumpeters, for instance, is such that they’ve made an
agreement between themselves to alternate the high-note passages, in order to save
their lips from damage.

This is the first day of recording. Last week there were three days of rehearsal,
but the parts are still causing trouble. Poor copying, for example, has led the 
tuba-player to confuse his sharps and flats. “You just have to approximate it,” 
he sighs. Is it hard? “Bloody impossible.”

The work was to have been recorded with the LSO and Coleman’s quartet, but Musicians’
Union restrictions prevented the use of the American players. “So then we wanted
to take the tapes back to New York and overdub the quartet,” Coleman explains, “
but they wouldn’t let us even do that. And I always thought electronics were supposed
to make things quicker and easier, didn’t you?”

During the takes, Ornette sits on his upturned saxophone case, next to the conductor’s
rostrum. He’s wearing a charcoal mohair suit with a flared flap in the back, and
a silky cream shirt. His boots are made of multicoloured patchwork leather. As has
been his habit for many years, he designed them himself. Beside him, there’s a table.
On it lie his packet of Gauloises, his cup of coffee, a red telephone which connects
him with the producer in the control room, and his alto saxophone.

Every so often he makes quiet suggestions to Measham or goes over to the drum booth
to discuss some point or other with Mike Frye, the LSO’s young percussionist, who
is playing a part intended for Ed Blackwell. Frye has never heard of Blackwell, 
the brilliant drummer from New Orleans who played in the quartet with which Coleman
set the jazz scene on its ear a dozen years ago. But he’s doing fine, particularly
in view of the fact that what he’s being called upon to play bears only the most
tenuous of explicit relationships to the patterns written for the rest of the orchestra.

“We need three conductors, really,” he remarks gravely to Ornette, who nods.

At one point, Ornette takes up the sticks to give Frye a practical demonstration
of what he wants. He plays a couple of brief phrases on the snare and top tom-tom,
and the immediate resemblance to Blackwell’s unique top-of-the-beat style is startling.

Seated around Coleman, Measham and Frye are 26 violins, 10 violas, eight cellos,
six double basses, four flutes, four oboes, four bassoons, four clarinets, four 
trumpets, four trombones, four French horns, a tuba, a harp and a tympanist. It 
is, of course, the biggest ensemble Coleman has ever been involved with. This is
a man who played on the chitlin’ circuit in his youth, honking out the simple phrases
of rabble-rousing rhythm and blues, and who then became the most compelling figure
to emerge from the avant-garde of the late ’50s, when his quartet made a series 
of recordings that seemed to embody both extreme complexity and a love of unfettered
melody and irresistible rhythm, implying that perhaps sophistication and naturalness
were not polar opposites but could co-exist within music. In the ’60s he also took
his first steps into music written for chamber groups — which, on the rare occasions
it was recorded or performed in concert, was generally received with a mixture of
bafflement and disapproval.

As the orchestra struggles through another section, it’s hard to describe how the
music sounds. There are broad melodies which seem never to repeat themselves, and
fast staccato phrases which give the trumpets no end of trouble. But in the control
booth, even in this rough state, the impression is hugely striking.

“It’s not meant to be a symphony orchestra playing,” Ornette explains, in his characteristically
elliptical way, during a break. “Not that particular sound. It’s just supposed to
be the way these instruments sound when they play together. In fact it’s not supposed
to sound like particular instruments at all. It’s written so that you can’t tell
who’s playing what. Listen to that high note. You can’t tell whether it’s the strings
or the brass.”

In the booth, he talks about his attitude to melody. He prefers to work with instrumental
melody because it allows a more open interpretation. Listeners have to put something
of themselves into it in order to get something out. “It’s like this part, here.
If you and I were singing it, we’d probably sing different notes, because it sounds
different to each of us. You can’t do that with song form. I think that’s one reason
why classical music is so unpopular. Working people don’t have the time to put themselves
into this music.”

The orchestra returns. While some of the musicians tune up, others read books and
magazines propped on their music stands. A few of them return to their reading matter
even during eight-bar rests.

Next they’re going to tackle a section that begins with a small section of the strings
and the woodwind, playing a long seamless line that wanders without retracing its
steps. The spare voicing and muted timbre make it sound like something by Charles
Ives — _Central Park in the Dark_, maybe. Gradually the rest of the orchestra joins
in, building on the slow line in a lengthy and deliberate crescendo which has an
air of wonderment and discovery. “Like a flower opening,” Ornette remarks.

![Ornette at Prince Street”: A Glimpse from the Archives](https://i0.wp.com/www.
pointofdeparture.org/PoD53/img/ornette_8.jpg?resize=640%2C430&ssl=1)

They get a good take, and Ornette rushes up to the booth. “That part after the melody—
where it’s reversed — does it sound too dark? It’s supposed to be like night, with
the stars shining through.”

No, he’s told, it’s fine. Even Measham agrees, although he’s been constantly troubled
by a conductor’s score that doesn’t tally with some of the individual parts. “It’s
such a waste of time when that happens,” he says. “It costs a of money on a session
this size. But Ornette is amazing. He knows every note of music on this score by
memory. And there’s a lot of music in it.”

The digital clock flicks over to 13:00 and the session is at an end. The musicians
pack up and head for the door. Ornette hooks his alto to his sling and walks around
the emptying floor, playing a handful of lyrical phrases in that tone which prompted
a participant in one of his early recording sessions, the drummer Shelly Manne, 
to say that “he sounds like a person laughing, and a person crying.”

He pauses and takes the horn from his mouth. “Hey,” he says. “We’re getting there,
aren’t we? And we’ll do better tomorrow.”

* The following evening, at the BBC TV Centre, I interviewed Ornette live on an 
edition of The Old Grey Whistle Test that also featured music by the Stooges, Manfred
Mann’s Earth Band and Linda Lewis. Two months later I heard him play The Skies of
America with his quartet and the American Symphony Orchestra at Philharmonic Hall
in New York, a world premiere coinciding with the album release. In 1988, before
a London performance of a revised version with Prime Time and the Philharmonia Orchestra,
Ornette told me about how the idea for the piece had come to him on a visit to a
Native American reservation in Montana in the 1960s: “I participated in their sacred
rites, and it made me think about the many different elements existing in America,
in relation to its causes, purpose and destiny. For some reason, I got that feeling
from the sky. I feel that everything that has ever happened in America, from way
before the Europeans arrived, is still intact as far as the sky is concerned.”

![](https://thebluemomentdotcom.files.wordpress.com/2022/04/ornette-at-abbey-road.
jpg?w=640)

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