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20 the rise and fall and persistent resurrection of a curious record company 3 The Initial Years When did you first imagine starting a record label? In 1963 I volunteered to do legal work for Moe Asch at Folkways Records. I was fascinated by his dedication to documenting the folk music of America and of other cultures. I s aw him as a n unoἀ cial extension of the Smithsonian. Pete Seeger was often in the oἀ ce, providing support. I was struck by the fact that one could operate a record label with very modest means. The custom pressing plants made it possible to press five hundred LPs, place each one in a standard black jacket, paste a printed sheet of paper over it, and have a finished product. Moe Asch had launched his label in 1945 and devoted his life to this undertaking . When he died in 1 983, his catalog contained over two thousand titles, all of which are available today from his successor, Smithsonian Folkways. What was the purpose in producing your very first record, Ni Kantu en Esperanto, in 1963? In 1960 I b ecame interested in the international language and was briefly employed as a p ublicist for the Esperanto League of North America. Th e record was just an exercise, and I had no t houghts of doing anything beyond that. Ni Kantu demonstrated the sound of the language through poetry, a comedy monologue , and songs. It was marketed to members of the worldwide movement. Late in 1963somebody told you to go hear Albert Ayler play up in Harlem. What was that all about? Who was that person? Granville Lee visited me. He had attended high school in Cleveland with another student who was enormously talented. They had formed a band and all through school they were performing professionally. He insisted that I hear his friend, who was going to play at the Baby Grand Cafe in Harlem on the follow- The Initial Years 21 ing Sunday afternoon, between Christmas and New Year’s. He said, “I won’t be in town, but you can go; please, you must go hear him.” He had s aid enough to intrigue me. It was snowing when I trudged uptown from 90th Street to 125t h Street. Th e Baby Grand was a popular piano bar. A few people were sitting there, wearing their coats, because the heat had no t been turned on. The bartender busied himself polishing glasses. Elmo Hope was at the piano, with his trio, on an elevated stage. I sat and listened to them. Several minutes later, a small man in a gray leather suit, holding a large saxophone, brushed by me and jumped up on the stage. He had a b lack beard, with a little patch of white in it. He was not introduced and, ignoring the trio, he began to blow his horn. The other musicians stopped and looked at him. No words were exchanged. Elmo Hope quietly closed his p iano, the bass p layer parked his bass, t he drummer put his sticks down, and they all s at back to listen. He was playing solo, and he kept right on playing for twenty to thirty minutes, just a burst of music. It seemed like a second; it was no time at all! Then he stopped and jumped down from the platform, covered with sweat. I approached him and said, “Your music is beautiful . I’m starting a record label, and I’d like you to be my first artist.” A small voice in the back of my head said, “Oh, you are, are you?” He reflected, and then he said, “I’d like that. But I have to do a session in March at Atlantic. After that, I’ll be free and I will contact you.” I was skeptical that I would ever hear from him again. In June, however, the phone rang: “This is Albert Ayler. I’m ready to record.” Moe Asch, the owner of Folkways, used a small a nd inexpensive studio near Times Square, so I directed Albert to the Variety Arts Studio. He arrived with his trio: Gary Peacock and his then-wife Annette and Sunny Murray. Gary was slender and austere, while Sunny was a big gregarious bear. There was no discussion . The engineer was lanky, blond, and low-key, one of the owners. Th ey filed into the recording studio, and the session began. The engineer left the...

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