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Putting aside the probability that in the fullness of time every musician, from Palestrina to Perry Como, will be looked upon as a precursor of rock and roll, in the instance of Lionel Hampton the claim has much validityindeed, it's surprising to discover that he isn't yet acknowledged in most reference works on the subject. Along with Lucky Millinder he practically invented orchestrated rhythm and blues. Both men arrived at Decca two years after the label signed Louis Jordan, and restructured swing to accommodate voluble rhythms, raucous blues, and shameless showmanship. Millinder, however, had nothing like Hampton's breadth or appeal. Nor did he have "Flying Home": The moment Illinois Jacquet began a tenor saxophone solo with an extended quote from the 1847 opera Martha, jazz and pop were headed for a new kind of conciliation. The age of the honking tenor had arrived; on its heels came the JATP jousts, to one side, and, to the other, Tiny Bradshaw, Johnny Otis, Earl Bostic, and others, all (like Jordan) undistinguished veterans of swing bands who found their places in the sun with r&b. In 1954, Decca would seal the deal by signing Bill Haley.
In the interim and long before and long afterward, Hampton was everywhere, possibly the most schizophrenic force in American music. On the vibraharp, he was the very model of sophisticated improvisation, a lilting interpreter of ballads and furious purveyor of romping standards, girded with an intuitive sense of harmony that made him an ideal foil for Art Tatum, Oscar Peterson, and, for that matter, anyone of any generation who could play with anything like his sensitivity and spirit. Andre Hodier described Hampton's 1939 "When Lights Are Low," for which he assembled a reed section with Benny Carter, Coleman Hawkins, Chu Berry, and Ben Webster, plus Charlie Christian and Dizzy Gillespie, as the "apex of the ascending curve that symbolizes the evolution of swing." Yet on piano, he was the two-fingered madman of boogie woogie; listening today to his "I Found a New Baby" and "The Munson Street Breakdown," also made in 1939, it's hard not to hear the perfect, prescient marriage of swing and rock. On drums, his first professional instrument, he was just a madman plain and simple. Abbey Lincoln has recalled him playing at her high school and dancing on a drumhead until it broke. At a typical Hampton performance, he played the three instruments, sang, danced a bit, and said little beyond grunts and trademark Lionelisms like "Thanks for those kind applause."
He was equally divided as a bandleader: This was the guy whose records established Dizzy Gillespie ("Hot Mallets") and Earl Bostic ("Hamp's Boogie Woogie"), whose singers included in quick succession Dinah Washington, Betty Carter, and Little Jimmy Scott, whose originals in the course of a year ranged from "Hey! Ba-Ba-Re-Bop" to his oft-covered ballad "Midnight Sun" to the challenging "Mingus Fingers," by the then unknown Charles M. In the '50s, his reputation split as well; welcomed as a prolific, masterly, apparently timeless soloist, he was largely dismissed as a bandleader whose orchestra became increasingly associated with "Live at the Apollo"-type soundies that were mostly fury and very repetitive. In the '60s, he triumphed at Newport by introducing the now much sampled funk team the Pazant Brothers, a ploy that worked better in person than on records. How bent on entertaining was he? There's the story of an aquacade double-bill at which Louis Armstrong cut him to the bone. Hampton climaxed his next set by having the drummer (or was it the brass section?) dive into the pool. Countless anecdotes involve producers struggling to get him off stage. He did not go gently into the wingsthose applause were his sustenance. When he died Saturday morning, August 31, at 94, he got his first rest in a long time.
Hampton was born in Louisville, in 1908, raised in Birmingham, and educated in Kenosha and Chicago, where be began playing drums with the Chicago Defender's Newsboys Band. He was a year older than Benny Goodman, though Goodman may have died thinking Hampton was younger (well into the 1990s, his presumed birth date was 1909 or 1913). In the late 1920s, he moved to Los Angeles and played drums with the resident orchestra at the Cotton Club in Culver City, where Louis Armstrong appeared in 1930. Armstrong later recalled Hampton playing "some little bells which he kept beside his drums and he was swinging the hell out of them too." At his fourth recording session with the Cotton Club band, Armstrong wheeled a vibraphone from a corner of the studio, and on "Memories of You," Hampton recorded his first vibes solo.
He eventually became leader of the Cotton Club band, yet in 1936 he was reduced to leading a nine-piece group at a run-down sailors' haunt called the Paradise Club. Word began to spread about this human whirlwind, however, and soon celebrities began dropping by, including members of the Goodman band. One night Goodman drove out alone ("that night, with Benny there, I was inspired," Hampton remembered) and was so elated he asked to sit in; they jammed until five, two hours past closing. The next night he returned with Teddy Wilson and Gene Krupa and invited Lionel to record. On August 21, the big band completed three numbers and then what soon became known as the Benny Goodman Quartet debuted with "Moonglow." After Wilson's four-bar intro, Goodman played the theme and was suddenly buoyed by welling waves of vibraphone chords. The mallet sound was hardly unknown: Red Norvo had established it on marimba and xylophone, with Goodman himself playing bass clarinet on Norvo's 1933 "Dance of the Octopus." But Norvo preferred a concise bell-like sound and gave the electric vibes a wide berth until the damper pedal was introduced. Hampton showed what the new instrument could do, and Goodman gave him plenty of roomonly Hampton improvises a full chorus on "Moonglow," complete with two-bar breaks, plus cadenza and final chord. Hampton had arrived in suitably dramatic fashion.