A man and his horn

I remain inspired, weeks later, by the musical celebration found in Wim Wenders' film Buena Vista Social Club. It proves that a true musician can not solely be technically proficient, or clock in and clock out as would anyone else at their job, rather they must live their craft every waking moment. Music, to the true professional, is like heroin to a junkie, or air to anyone else. They have to think music to the point that any sane person around them simply says, "enough." Some of the truest working musicians, though, are not the ones cutting deals on the front page of Billboard, or even having documentaries made about them. They're out there working, playing a gig at a smoke-filled dump next to the bus station one night, or at a foreign dignitary's chateau the next.

Meet Howard Leshaw. If you've been to a New York society function, you've probably heard him. If you've stumbled into a jazz club late at night with some unfamiliar sidemen, you've probably heard him. If you've turned on the radio and heard a few clarinet notes at the end of a jingle, you've probably heard him. And God knows, if you've been to any multicultural arts festivals, you've probably heard him and his Golden Land Orchestra tearing it up with some of the truest and finest Klezmer music around. Indeed, Howard (Howie to some) and the band has just released a new album, "Yiddish," and I was lucky enough to sit down with him at his weekly Monday tune-up gig at My Most Favorite Dessert in Midtown and talk about his unique career.

His formative musical years are nearly textbook. Growing up in the Grand Concourse section of the Bronx, he went to High School of Music and Art in Manhattan. This is right at the peak of the classic hard-bop years. From the age of 14, he and his friends were discovering this revolution in music just as it was happening. "For $2 kids could get into Birdland and sit in the Peanut Gallery," Leshaw remembers. "Not like today when you buy a ticket for a specific show and then get cleared out for the next set. It was much looser back then. We'd come in at 9:30 pm and go home at 2 or 3." For some reason only Birdland had this policy, and anyone not of drinking age wasn't allowed at any of the other clubs on 52nd St. If a big name would come to another club they'd have to figure out a way to sneak in. Eventually, Leshaw was able to see, on several occasions, all the legendary figures of jazz. "Stan Getz, Miles, Sonny Stitt, Art Blakey, Horace Silver, they were all there. And the audience was part of the fun, too. You had travelers, tourists, local wealth, hipsters, hot-shots, outer borough kids, a complete mix." And from there friendships were made among the musician kids, a circle that would eventually mature. Some would stay with it and achieve great financial success (Leshaw ran with the kids who would eventually form the pioneer rock/jazz band Blood, Sweat and Tears) and others would drop out (Leshaw swears that one of the best players he ever heard wound up working in a shoe store.)

Howie has achieved a very curious, real success. He's a full-time working musician ("a dinosaur profession"), playing the music he loves, but he still hustles. He's on the phone, booking gigs for himself and his band. Some nights it's just him and his clarinet (or flute, or sax, or virtually any other instrument you blow into) as a sideman, other nights he's leading full band in a lush banquet hall. He's never fazed by who might be in attendance (King Hussein, President Clinton) and often has a good chuckle reading the paper the next day to learn which world leaders were at his event (Oh yeah, I did notice a lot of security . . .) "It's a small community" he says, "and you're never sure which old-time buddy you're going to see at a gig. It can be someone you haven't played with for ten years. The recording scene, the banquet scene, the jazz scene, there's a lot of crossover. The rock guys on Bleecker Street, though, they have their own scene."

Surprised to learn that these highly visible social functions are sometimes being entertained by what seem like ad-hoc collections from a pool of working musicians, I ask what kind of rehearsal is needed for the band to sound like a whole unit. "A pro," I'm told, "knows his charts. He can play with anyone. From Vivaldi to Irving Berlin. And he can deal with changes."

The pool is dwindling, though. The proliferation of DJs and synthesizers makes it hard for the working musician. The recording gigs (for jingles or low budget film) are really drying up. And Howie is partly to blame! "Years ago," he tells me, "a guy who hired me a lot wanted to put flute sounds into a synclavir. He was going to pay me $500. He said if I wouldn't do it someone else would. I blew a couple of notes, he handed me my money, and I haven't recorded for him since. Those notes I blew put everybody out of work! It's cheaper for producers to use electronics--to use MIDIs and all that--and, no offense, a newer, uneducated generation--most people couldn't tell a real French horn if you blew it in his face. It'd sound weird after all the electronic conditioning."

The music closest to Leshaw is what he is arguably best at, Klezmer. His group has played at weddings for sons and daughters of some of the most famous American Jews (he's asked me not to say who, but a look at his press releases can help you figure it out.) And they've played all over the world. "They loved us in Thailand. Very well received. There's no explanation for it, I don't even know if they knew what they heard, they just knew they liked it."

Keepers of the flame

Leshaw didn't think it appropriate to use that Jazz Festival as a schoolroom ("I'm on the other side of the world, there's no reason to talk about WEVD and Poles living on 2nd Avenue!"), but his new CD, "Yiddish," he feels is a good launching point to learn ("or 're-learn' as the case may be among so many American Jews who think their own heritage is square") about Klezmer. Especially given the attention given to so many of the younger, downtown Klezmer acts. (I never could get a clear read on Leshaw's take on John Zorn's Masada. "Lots of entertainment value" was all he wanted to say.)

"People think 'Jewish Music,' they think fast. They think getting lifted up in chairs at weddings. Well, not all Jewish music is fast. Jewish music is borrowed from every culture because of our history, the diaspora. Its influences include Polka, Arabic, Spanish, Russian Waltzes--everywhere there were Jews!! Then, with the Yiddish theater in America you mix swing and big band along with the Tin Pan Alley songwriting. That's quite a unique sound. People are always surprised to hear frehlachs and bulgurs which have a tempo like a Spanish klave, yet it is still noticeably Jewish."

The songs on "Yiddish" were ironed out on the road, featuring public domain material and even some singing in the mamaloshen. It has a live feel. "Direct from the Jewish Center in Atlanta," Leshaw jokes. "It is traditional music, old-style, the concept for the album was the perfect primer for people to learn the music. We want to take this to college campuses." With pride he adds, "Nothing new about it--there's no New Wave on this record!"

I've listened to the record a dozen times (available by e-mail at GoldenLand@aol.com) and find it deeply satisfying. And I also like knowing that Howie is out there still, night after night, in every kind of weather, like the mailman of the horn. "One night I'm at Savoy Lounge, a low-profile dive if ever there was one, the next I'm at Belle Epoque, the classiest room in Manhattan. I've been with government officials in a WASPish oak room during cocktail hour, then dashing off to a synagogue later that night to play Klezmer."

It sounds like an exhausting existence. Would Leshaw ever consider another line? "No way, never. Not even working in a record store, too confining. The only other job I could ever do would be maybe making egg creams. Maybe."

Given his level of professionalism, I'm sure Howard Leshaw would make a damn fine egg cream.