Stéphane Grappelli: Interview 2

Stephane, your playing seems to have an eternal youthfulness about it. To my ears, you sound even better now than you did years ago on those famous recordings with Django Rheinhardt. Is it hard work at all, to keep in shape?

Thank you. You are very kind to say that. But I don’t need to work hard, because the fact of having a violin a few hours in your hands—that’s enough to keep in good form, and in good condition to play. I never practiced in my life but, even to improvise music, you need to rehearse, or to pick up the instrument and play something. That’s why, always in my work, if, for instance, I must play at a quarter to eleven, I’m there at a quarter to ten, to open my box quietly, and see that my instrument is all right, to make sure the strings are not ready to break.

You know, to break a string on a violin in the middle of a concert is a catastrophe, because, except for the E string, it takes two or three days to get the strings—a D or a G, for instance—in really good tune. So it’s not easy. The best thing, of course, would be to have two violins. In the classical orchestra, suppose Mr. Menuhin will break a string, he will immediately pick up the violin of the leading soloist. But me, I have no other violin at my disposal. In a night-club, I can’t afford, in the dark, to bring on two violins. It’s too dangerous; an accident may happen. I just have to be lucky—and so far I have been.

You’ve never had a mishap of that kind?

Well, the only bad moment I can recall was when I did the Royal Command Performance in England before the Queen. When I went to the side of the stage, to be ready to go on, there was no lighting at all. I couldn’t see that there was a wall in front of me; I knocked my violin against it, and I nearly broke a string. I had the shock of my life. To do that just before a performance like that—it’s enough to get your nerves in a bad state. But fortunately, my string held, and everything went all right that night.

How has your tour with the Diz Disley Trio been working out?

Very well. Diz is a very funny man—and he’s a great friend of mine. What pleases me, too—he’s very keen to have the perfect quartet, and he’s right. Of course, as everybody knows, jazz is an improvised music, but I always believed that it’s much better when there is an arrangement. That means you are making an effort for the people who are listening to you. We need to arrange our music. Even Louis Armstrong used to have arrangements.

I’m sure that with Django you had things arranged to some extent.

Ah—well, Django was another problem. At that time, when we did a record, it was not like today, with tapes. It was like a big pancake, about an inch thick, and we were allowed eight pancakes per session—two for every tune, to make four 78 sides. Also, today you can go to a studio at midnight and record all night, with maybe a candlestick and a bottle of whisky, if you want to.

Then. the studio was not well equipped at all, and the hour was terrible—it was nine o’clock in the morning. As we used to finish playing at five o’clock in the morning, you can guess the state we were in at nine o’clock! Of course, Django was never there at nine o’clock. And if I told you Django was ever on time, it would be a lie—he always arrived late. But our best record was made when he was not just late, but terribly late.

Once he arrived at quarter-past eleven—and, you know, with the union rules, the engineer had to finish at twelve o’clock, So we only had forty-five minutes to decide four tunes, to arrange them, and then to play them—and we had only the eight pancakes to do that.

We were not very encouraged, because at the time it was not young people in the studio. like today. It was old people, wearing white coats, as if they were in a clinic for mental diseases. We were hoping for some sign of satisfaction from them, but they kept on looking at their watches—they had a lunchtime date, I suppose. Anyway, we managed to get away with that recording session.

You responded to that situation, of having to beat the clock.

Exactly. Then, as long as Django was in a good mood, everything went all right. But he was not always in a good mood, because suppose the day before he had lost all his copyright with the cards, he was very annoyed the day after! And you could feel it from the way he was playing.

But sometimes jazz comes off that way, doesn’t it, if there’s any kind of strong feelings present among the musicians?

Well, I think the best way to play music is either when you are very happy or very sad—but not when you are very cross.

You wouldn’t say so? Don’t you think that sometimes that puts a little extra fire into the playing, if you’re angry, and expressing vehemence as a result?

No—any musician will feel if you are annoyed. Look, the great composers always wrote their masterpieces when they were in sorrow, in pain, or a lot of joy. Like Beethoven wrote his 6th Symphony in the Spring, and he must have had some very happy days to inspire him with that immortal work. But, speaking of Beethoven, you know, how many scores he did when he was very unhappy—which is the best way, in my opinion. And, of course, maybe he was very upset by something when he wrote the 9th Symphony, or the 5th Symphony—you see. Every great musician, if he is a genius, depends on his emotions.

Speaking of great musicians, like yourself . . .

No—I am not a great musician.

Well, I regard you as a virtuoso of jazz, and I think Yehudi Menuhin is a parallel in the classical field. I’ve been enjoying the album that you made together.

Oh, did you hear it? Well, I don’t think it will be considered a masterpiece in jazz, you know, but it may interest a lot of people. The effort of a great artist—like Yehudi Menuhin, who accepted to appear with us—that proves once more that jazz is a great music.

Did you find that he was more of an improviser than you had thought?

I can tell you frankly, because it is not a secret; he’ll say it himself—Menuhin can play anything on the violin, as is well-known. But he confesses himself, he can’t improvise. However, we managed to get him the difficult parts! And it was such a marvellous experience for me, to play with such a great man. I was very honoured.

He’s got such a wonderful violin, too. Well, you can compare his violin and mine like a Rolls and an Austin, you see. So the engineer managed to get my Austin in a good position ! I should not say that, really, because Austin is a very good car.

But the thing is: your instrument, whatever it is, works for you.

Well, mind you, I must admit, the violin I’ve got is one of the best Gallianos in the world—and I’m very proud to have it. I’ve been waiting two years to have that.

Have you had any changes of instruments over the years?

All my life I played—as Diz Disley says—with an instrument made out of an old wardrobe! No—my first instrument, when I was sixteen, was a bit funny, I must say. I was friendly with the great violinist, Michel Valope, who was mad about jazz music. He was the soloist of one of the biggest orchestras in Paris, a hundred musicians, and he gave up his whole career to play jazz. Unfortunately, I don’t think he was born for it. Never mind. One night we were quite happy together; he had a lot of violins, and he gave me one. And it was with that violin that I did my first recording with Django Rheinhardt. That violin is still in my possession.

One day I suppose I will not be able to hold a violin, and I’ve already given it to Jean-Luc Ponty. I gave it to him on one condition—when he feels the way I feel now, to pass it on to another jazzman, and to continue that.

But really, you must agree that right now you’re at the height of your powers as a player.

Well, I’m very happy now. I’ve found a new group. I’ve been reluctant to play with guitar for twenty years, since Django died. I did a few appearances ten years ago with Herb Ellis, one or two with Barney Kessell, and I’ve met some other very good guitarists in my life. But to form a group composed in the same idiom as the Hot Club Quintet—I never thought of that. I was persuaded to try again, and, on the spur of the moment, I accepted. Now, —I’m happy to say, we have a group which I hope will one day be powerful and very well-known. For the people who will try to compare what we are doing with the old Quintet, we have the best answer: the chair of Django is free, because we are four—not five.

Of course, we sold the skin of the cow, as we say, before we got the cow. Immediately people heard that Diz and myself were forming a new guitar-and-violin group, everybody wanted us to go and play. But we’ve had no time yet to prove what will happen after we meet—very soon, I hope—and rehearse seriously, make up arrangements, to please the public. We have to interest the new generation because jazz must go everywhere.

Well, you’ve had experience of working with the younger musicians—people like Gary Burton.

Yes, I was very happy to play with him. I consider him to be one of the greatest musicians alive now—if not the greatest.

You found you could fit in quite easily with their ideas of jazz?

Well, I’m like a chameleon, me, and I’m sure of that, without any pretension. I manage to be able to play with anybody.

In fact, you’ve played with just about everybody at one time, haven’t you, from Duke Ellington down?

I did that, too. But I’m very happy with my new group, because, not only does it remind me musically of an immortal souvenir, but I am with three very kind people—and that’s fifty per cent of my pleasure. As well as Diz, there is Denny Wright on guitar, and a young contrabassist, who plays very well—Lennie Skeat. Even though we have been so busy touring, with no time to rehearse, the marvellous experience of playing is a kind of rehearsal. We play one evening; then the day after we try to do better. Of course, when we are playing for the public, we can’t stop as we will when we rehearse; but we manage to remember what we did, and to correct it the best way we can. We will record—we’ve got some very good friends all ready for that—but we are not going to do so before we are completely au point, as we say—I don’t know in English how you say that.

Could I ask you if you would say a few words about the British musician you’ve worked and recorded with quite a lot lately—Alan Clare?

Oh, Alan is a marvellous pianist. He’s the only one I know who can play in B major! The only thing with Alan, I must remind him every tune the key I want, because key has no importance for him. He’s like a dantalion for colour—he doesn’t care. And it’s marvellous to find an accompanist like him, because that permits me to break the monotony of my playing. I’ll tell you why—because I’ve been in this profession for fifty-one years, and to play “Lady Be Good” for fifty-one years, if you don’t get crazy, you’re very lucky! But by playing in a different key, or in a different way, I manage to keep on playing “Lady Be Good”. It’s incredible—I play on a team, but I’m incapable of doing the same thing twice.

Well, that’s what jazz is all about, isn’t it?

Exactly. As a matter of fact, the first chorus and the last chorus maybe will be always the same, because the boys must know when I want to stop. But what Maurice Chevalier bold me once: “You must start well, you must finish well, and in the middle—that’s nobody’s business! ”

Copyright © 1974 Les Tomkins. All Rights Reserved.