Butch Warren

[Lois Gilbert]

Decades of Discord Lie Between a Man and His Music

By Marc Fisher
Sunday, May 21, 2006; C01



The staff at Springfield Hospital Center -- Butch Warren refers to it only as "the loony bin" -- knows him as "Ed." He's one more guy whose mental illness got him in trouble and landed him in a state hospital 50 miles from home, locked up in a secure ward, behind a chain-link fence.

Warren, 66, looks older than that. He has lost a lot of teeth. His gait is uncertain; his gaze, distant. "This is about the best place I've ever lived," he says of the mental hospital, with its barren walls and eerie silence. After a couple of years living on the street, sleeping in shelters in the District and Montgomery County and doing a stint in the Prince George's Correctional Center in Upper Marlboro, he is grateful for a roof and three meals and the prospect of being allowed, someday, to walk up the road a bit to the campus canteen.

Hardly anyone at Springfield knew who Butch Warren is, or was, until a few weeks ago, when a worker on the ward got curious and Googled him. Thirty-five thousand pages on the Internet describe the life's work of a man who spends his days waiting for his next meal, scrounging up a cig, playing pool and hoping someone might find him a spot in a group home, a place where maybe he can get his bass back.

After the worker printed out Warren's biography from a few encyclopedias of music, and after folks started listening to him tooling around on the piano in the hospital gym, word began to spread that "Ed" was one of the great bassists of jazz's glory years.

I first heard Warren six years ago at Westminster Presbyterian Church in Southwest Washington, where he would show up to play in whatever combo was performing at the church's Jazz Night program. Most musicians played the church on Fridays for fun; Warren loved the "spirituality" of the gig, but he also did it for the money -- $75 cash. It was, for a time, his only work.

When Warren took the stage, folks at Westminster nudged one another to listen up: You won't believe who this guy really is. Other musicians dressed casually, but Warren wore a suit -- narrow lapels, thin tie, the look of a bebop man from 45 years ago. And then the sound: Man, did he swing. Made it all seem effortless, the essence of cool.

The stories about Warren turned out to be true. He was the bassist on the original recording of Herbie Hancock's "Watermelon Man" and regular bass man for Thelonious Monk's groundbreaking quartet in the early '60s. As house bassist for Blue Note Records for six years, he's on dozens of records, many with the top names in jazz. In Washington, he was best known for his spot in the band on Channel 4's 1960s daily talk show "Today With Inga."

Half a century ago, Warren was a comer. His father, pianist Edward Warren, and his mother, a singer named Natalie, lived at Fifth and Kennedy streets NW and made their place a refuge where black musicians could go after their gigs for a good dinner and an evening free of worries about who was allowed in which establishment.

The Warrens sent their boy off to South Carolina to study music. When he came home, he played with the stars who came to Washington to play the Howard Theater and the Bohemian Caverns, guys like Stuff Smith and Kenny Dorham, who told Warren that he had the goods to play in New York.

At 19, he made the move. Warren found steady work, in clubs and on records. His steady, unobtrusive rhythm and classy, unshowy solos made him the perfect studio musician. His playing had just enough of the blues and just enough bop adventure to make him enticing to leading musicians.

But like many players of that era, Warren fell into drinking and drugging. "Heroin," he says. "I always liked that heroin better than cocaine. I joke about it, but that heroin is ridiculous. There's nothing funny about it."

Then, in 1963, one of Warren's best friends, pianist Sonny Clark, died of a heroin overdose. Warren told a French magazine that "after Sonny died, I didn't feel like working anymore." Later that year, when President Kennedy was assassinated, Warren felt overwhelmed. The magazines would say that he had simply disappeared. But he actually went home, where he felt safer.

"Just people dying all around me," he says. "I felt like I was going to die. I got scared. I came home to Washington and saw the president's body passing by the White House, and I checked myself into St. Elizabeths. They said I was paranoid schizophrenic. It just came over me; the drugs was part of it. Before that, I'd been fine."

Warren stayed at St. E's for a year. There were shock treatments, but there was also a bass at the hospital, and Warren met other musicians, who helped get him out. Back in circulation, Warren kept working as long as he stayed on his medication. He played at Cafe Lautrec in Adams Morgan and The Embers, a dinner spot on Connecticut Avenue. Some years, he got by on his music work; other times, he took on day jobs, repairing radios and TVs at a Northwest shop, doing mop-up at the Naval Ordnance Lab.

For three decades, Warren was a mystery to many in Washington's jazz scene. He'd drift in and out, play a club for a while, then vanish. "There's a whole mountain of issues," says Peter Edelman, a pianist who has taken in Warren for extended periods and is keeping his bass for him. "He's rather optimistic and upbeat, but he's delusional from time to time. He can be a very perceptive observer of current events. He sees through all the charlatans out there these days."

In the 1980s, Edelman would hire Warren to play society parties, "so he could get some real money."

He played steadily at Twins, a District jazz club, through most of the past few years, but then stopped taking his pills. He'd show up and play "hunched over, swaying his arms, even drooling a bit, scaring the audience a little," Edelman says. "When we gave him the choice between going back on his medication or losing the gig, Butch said, 'Peter, don't I have the right to be crazy if I want to be?' "

Warren lived in a subsidized complex for seniors in Silver Spring until he was evicted about two years ago. Edelman says the unkempt condition of Warren's kitchen was the problem; Warren says it was complaints about his late-night guests. In any event, the musician was on the street.

"My tuxedo is gone," he says. "I don't have anything. I miss my bass. I have no instrument here, so I've been singing. Never had much of a voice, but some people say I'm singing okay."

At the hospital in Sykesville, Warren looks uncharacteristically casual in a plaid flannel shirt and khakis, but one look at his hands summons the image of the lean, sad-eyed gent standing by his instrument, staring into the distance, his long, elegant fingers flying up and down the bass, his sounds inviting listeners into his private world.

He was in that solitary place one cold day this past winter, walking around in Greenbelt, when he passed a shop with an open door. The shop's alarm was ringing, he says, and no one was inside, so he walked in to warm up. When the police came, they arrested him and charged him with burglary. Maybe that's how it was, and maybe not. What is clear is that that's how he landed in the lockup.

Not many folks have patience left for Butch Warren. Edelman has done what he can for his friend. "I understand it's not possible to save every gift from the Creator, but nobody wants to be homeless," Edelman says. "Butch can't take care of himself. But he can still play."

Warren seems barely aware that there are still fans out there, people who cherish every measure of his recorded work.

Bertrand Uberall, a mathematician and jazz archivist who works at the Library of Congress, has dug up Warren's recordings and tracked down his compositions, recorded by artists such as Dexter Gordon and Jackie McLean. "Butch is a fantastic bassist," Uberall says. "Even in the latest years, he was still playing very well."

At Twins Lounge, "People ask me all the time, 'Is Butch playing?' " says co-owner Kelly Tesfaye. "The people all respected him and gave him food. I gave him food. He needs help so much."

The Rev. Brian Hamilton, pastor at the jazz church, used to see Warren almost every week. "He usually didn't say much, but if you caught him at the right moment, he'd fill your ear. One time, we had him come to church and talk about jazz. What he said was that this was a wonderful world."


http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn...001226_pf.html

[John P. Cooper]

Sad.

[justinruins]

I thought I replied to this yesterday, but the gremlins in my computer must have eaten it. What surprises me is that no one seems to be responding.
What can we do to help?

[Kevin Bresnahan]

What can anyone do? He was committed to the place. Because he was committed due to a crime, it may be court mandated. The only way he's getting out is of he gets better. If he gets out, then maybe someone can help. There is the Jazz Foundation. I'm sure they'd help. The problem may be that he won't ask.

[John P. Cooper]

The man has food to eat and a place to live. Chances are that this is as good as it will get for him.

[mogrooves]

Fifteen or so years ago I used to see Butch at a bar here in Baltimore, where he was playing with a local quintet. He didn't have much to say, but in response to the question, "What was it like playing with Monk?" he said "it was boring; we played the same six tunes for years."

Evidently, the circumstances surrounding Sonny Clark's death were particularly traumatic for Butch. Here's hoping he finds some peace....

[Ron Thorne]

Originally Posted by mogrooves

Evidently, the circumstances surrounding Sonny Clark's death were particularly traumatic for Butch. Here's hoping he finds some peace....

Not being hip to the specific details surrounding Sonny's death, I'd have to say that I (only) understand the trauma in general.

I certainly hope that Butch finds peace . . . and soon.

[mke]

Butch Warren
By Erik R. Quick

A couple of years ago, advertisements appeared in the local free DC weekly for informal Wednesday evening jam sessions featuring Butch Warren at Twins Lounge. I recall eagerly calling the club to ask whether this was the former bassist who had extensively recorded on many a classic Blue Note album. Although the club didn’t offer confirmation, I sensed that the former Washingtonian was once again flirting with music in his hometown. But no sooner had I decided to make the late evening weeknight venture, had Warren’s name been removed from the schedule and, once again, he disappeared.

Warren thus remained elusive and, to all but the most intrepid or assiduous, hopelessly lost. But recently, Marc Fischer of the Washington Post wrote an article about the bassist, briefly describing his current stay in a mental illness treatment facility north of the city. Although never imagining a meeting with Warren outside of a jazz club, it was certainly an opportunity to see a bit of Blue Note history in person and so, after calling the hospital, they indeed confirmed that he remained a patient and accepted visitors, no appointment necessary. After being searched by a sheriff and ushered behind secured doors into the general population of the facility, I wandered the halls until finally locating the correct wing and being admitted into a locked ward, a large room with bedraggled oversized oak furniture and scruffy cushions. A nurse then led me to a small patio surrounded on three sides by a brick wall littered with tattered lawn chairs and a chain link and barbed wire fence enclosing the remainder of the patio so that the sky could only be seen through a rusted cage. A gentleman sat casually with a cigarette and gazed up when his name was called.

Edward Butch Warren is lean and lanky, if a bit unsteady on his feet. The deep lines etched in his face and his world weary demeanor belie his 66 years. His teeth are few but his smiles frequent and, although we had never met, he greeted me warmly. “You’re lucky I feel like talking today.” We began our conversation just outside of the small cinderblock room he shares with another resident. I stated my intention of speaking to him about his life in jazz and, without a question posed, he immediately launched into the chronicle of his early life.

Though born in the Georgetown section of Washington, DC, he “grew up in the projects.” At five years old, he was already listening to music and, like many others, Louis Armstrong and Louis Jordan, were his heroes. “My father named me ‘Butch’, hoping it would make me tough.” Warren failed to mention, as many reference works explain, that his first musical employment was his father. However, Warren spoke fondly of his time with the altoist and bandleader Skitch Henderson at the historic Howard Theater on 7th and T Streets. In 1956, Henderson had just been laid off by Duke Ellington and he returned to form a band of frequently shifting personnel who played several times each day until 1964. “He just died you know,” Warren said as he shook his head.

He quickly changed the topic and eagerly disclosed that a former colleague had just sent him a bit of money that he used to purchase a small radio with headphones. He lept from his chair and, in mid-sentence, darted into his room to get the radio explaining that he wanted to demonstrate that he can receive WPFW, the local Pacifica and jazz station. “I heard some Ornette Coleman this morning,” he smiled. At the moment, only a Beethoven symphony emerged from the small speaker.

Asking how he was introduced into the coterie of professional jazz musicians, he replied, “In 1959, I went to hear Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers at The Bohemian Caverns,” referencing the historic--and still extant club--on the U Street corridor in Washington. It was there one evening that he met trumpeter Kenny Dorham. Although Warren was already thinking of making the move to New York City, Dorham convinced him that he should do it. Warren’s first recording was with Dorham in January 1960 with saxophonist Charles Davis, pianist Tommy Flanagan and drummer Buddy Enlow. It was saxophonist Davis who introduced Warren to Alfred Lion shortly after he arrived in New York. For the next five years, Warren served as one of the small staff of players on call when Lion was planning a recording session. He explained that Lion made the decision of who would play on which date and, as a result, it was Warren who appeared on many classic recordings of that era including Kenny Dorham’s Una Mas, Sonny Clark’s Leapin’ and Lopin’, Herbie Hancock’s Takin’ Off, Dexter Gordon’s Doin’ Alright, Donald Byrd’s A New Perspective, Joe Henderson’s Page One and Jackie McLean’s Vertigo - only some of the landmark recordings wherein Warren’s steady and subtle time keeping can be heard.

Sonny Clark, a close friend and colleague, died in January 1963 and it was at Clark’s funeral that Warren met Thelonious Monk. “Charlie Rouse introduced us; he was a friend of my father.” Monk hired the bassist “on the spot” and the result was a ten-month tenure with the eccentric pianist and composer. “I was skeptical of going with Monk, but I already knew his music and just played it.” He was doubtful of playing with one of the most creative and bohemian mavericks and explained that sometimes “you’re not always in the mood for Monk. Sometimes you just want a Kenny Dorham tune.”

But it was on November 22nd, 1963, when President Kennedy was assassinated, that Warren stopped completely. “That’s the thing that turned me around. I’m from Washington; that hurt me pretty bad. It was like losing someone from my family.” As he was already “growing tired of making records” he returned to Washington “to be with history.” Of course, the drug use didn’t help. He recounted his friends who used heroin: Sonny Clark, Jackie McLean and Billy Higgins. The return to Washington was, however, musically unrewarding. He played briefly with a local television variety show, but found himself on the streets and in institutions. Sporadically over the next 20 years, he was admitted to and released from Saint Elizabeth’s mental facility in the district. “It was a part of Washington and I got cleaned up well. I even earned my High School Diploma there.”

Warren said he needed another cigarette and, once again, we moved onto the patio. An orderly brought a lighter and we picked up our conversation once the cigarette began smoking. The intervening years were uncertain and Warren recounted a series of erratic events: some jail time in Upper Marlboro, Maryland; playing clubs around town; and spending time with some family. With the exception of a small period of time spent playing with altoist Richie Cole in 1975 (while Cole was a Washington resident and participating in some local jazz festivals), Warren’s musical career never resumed in any substantive way.

But the bassist remains optimistic about the future. A generous listener, whose “name is on the label, but I can’t remember it now,” donated a bass for him to play while residing at the facility. “Although I don’t have a bow, I can play it when I want to.” He has begun practicing once again and says he enjoys the time spent with the instrument. He also hopes to compose once again. In response to why he never took the initiative to lead his own date, Warren simply states, “I was content being a sideman. I just wanted to sound good.” Though when asked whether he would ever consider organizing his own record, he was quick to respond that he certainly welcomes the idea. Who would he like to have on his record? “It would be a five piece band. Any one of the jazz musicians in New York can play on it.” And when pressed to name specific musicians for the date, he thought for a moment: “Barry Harris on piano; I love his playing. And Charles Davis. Buddy Enlow. And [Wynton] Marsalis on trumpet… And one tune will be ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’… But I’m undecided. I don’t want people anticipating what I am going to do.”

After a pause, Warren pronounced that “I’m about all talked out now.” We shook hands and I wished him well, encouraging him to practice on his new instrument. As the orderlies led me from the patio and through the ward’s locked doors I was pleased to have met a musician who, if only for a short time just over 40 years ago, helped shape some of the greatest recorded achievements in the history of Blue Note Records.

[Cymbal groove]

Butch Warren was a big part of Blue Note! This is a sad story!

[Fred K]

Butch Warren is playing every Thursday night in January with pianist Dwayne Adell at Twins Lounge on Colorado Ave. in DC.

[Robert de St. Loup]

Update on Butch:

http://blog.washingtonpost.com/rawfi...legend_re.html

[Lois Gilbert]

The is the blog Robert was referring to

Butch is Back: A Jazz Legend Resurfaces
Thanks to Butch Warren, the barkeep at Columbia Station in Adams-Morgan can make her car payment this month. Thanks to Butch Warren, the sounds of surprise are wafting out of an 18th Street saloon once again, offering an alternative to the thump-thump pulse of disco nights along the strip.

Butch Warren, one of the lost giants of jazz's great mid-century burst of creativity, has been through rough times for all too many years. When I last visited him, it was at Springfield Hospital Center, the Maryland state mental institution in Carroll County, last summer. Warren was, by his own account, "really out of it" then. But he's back, living in a boarding house in Prince George's County and playing bass once again, drawing people off the street and into another place Wednesday nights at Columbia Station.

Last night, under the supportive wing of pianist Peter Edelman, Warren showed that he can still bring it. He halted conversation throughout the restaurant with a couple of solos that displayed the energy of a 25-year-old, the swing of a musician so well trained that he knows how to make it look effortless, and the encyclopedic jazz knowledge of a pro who worked with Thelonious Monk, Herbie Hancock, Dexter Gordon, Donald Byrd and Jackie McLean--which Warren indeed did.

And now he is scraping by, desperate for more gigs, eager to find a place to live in the city, somehow managing to survive on a Social Security check and the kindness of jazz lovers. They were out in force last night--a devoted collector of Warren's work who has volunteered to try to get Butch the royalty checks that are due him for works he wrote back in the early 1960s; a TV producer who is gathering string for a piece on Warren's journey; a smattering of others who know enough about the music to realize that this man in the crisp white shirt, conservative grey suit and spanking new sneakers is a living legend. And all around the rest of the room, people who just wandered in to grab a drink with a date, hang out with friends or celebrate a birthday--which is exactly what Warren plans to do:

On Wednesday, August 8, the night before his 68th birthday, Butch Warren expects to be playing at Columbia Station, celebrating a birthday he never quite expected to see, reunited with his instrument after too many months apart from it, doing the one thing that really still makes sense to him. "Jazz," he says, "is playing two songs at once." For a gent who has had too much trouble keeping one thing in mind, what's freeing, somehow, is the chance to slip into a world where so many things are going on at once. You can hear what that sounds like on Wednesday nights in a dark, rich room on 18th Street NW.

[Ron Thorne]

What terrific news!

I sincerely hope that his gigs in and around Washington D.C. continue, and that they're well-supported.

I hope he's able to receive his royalty checks, too.

What a fine man is Peter Edelman, huh?



Young Butch Warren

[Cymbal groove]

Fanstastic news!! I may have to make a road trip just to see him play!! One of the unsung heros on bass!!

[Bill Barton]

Yes, this is wonderful news indeed. He's one of the (somewhat) unsung heroes of the bass and an all-time personal favorite of mine. The Monk groups with Warren are in a class by themselves.