Billboard : 04/28/1956
Spotlight on… selection

A formidable collection of jazz talent was assembled for this recent date. Despite the long careers of all concerned, some rather surprising “first” occurred that will be of interest. For instance, this is the first pairing (on records) of Lester Young and Roy Eldridge, and the first time Dickenson has recorded with either Young or Eldridge, and the first date of Young and Teddy Wilson together in over 10 years. The combinations of such familiar stylists result in some very stimulating jazz of a very fundamental kind, with kicks for fans of almost all schools.

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Cashbox : 05/05/1956

This corner doesn’t have any qualms concerning the set’s title. Certainly the jazzmen here are Titans of today’s jazz scene. The fellas on this disk give a lot of added meaning to the Norgran label with a series of delectable jazz performances. Most of the stuff is soft and warm. The only number in which the boys take off on is the snappy run through of Gigantic Blues. It’s all a mighty gratifying showing for Lester Young, Teddy Wilson, Roy Eldridge and Co. A superior jazz entry.

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Army Times
Tom Scanlan : 07/14/1956

Six of the world’s greatest jazz musicians are together in an album called Jazz Giants ’56 (Norgran 12-inch LP 1056). Group is made up of veterans Lester Young, Roy Eldridge, Teddy Wilson, Vic Dickenson, Jo Jones, Freddie Green, and Gene Ramey.

This has been called “one of the records of this or any other year” by a leading jazz writer, and I’d like to agree because the first six musicians listed above number among my personal favorites. But as good as it is, it is not what one would expect it to be, considering the musicians involved. Perhaps the most disturbing thing about the record is Lester’s tone. Ten to 15 years ago, Pres had one of the loveliest saxophone tones imaginable, but his tone on this record is harsh and thin.

Although Wilson and Eldridge have some exciting solos, star of the album, to my mind, is Vic Dickenson, the vigorous inventive trombonist.

Songs are I Guess I’ll Have To Change My Plan, I Didn’t Know What Time It Was, Gigantic Blues, This Year’s Kisses and You Can Depend On Me.

Recording balance is not what it might have been. For one thing, Green’s guitar is under-recorded.

Norgran is to be congratulated for getting these men together for a record date and, despite the quibbling above, there are kicks to be had from this record, of course.

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High Fidelity
John S. Wilson : June, 1956

Those who harbor fond memories of that series of recordings made by various groups under Teddy Wilson’s leadership for Brunswick in the thirties, usually with Billie Holiday as vocalist, will find a heart-warming echo on this disk. It brings together five of the men who appeared frequently on those records – Wilson, Lester Young, Roy Eldridge, Jo Jones, and Freddie Green. Their playing has much of that easy but challenging quality that marked those old sessions. Young hasn’t played on records with as much fire in years as he does on this disk (he charges into Gigantic Blues as if he were back with Basie) and his slower work is cleaner, less inclined to fray at the edges than usual. The revived Young proves to be a catalyst, for both Eldridge and Wilson play with more interest and direction than they have shown lately. Vic Dickenson’s humorous, slurring trombone fits in well more often than not.

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Kansas City Call (Kansas City, MO)
Albert Anderson : 08/10/1956

Another great Norgran release is The Jazz Giants ’56, featuring such outstanding instrumentalists as Teddy Wilson, Roy Eldridge, Vic Dickenson, Jo Jones, Freddie Green and Gene Ramey. Despite the long careers of all concerned, some rather surprising “firsts” occurred that will be of interest. For instance, this was the first time Lester Young and Roy Eldridge have appeared together on the same record, and the first date for Young and Teddy Wilson together in 10 years. The combination of such familiar stylists result in some very stimulating jazz of a kind that has kicks for fans of almost every school.

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Miami Herald (Miami, FL)
John Sherman : 10/07/1956

Sticking with virtuosi, Norgran has an album that is a showcase of outstanding talent. It’s The Jazz Giants ’56. Lester Young sets the theme on the opening track, as he does on four of the five numbers here. His meaningful solos on the ballads are really first-rate. But this is a showcase album big enough for Roy Eldridge, Teddy Wilson, Freddie Green, Jo Jones, Vic Dickenson and Gene Ramey.

There is very little here of a blending of talent. Mostly it’s the hornmen and Wilson taking off with the rhythm section on solo flights that would be show stoppers in any regular session.

Jones has one great bit of drumming in the one non-ballad track, Gigantic Blues, by the Pres. This is one freewheeling effort by Young. From there the group goes into This Year’s Kisses; and you almost need a decompression chamber to handle the change of pace. And when you hear Wilson on this one, you find yourself wondering why more of the piano wasn’t worked into what sound like head arrangements.

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New Yorker (New York, NY)
Whitney Balliett : 04/18/1959

The Jazz Giants ’56 (Norgran MG N-1056) and Pres and Teddy: The Lester Young-Teddy Wilson Quartet (Verve MG V-8205) are among the last records the tenor saxophonist Lester Young, nicknamed the President, or Pres, made before his death, in March, at the age of forty-nine. (Although both were recorded three years ago, the second was released only recently.) They are, by and large, reminders that toward the end of his life Young had slipped into the melancholy position of no longer being able to outstrip his multitude of imitators. But, in a way, this doesn’t matter, for none of Young’s admirers, among them such celebrated men as Stan Getz, Paul Quinichette, Zoot Sims, Jimmy Giuffre, and Lee Konitz, have ever really mastered the basic quality of his style at its best—a perfect and nearly unique balance between tension and relaxation. Instead, they have either emphasized the heated side of his playing, sometimes to the point of wild caricature (Quinichette), or thinned out his seemingly bland aspects (Getz, Giuffre, Konitz) into a colorless, buzzing drawl. (These last three students of Young led tenor and alto saxophonists like Bob Cooper, Bud Shank, Lennie Niehaus, and Jack Montrose to become the chassis for a whole school of cool, vapid playing that, before it refined itself out of existence a year or two ago, was known as West Coast jazz.) As a result, Young’s imitators, who began appearing in the mid-forties, at a time when, curiously, Young was beginning to falter, have done a good deal of unintentional harm by producing an endless series of inferior images of his work, which have distorted both his invaluable contributions and the uncanny abilities he had at the height of his career.

Young, a slight, stooped, sleepy-looking man with a broad, static, caved-in face, who was apt to wear a wide-brimmed black porkpie hat and sombre, droopy coats, which gave him a sly and unexpected monkish appearance, was, of course, often his own best obfuscation. He frequently spoke a softly delivered language that confusingly referred to his employers as Pres and to his associates as Lady, and that used such expressions as “Have another helping,” which meant, when addressed to a soloist, “Take another chorus.” And in Count Basie’s band, from 1934 to 1940, he developed the distracting habit of veering his instrument to one side at a forty-five-degree angle, as if he were about to paddle a canoe. (Young’s career was a simple one. Before joining Basie, he had worked, astonishingly, in one of King Oliver’s last bands and with various Midwest groups, and from 1940 to the end of his life as the leader of small bands of his own.) These irregularities were carried over directly into his playing, which has never been surpassed, in jazz, for sheer obliqueness. This stemmed in part from his famous tone. It had a dry, sandy, failing sound, like someone coming down with laryngitis, which fell between an alto and a tenor saxophone, and which recalled his early models—Bud Freeman, who has the same sort of hoarse, whitish tone, and Frankie Trumbauer, who played the C-melody saxophone, a first cousin to the alto saxophone. (On the clarinet, which, unfortunately, Young played only infrequently, his tone—a pale, light, and slightly metallic one that resembled Pee Wee Russell’s with the kinks straightened out—was perfectly and inimitably suited to the instrument.) Added to this was the singular way he attacked his notes. He gave the impression of almost trying to avoid them, even when playing directly and intensely on the beat, by slurring them, sliding just below or over them, or by pressing several notes together into unhurried, nearly motionless patterns, which tended to deemphasize them for the sake of the total sound. Indeed, Young’s solos often resembled a collection of evasive, pleasantly melodic hums that had the muted, introvert quality of a soundproofed room and that seemed to end before they had even been stated. But underneath this outwardly lazy, one-side-of-the-mouth approach, which most of his imitators mistakenly seized upon as the basis of his style, was an absolute mastery of broken-field rhythm and phrasing—the ability to emphasize the beat simply by dodging it—that is the secret of all hot playing.

This apparent “coolness” has resulted in the axiom that Young and Coleman Hawkins, who, until Young’s appearance, had been the undisputed chief of the tenor saxophone, are the totally divergent leaders of the cool and hot methods of playing their instrument. But both men have been, despite their surface differences, always after the identical thing—a controlled lyricism. Although Hawkins, with his windy vibrato and dark, rubicund tone, has recently and without warning begun playing in an open-armed, impassioned fashion that clearly makes him Young’s opposite, he pursued this lyricism for many years by methodically taking apart the chords of a tune, eliminating certain notes, adding others, and rearranging the residue into elaborate patterns pinned directly to the beat. Young, on the other hand, poked at the melody itself, in a casual, one-finger manner, until he had reshaped it into a starker design that appeared, in spite of its rhythmic liberties, to skid along parallel to the beat, as a revised and improved shadow of the original tune. Young, in fact, was the first to demonstrate that the short, logical, on-the-beat phrases that for most of the thirties were tightly locked to the traditional divisions of the thirty-two-bar chorus could be broken into independent, brilliantly juxtaposed patterns of various rhythms and lengths. A master of economy, he never fell into the excesses of the bop school, which derived from him and which, after a time, engaged in a battle of rhetoric by seeing how many arhythmic and irrelevant notes could be uttered in the space of a chorus.

In the first chorus of a slow number, Young would seem to be stating the melody in a straightforward way until one discovered that he was almost imperceptibly altering it by bending the ends of certain notes down, replacing others with silence, or holding on to still others for a beat or two longer than indicated, as if his mind were elsewhere. Then, the melody properly softened up, he would attack it again, without raising his volume or increasing his intensity, by easing into superbly mixed, gradually more complex phrases occasionally fashioned out of short riffs—repeated several times in slight but surprising variations and neatly adorned by a steady, brief vibrato or out of long, almost level many-noted statements. These last might begin with an exuberant, drawn-out legato phrase, which was abruptly gathered into a multiplicity of notes delivered in up-or-downstairs leaps as daring as some of the crowded, bobbing passages of Charlie Parker but that never called attention to themselves because of the peculiar flattening effect of his tone and attack. Young’s intensity showed through more clearly at faster tempos. (It also broke out unforgettably in the slow blues, which he converted into basking, slightly swollen legato structures that rose and fell like slow, heavy breathing.) His vibrato shrivelled up and his legato phrases were either halved or prolonged outrageously in half-time rhythms, as if he were dumping oil on the beat in an effort to still it. In fact, all of his understated, remarkably contrasted phrases—smooth, thickly populated runs, fat bass honks, single notes spattered around the beat, sustained and slow-spinning sounds that lasted for perhaps a measure and a half—were forced unobtrusively and almost backhandedly toward intensifying the rhythm, and with irresistible results. Some of Young’s most enduring solos occurred on such brisk-paced Basie records (from the thirties) as Taxi War Dance, Doggin’ Around, and Clap Hands, Here Comes Charlie. No matter how often they are heard, they remain classic pieces of improvisation; one has the feeling that not a note, tone, or accent could be changed without destroying them.

Unfortunately, the reverse is often true of the aforementioned L.P.s. Joining Young on The Jazz Giants ’56 for the five selections—blues and four standards—are Roy Eldridge, Vic Dickenson, Teddy Wilson, Freddie Greene, Gene Ramey, and Jo Jones. The style Young has here first appeared in the mid-forties, and is in general a heavier, less wieldy version of his earlier work. Surprisingly, it recalls the tenor saxophonist Herschel Evans, who, when he died, in 1939, was Young’s sparring mate in the Basie band by virtue of having developed an extremely affecting version of Hawkins’ playing. Young’s tone is thicker here, and even husky, and the vibrato is more pronounced, he uses fewer notes, and his variations sometimes have a blunt, thumblike air. He goes tantalizingly to work, though, on a slow rendition of I Didn’t Know What Time It Was, which he opens by kneading the melody in a warm, patient, lumbering way. Then, just before the close of the first sixteen bars, he evokes all his old unpredictability and inserts a fast, complex phrase—but seemingly executed in slow motion—which shakes up all that has come before and sets him off on a series of explorations during the following chorus and a half, in which, through subtle fluctuations and the repetition of simple clusters of notes, he seems to be rubbing and rubbing at the point of the melody to see what lies beneath. On much of Pres and Teddy, however, he reverts to the groping, slightly sour playing that characterized most of his final work. Wilson, Ramey, and Jones, his accompanists, are forced to support him every inch of the way, and accordingly perform with considerable brilliance. But, regardless of how diminished Young occasionally sounds, the shape and manner are unmistakable a mile away.

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Saturday Review
Whitney Balliett : 05/12/1956

A near-classic session that features Lester Young, Roy Eldridge, Vic Dickenson, Teddy Wilson, Freddie Green, Gene Ramey, and Jo Jones. There are four standards and one up-tempo blues, all of which are delivered in solo form with no ensembles of any sort. A good deal of the excitement that you might expect from such a collision of similar minds and experiences is here, particularly in the work of Wilson, Jones, and Eldridge. There is also the loose-limbed flow that is so rare in modern jazz and that seems second nature to these men. What keeps this from being first-rate, however, is the lack of superstructures and some handsome clinkers.

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Down Beat : 05/30/1956
Jack Tracy : 5 stars

The Jazz Giants ’56 comprise Lester Young, Roy Eldridge, Teddy Wilson, Vic Dickenson, Jo Jones, Freddie Green, and Gene Ramey, and a better-knit assemblage would indeed be hard to conceive. As the notes point out, this is the first time Pres and Roy have recorded together, and for some 20 years, someone has been goofing.

This is one of the records of this or any other year, and it is difficult to imagine a group playing much better than this one gets on You Can Depend on Me. All the good qualities which we usually ascribe to jazz – vitality, swing, ingenuity, rhythmic variety, and impeccable improvisation – are present here. Rest of the tracks are not far below this remarkable level, and it is really unfair to pout out high spots, although the unvarying consistency of Roy and Pres should be mentioned. Especially note Young’s opening statement on This Year’s Kisses – it contains all the loveliness and feeling for music one could wish.

Suffice it to say that this collection belong in any and every library.

The notes err, by the way in stating that Pres and Dickenson never have recorded together before – they appeared on some Philo sides under Pres’ leadership a decade ago.

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Liner Notes by Unknown

Imitation, as a wise man once put it, is never competition. Accordingly, imitation with neither understanding nor technique can bring woeful results to the young musician. To put the theory to test, no other saxophonist has had quite so strong an influence on modern-day tenor saxophonists than Lester Young, otherwise known as the “President.” For many saxophonists, however, the influence has not necessarily been a good one, simply because the limitations have been merely surface.

To play a saxophone in the Lester Young manner requires – well, it requires a Lester Young, which is to say an artist with his roots immersed deeply in the mainstream of jazz. Or that failing, a musician with at least a feeling for jazz’ muscular, swinging tradition. An error committed so frequently as to become commonplace finds the imitator concerned more with sound than substance.

The Lester Young sound is a very special thing, certainly, and with it is associated a kind of languor, a sophistication that often belies its basic blues foundation. But the guts of the blues – and its purposeful vigor – is also a vital part of the Young style. And without it, without this strength that is suggested rather than expressed boldly, the would-be Lester Youngs create little more than hollow, superficial and often quite banal mimicry.

The imitators could learn considerable from this album, entitled with justification The Jazz Giants ’56. For in this one, Lester illustrates more graphically than ever just where the “Lester Young school” has been errant. By no means is this, as they say in the television commercials, a “new” Lester Young, but it is a Lester Young with a stronger approach than has been his very recent custom. The tone remains, lean and cool (in the best sense), but the vigor is unmistakable and the jazz ideas are, as always, fresh and imaginative.

Generally, one doesn’t often think of Young as a catalyst (as, for example, Lionel Hampton who by his mere presence will force others around him to swing). But the catalytic properties – or, perhaps, an infectious enthusiasm – must have been in action on this record date, Jan 12, 1956. Listen, here, to the piano of Teddy Wilson, normally the most sedate of musicians. With no loss of his neat individuality, the calm and measured Teddy Wilson style emerges with something more – a very moving sense of excitement, expressed with typical subtlety.

In a number of ways, this proved to be a session bulging with “firsts.” Remarkably enough, this is the first time Young has ever recorded with Roy Eldridge, the trumpeter; the first time trombonist Vic Dickenson has recoded with either Lester or Roy, and the first time in some 10 years that Teddy and Lester have matched talents together on record. On that occasion, they were providing background for Billie Holiday on Brunswick; one of Billie’s songs then was This Year’s Kisses (an Irving Berlin hit of 1937) and Lester had the sentimental notion the song might be an effective one for jamming by his septet, which explains its presence here.

Taking them individually, Teddy Wilson rates as one of the foremost although – in these days – curiously neglected pianists in jazz, a veteran of the Swing Era, whose approach remains scholarly and swinging and yet (again in the best sense) cool. Chicago-born Jonathon “Jo” Jones, a subtle drummer and an inspiration for any number of other drummers, first hit prominence with the Count Basie band as did Freddie Greene and Gene Ramey. Still another Basie veteran of note, trombonist Vic Dickenson has earned a staunch reputation among fellow musicians for his versatility; with ease and aplomb, Dickenson crosses from traditional or Dixieland to a more contemporary style and in all of this retaining a fiery intensity on uptempo tunes and enormous warmth on the blues and ballads. Trumpeter Roy Eldridge is, of course, a formidable jazz giant – his longtime appellation of “Little Jazz” notwithstanding – whose career extends fully 30 years (he was born in 1911 and was playing with the Horace Henderson band in 1926). The three decades on the jazz scene includes tours with Jazz at the Philharmonic and with the bands of, to name only a few, Artie Shaw, Gene Krupa and Benny Goodman’s sextet. Among jazz historians, Eldridge is generally considered an eloquent link between Louis Armstrong and Dizzy Gillespie.