Shirley Horn (1991)

Room With No View

I arrived at the Four Seasons Hotel unsure how the famously reserved Shirley Horn might receive me. One light rap on the suite door, and there she stood—still in pajamas, cigarette balanced between her fingers, the room heat turned to a sweltering 90 degrees. Pall Mall, no less. The kind of smoke that belonged to another era—Bogart’s lips, Billie’s nights, and ashtrays at the Vanguard. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d seen one, and maybe buried in a shoebox beside a dusty reel of Chesterfields.

“Come in, baby,” she said, waving me toward the armchair by the bed. Then she crawled back under the covers, propped herself up like a duchess in exile, and let the heater moan its off-key chorus while I tried to parse her soft-spoken answers through the clatter of radiator breath.

It wasn’t just an interview. It was a mood—a sketch in sepia. I walked away with a sense of tone, not transcription.

Years passed. Maybe a decade. One night, I slip into a tight booth at the Top of the Senator—Toronto’s little velvet jewel box of a jazz room. Shirley’s at the piano again, sipping time through a single chord like 18-year-old Scotch. The room hushes the way only a few rooms do when true grace takes the stand.

Down front, George Shearing—listening like a man counting angels—suddenly stands and shouts her name. Shirley! Just that. Nothing more. But it cuts through the air like the crack of light before dawn.

The reason? She played with the same harmonic intuition, rubato-rich pulse, and feathered elegance that once made Shearing a household name. But it was all her own. Those lush Bill Evans-style voicings whispered in moonlight. The beat was so elastic that it stretched your heart to the edge of its cage. And the voice? Like velvet draped over heartbreak. Like a gospel sung to one lover in the back row.

I got my second shot at an interview not long after that. This time, she was dressed. No radiators. No fog of cigarette smoke. Just Shirley Horn, present and unhurried, wrapped in that eternal stillness that only a few jazz greats ever carried.

But even then, even in her softest whisper, she could fill a room with more honesty than most singers managed with a shout.

Bill King: You’ve recorded a new album, and Miles Davis makes a special guest appearance…

Shirley Horn: It’s true, but not just Miles, either; there are my guys, Steve Williams, Charles Ables. And there’s Buster Williams, Billy Hart and Bobby Thomas. Then there’s Buck Hill, Toots Thielemans, Wynton Marsalis, Branford Marsalis and Miles. I’m waiting on Stan Getz, too

.B.K: Is the album comprised of standards?

S.H: There’s some strange stuff on there and some old things. One tune, in particular, I was supposed to record many years ago at the Vanguard with Miles. I was supposed to do a live album. I had my list and everything, but my grandmother passed away, and I couldn’t handle it. Tommy Flanagan had to finish out the week for me. The song was called “You Won’t Forget Me.” I wanted to do this with Miles twenty-some years ago.

B.K: You often pick songs like “Memories of You.”

S.H: Now that comes from Buck. I was about 17 years old, and he was working at a place in Washington, D.C. I’d go and try to sit in. The guys wouldn’t let me, but Buck was nice; he’d say, “Here she comes again.” Buck encouraged me a bit, and I just loved him so much. He’d play “Memories of You” and say, “One day, you will record this with me.”

B.K: You go back a long way with Miles. Didn’t he arrange your debut at the Vanguard?

S.H: Yes, he did.

B.K: How was it?

SH: Frightening! My debut was when the Broadway show Raisin In The Sun opened. Everybody was there. I didn’t know what to do. Miles' opening was hard enough, but Wynton Kelly and Paul Chambers were up there, too.

After I did my little bit, which wasn’t much, I shook for about 25 minutes when Miles went on. When I came off the stage, the place was packed; Lena Horne, Claudia McNeil, every musician in the world and everybody from the show. I can’t recall all the names, but I remember passing Sidney Poitier, who told me he enjoyed my music. I almost fainted. It was terrific, and I remember it very well.

B.K: You’re described as a harmonic modernist who plays and sings with an old-fashioned down-home feeling. Is that an accurate description?

S.H: Say that again-- I’ll have to remember that. I’ve been called everything else.

B.K.: Was your first recording, Embers and Ashes, a trio side?

S.H: John Smith came to Washington, where I played in the hottest club in town and had been there a year and a half. Everybody who came to Washington came through there. So, this guy liked my work and asked if I’d like to record. I said sure, but then I forgot about it.

About a month later, he called and made arrangements at a studio. So I went to New York. I had two great musicians when I got there, not to bring in New York politics, and the trio was very tight. I was the new kid on the block, so I had to use Joe Benjamin and Herb Lavell, the bassist and drummer. It was a challenging session for me.

B.K: What were your studies like at Howard University? Is this where you began to develop your style?

S.H: I started studying when I was four. When I was almost 12, my teacher, Mr. Fletcher, told my mother I had outgrown him. There was a special school at Howard University called the Junior School of Music, which I entered. It was all classics. Frank Wess was there. The other music students were 19 or 20; I studied there until I was 18.

I got a scholarship to Juilliard, but my people couldn’t afford it. By this time, I’d heard of Erroll Garner and loved him. I was a star in school because I could play “Penthouse Serenade.” I started playing jazz because of Erroll Garner; then I heard Oscar Peterson. Oscar Peterson is my Rachmaninoff. Rachmaninoff and Debussy were my favourites in school. Then I heard Ahmad Jamal, who is my Debussy. These are my influences.

I first heard Oscar Peterson on Jazz At The Philharmonic. An old violinist named Benny Green, who played the clubs and was a friend of my dad’s, brought a copy by the house. When I listened to Oscar Peterson, I was impressed. But I didn’t go straight from the classics to jazz. I had great love for it, but it wouldn’t come out. It is hard to explain. Something just took me like a wave into what I’m doing now.

B.K: A harmonic modernist?

S.H: I still like that.

B.K: You’re the perfect accompanist. Have you played behind other singers?

S.H: Oh, yeah. I love to accompany. I did it all through school. They’d ship me all over the school to play for singers of all ages.

I may be going to The Hague this year. Carmen McRae loves my accompaniment, and we might do an album together.

B.K: You worked with Quincy Jones when he was the chief arranger and jazz director for Mercury Records. Was this a rewarding experience?

S.H: It was fun, exciting and different. My manager, John Levy, put this together; he used to be a bassist with George Shearing. He played my records all the time in the studio. He called me one day and asked if I wanted to record with Quincy Jones. I asked him if he was kidding. And he answered, See you on such and such date.

Quincy had a lot of music, some new stuff. I picked out some things I knew. I asked about the musicians, and John said I could choose whoever I wanted, and I did. I picked everyone I’d love to have on a recording. Joe and Nancy, George Shearing, Wes Montgomery, Cannonball.

I was scared to death when it was time to go into the studio. On this album, the principal violinist was Gene Orloff, along with 15 other string players and musicians. And he said to me, “You wanted it.” I said I couldn’t go in there. He pushed me into the studio.

I couldn’t get it together because I was away from the piano. Then I asked, Can you roll me out a tiny piano and put me in a room? So they did. It was hard for me to stand and sing. However, I found it awkward. It was a drag because I had always accompanied myself, and there was Hank Jones, playing the piano. I felt uncomfortable. On one number, they brought in Bobby Scott. I like Bobby; we are good hanging buddies, but singing in that funky style was hard for me. But then there’s Jimmy Jones, the Jimmy Jones. Years ago, when John Levy heard my first album, Embers and Ashes, he thought that was Jimmy Jones accompanying me, but it was me.

B.K: Did you tour at all during that time?

S.H: No, I was working in D.C. It was my town, and I did all the good gigs. If a new jazz club opened, I was there. I worked in Baltimore a lot. When my daughter was born, I was swamped around Washington. When she started growing up, I cooled down. I didn’t know what was out there or what is involved.

During those years, I shuttled back and forth from New York to D.C., worked on a movie theme with Quincy out in California, recorded my second album, and spent 13 weeks on the road. But I wasn’t happy. I missed my daughter and my family life. Even in my younger years, I was a homebody.

BK: Your last Verve recording, Close Enough for Love, is loaded with classic American songs, emphasizing the ballad. What makes the ballad so attractive to you?

S.H: I like to tell a story. I want to paint a picture. As a child, I heard good music. My mother liked the ballads; she loved Billie Holiday. Even now, when I’m getting ready to do something, a song will come to me that I first heard as a child. I’ll call my mother, hum it, and ask her what it was. She’ll think about it and call me right back. She remembers those things. The ballad seems to be my forte; I’ve been told this.

B.K: The New York Times jazz reviewer Jon Pareles says, “Songs are lucky when Shirley Horn chooses them.” How do you go about reshaping songs to fit your style?

S.H.: Isn’t that nice? My mother always sang, and my grandmother played piano and organ. None of my people studied, but we were always surrounded by music. I’ll talk to her about the songs if I get confused about my actions.

B.K: Do you spend much time in private working over the material?

S.H: I think about it. I work up an arrangement in my head; I already know the chord changes. I do have a little trouble with the lyrics. Joe Siegel, who wrote the liner notes for Close Enough For Love, is a college professor doing a series of American songwriters’ concerts in Washington when we met. He teaches at Georgetown University. Well, he’s my standby. He knows every lyric to every song. I’ll call up Joe and say, “Do you know this song's lyrics?” It may have been written 50 years ago, and he’ll recite it.

B.K: Do they stay with you once you’ve learned them?

S.H: I write them down, then make my interpretation. Someone asked me the other night to do a particular song off Close Enough for Love, and I couldn’t think of the words.

B.K: Any advice for young aspiring jazz singers?

S.H: Study, listen, listen to everybody. I don’t know much about vocalizing; that wasn’t my training. Pay attention to the good ones, but listen to everybody.

BK: Can you share one of your most memorable moments with us?

S.H: Yes. Last week at the Chicago Jazz and Blues festival, it happened when 91,000 people stood up and applauded me. I don’t know how to describe the feeling other than being overwhelmed.

My next memorable moment will be when Miles and I finally record an album together in the studio. We were talking about it. He wants to do an album of ballads with me, and I want Johnny Mandel to write the songs.