High-School English Teacher Who Encouraged Thomas in Music at Andover's Phillips Academy, MA
I knew Tom all through his career at Philipps Academy at Andover, Massachusetts, as a fellow jazz musician and English teacher. Always I enjoyed talking with him, and listening in awe to his playing. I'll never forget knowing him. Here are some memories:
My quartet played at Tom's 20th Reunion, and at one point he sat in for several tunes. In my band, the star is Herb Pomeroyt, one of the best jazz musicians I've ever played with or heard. When Tom finished and walked away, Herb leaned over to me and said, ""Jesus, that kid can play!""
Like me, Herb has heard all the giants of jazz, so that's high praise.
In my Senior English class, Tom was obviously not a good student, but he tried. Unfortunately, his skill as a writer was not in the same league as his skill on the horn.
At the end of the year, the faculty met for its approval of diploma candidates. Each senior's name was read by the Headmaster, and then his grades were read and when my mark of 60 was heard, I was in trouble.
One irritable, stuffy instructor turned on me and snarled, ""What do we have here…a Double Standard?!"" (Sixty, incidentally is the lowest possible passing grade, known in the trade as ""a flat 60."")
The room was silent for a moment and various teachers turned and stared at me, frowning. I was just about to answer when I saw the Headmaster looking at me, shaking his head and giving me the silence sign with his finger over his lips. Abruptly, he said, very firmly, ""Next name, please."" The Headmaster knew Tom was not very good in English so he saved me from having to make an explanation.
I was deliberately indulging in a double standard.
I could logically have flunked Tom and he would not have been allowed to graduate. I gave him a gift pass because I knew he was going to be a professional musician, and if he had no diploma he might have had trouble getting into a good college with a good music department.
In this life, sometimes a double standard is necessary and justified. (I never told Tom.) Also, I have always liked him.
Way back in my career as a teacher, a student came to call on me one day.
""Ah, Mr. Leavitt, we hear that you used to be a jazz musician, and we wonder if you would coach the school jazz band."" ""Sure, I'd like that,"" I told him, and once every two weeks I'd work with them on playing in tune, accenting the important notes, and feeling the rhythm. I got my horn working again, and now and then I'd sit in and show them some tricks of improvising.
Finally, one day, they asked if I would sit in and play some choruses in a concert before the whole school. Back in the l940s the school was run by old conservatives, most of whom thought jazz was evil music, so I decided to go in and ask the Headmaster who hired me if it would be all right to perform with the boys and their band.
The boss looked at me disapprovingly: ""Well, Hart if you want to do THAT KIND OF THING!"" So I had to refuse.
When Tom was in school, he asked me to sit in with his student band in a concert before the whole school, which I did, and got a Standing O after playing three choruses of ""Cherokee.""
The next morning, the new Headmaster called me up and said, joyfully, ""That's the best example of student-faculty relations I've ever seen."" As that famous singer said, ""The times they are a-changing."" (Bob Dylan)
Now and then, listening to Tom play with the school band, I used to criticize him for ""playing too many notes"" in his solos. I didn't bawl him out; I just said what I thought, partly because I was hearing a lot of young players who were showing off their technique.
One of my best sideman--Gary Sargent--one day said of a young jazz musician, ""Yeah, he's pretty good when he stops playing exercises.""
I sat in a couple of times in Tom's rehearsals, and one day in a chorus on ""You Take the A Train,"" I turned on the spigot and sprayed notes all over the room. When I got through, Tom leaned over: ""Too many notes Mr. Leavitt.""
At Tom's last concert at Andover, just a few years ago, I sat listening in awe at his solos: the skill, the variety, the imagination, and la forza. Then, after a tornado of notes in one up-tempo tune, he chose a lovely ballad--""I Didn't Know What Time It Was""--and played the melody absolutely straight, with a big, round, deep tone.
Afterwards I told him: ""Tom, that was great. I'll never be able to play like that.""
Immediately, he turned to me: ""Oh, but Mr. Leavitt, what you play is Beeootiful.""
He was such a warm, friendly person, and a genuine character.