In my review of your present band, I said that it could be truly termed a virtuoso band. Would you go along with that?

Yeah, the musicians are excellent—they really are. Nothing is impossible for them.

In fact, I likened their virtuosity to that which you get, in the classical field, from the best orchestras.

Well, thank you, yes. I agree. It's an indication of how good the musicians are today—they're just getting to be better and better. Most all of 'em are graduates of colleges and uni—versities, yes. There's so many wonderful young musicians; they're much better than the other generation. Nothing is impossible. . They're more dedicated, they're better educated, their values are a great deal different.

So you'd say that, in every way, this is. a more brilliant band than any you had in earlier years?

I would. I really think so.

As I said in the review, an aspect of your music I've always enjoyed is the ballads. Is it possible you're playing a rather higher proportion of them now?

The romantic side. No, I don't think we're playing more. I try to pace them, so that every four or five numbers we do a ballad, in order to release the tension that is built through the rhythm music.

I suppose your feeling about ballads is exemplified by the fact that you start your programmes nowadays with a ballad.

Well, I've done that for a number of years now. I think that old Hollywood idea of getting show business on the road with some loud slambang number is not in good taste any more. The people don't want to be hit on the head on the first number; they want to kinda go about assessing and studying the situation. I usually try to see that the first climax happens about the third or fourth number; then we start building again.

I see you have a new album out now, called "Kenton '76", recorded in Chicago last December, that includes the beautiful arrangement of "Send In The Clowns". What album activity has the band been into just lately?

We recorded one for The Creative World, which should be out in a few weeks. The album is called "Journey Into Capricorn"; that's a piece of music written by Hank Levy, and we made that the title music.

There's some new Levy things in it, some new ballads, and so forth. And we just recorded an album live in Europe for British Decca which will possibly be out in the middle of January. No other special plans—we feel we're pretty well fixed at the moment. But we are thinking ahead all the time.

I heard you were doing a specialised thing for the Freemasons.

Yes—that will probably be recorded in December of this year. The album will contain music that has been written by masons for the masons. Sibelius's "Finlandia" is in it; there are six adagios by the Dutch composer Willem Peeper; there is a version of "The Stars And Stripes Forever", by John Philip Sousa, who was a mason; the Lord's Prayer is a part of it. It's beautiful music, and was arranged by Ken Hanna.

So really it's in the nature of another classical album—a kind of a parallel to the Wagner LP you did.

Right: Bordering on that, yes. They're arrangements of the themes, of course. We don't play the classical versions—although some of it sounds almost classical in nature.

Your albums can normally be filed under `big bands', of course between your last visit here and this one, it was very interesting to have an album come out under your name that had to be put elsewhere—because there was only one musician on it.

Oh—the piano solo album. Yes Capitol for years wanted to get a solo album out of me, and we tried on three or four different occasions, desperately, to get it.

But as much as I can inspire other people on record dates… it was a terrifying experience, and we never got it. It's a strange thing—they always wanted one from Nat Cole, too. He never made one, either. And another guy that was pretty much in the same boat was Duke Ellington.

He never made a piano album—well, he finally made one, in recent years, but I don't think he was very proud of it.

So—we decided that The Creative World must have a solo album. I had to finally just get into the studio, and go till it came. It took us about three or four days to get it. And strange as it seems. I was still terribly nervous and emotional about it; but I finally straightened out, and the whole album was recorded in one day.

It was just a matter of getting into the right kind of groove, was it?

Well, I've always been terrified I'd get in the studio, everything would be all right, I'd warm up and everything—then as soon as the producer would come in, the red light would come on, and he'd say: "Master number soandso, take one", I would just freeze with terror. But, after three days, I got over this; I said: "I must stop this foolishness."

Well, it was worth persisting. For its sheer musicality, it's a lovely record. It's been on my turntable quite a few times. There is a kind of a Debussy/ Ravel feeling in the war you play piano; it was similar, somehow, to an album I have of Ravel playing solo piano—the same kind of feel. In fact, you once met Ravel, didn't you?

Yes, 1935—I didn't know who he was. Ever since I got into jazz, I had idolised a clarinet player by the name of Jimmy Noone, who played with Baby Dodds and some of those guys.

So, when I made my first trip to Chicago, on my night off I went down to hear Noone. He was playing at a place on the South side of Chicago, called the Silver Lounge. But when I got there I couldn't get in, because the place was jammed with people; I knew this was my only free night, and I just had to get in to hear this group. I went around to the back door of the kitchen, gave one of the waiters a couple of bucks: "See if you can get Jimmy Noone to come back here. Tell him there's somebody who wants to see him badly." After about five minutes, this little rotund guy came out; he says: "I'm Noone. Who wants to see me?" I introduced myself to him, and told him I loved his music. I said: "I must get in to hear you tonight. How can I do it?" He said: "I don't know—there's no space." I said: "There's got to be space somewhere." He told me to wait while he looked.

He came back and said: "Come with me." He took me out, and there was this one guy sitting at a table for two. Jimmy said: "Maurice says it's okay if you sit with him." So I sat down, and I noticed that, when the group was on, this fellow was taking little notes on some manuscript paper occasionally.

After it was over with, I went to thank him for allowing me to sit at his table. And I said: "Incidentally, my name is Stanley Kenton. What is your name?" He said: "Maurice Ravel." I almost fell over.

But you did have a chat with him, didn't you?

No, I didn't—because I was so awestricken. I don't think. No one knew who he was, either. I knew who Ravel was; I was very familiar with his music. But somehow, when you meet somebody that you've admired for such a long time, the words kinda freeze in your mouth.

The story goes that Ravel took the Noone phrases he'd transcribed to the first clarinet player of a symphony orchestra, and asked him to play them—but was told it was impossible. Anyway—though you didn't converse with him, you paid your tribute to him with "Artistry In Bolero". You'd say that some of the great composers inspired you, in forming your concepts of our own orchestral music?

Right. I don't think you can replaces great themes. But I think people do want to hear fresh arrangements of them. They don't want to hear them played the same way all the time.

I know you work very hard with the band, but when you do have same spare time, do you listen to music?

Not very much. I have a strange theory about listening to music. I think it's possible to digest things—and once you've digested something, you don't need any more of it. And I think I digested most of the things I loved in music a few years back. So I don't really listen to music much. I listen to the radio occasionally, when there's something worthwhile—but most of the time it's kinda trashy. Oh, once in a while I'll hear something that I'm moved by, but not generally.

You probably get enough satisfaction. out of hearing the sound of your own band.

Well—that might be partly true, too.

Do you find the kind of touring you do takes a lot out of you?

When you miss your sleep, you get tired. But usually all it takes is a night's rest, and you're on your feet again. The important thing is, I m doing what I love to do.

In reference to that which is trashy in music—you recently sounded off in this connection, didn't you?

You mean about the Country and Western music? It's contrived calculated, commercial music. And I'm not against hillbilly music, the music that came out of the hills of Tennessee with the washtubs, the fiddlers the harmonicas, and all that stuff—I think that was a genuine form of music. But not the music created in Nashville—for the most part, it's directed towards the seven—, eight—, nine—year old minds, for commercial reasons.

You've seen many fads and fashions come and go—but do you see any signs of a revival of popular interest in the big band in general?

The big bands that are based upon the ingredients of jazz are in a pretty healthy state of affairs—they always have been. But the old fashioned dance band is extinct.

What do you feel about this current nostalgia craze?

I think that's sickness. Nostalgia's the most commercial commodity there is today; I believe it's true all over the world.

Could it not possible lead people towards something better, if they get the taste of the big band idiom?

I don't know—we'll have to wait I and see. But I don't think it's a healthy thing to rehash things that have been done years back. The only reason we play a few of the early things is: just to satisfy the fans. We don't play many of them. Yes—some we do a completely different way.

Musicians now, as you say, are better than ever, but if they reach a high degree of proficiency, and want to get into a band like yours, what can more than a few of them do about it?

Where there's a will, there's a proverbial way, I think. Something'll happen—they'll break through somehow.