Significant Others - Billy Strayhorn

Episode Date: March 13, 2024

Did Duke Ellington really used to say: “He does all the work and I take all the bows?” One thing’s for sure—neither man would have had the career he did without the other.Starring Fat Tony as Billy Strayhorn and Open Mike Eagle as Duke EllingtonAlso featuring: Sasheer Zamata, Sam Sanders, JaRon Ferguson, Miles Gross, Chris Hayes, and Tavis Doucette Source List:Lush Life by David Hajdu, ©1996, North Point Press, 18 West 18 Street, NY NY 10011Something to Live For: The Music of Billy Strayhorn, by Walter van de Leur, ©2002, Oxford University PressBeyond Category; The Life and Genius of Duke Ellington by John Edward Hasse, ©1993, Da Capo PressMusic is my Mistress by Duke Ellington, ©1973, Da Capo PressJUST JAZZ No. 3, Ed. Sinclair Traill and The Hon. Gerald Lascelles, ©1959, Four Square Books, Landsborough Publications Ltd, 173 New Bond Street, London, W.1JUST JAZZ No. 4, Ed. Sinclair Traill and The Hon. Gerald Lascelles, ©1960, Pub. Souvenir Press Ltd, London, WC1 and Canada, The Ryerson Press, Toronto, Printed GB by Clarke, Doble & Brendon, Ltd, Oakfield PressJazzProfiles, Billy Strayhorn - The Bill Coss InterviewNational Jazz Archive, Duke EllingtonCBC News, Billy Strayhorn, Duke Ellington’s ‘right arm’, to be paid tribute to at Capilano University concert The New Yorker, The Hot Bach - IThe New Yorker, The Hot Bach IIYouTube, Duke Ellington Interview by Jack Cullen 1962Colburn, Billy Strayhorn and Duke Ellington’s Collaboration

Welcome to Significant Others. I'm Liza Powell O'Brien, and today we're hearing about a musician whose most famous composition has been linked in popular consciousness to someone else. This time on Significant Others, meet Billy Strayhorn. It is impossible to overstate the greatness of Edward Kennedy Duke Ellington. Endlessly innovative, he has been called America's greatest composer, compared more than once to Shakespeare, and thought by some to have created the first entirely American style of music. European critics dubbed him the American Bach. Wynton Marsalis said, he invented a new system of harmony, whole new musical forms, and that he wrote music in all 12 known keys and some keys that are still unknown.

He authored more than a thousand songs and countless orchestrations, toured six continents, provided careers for dozens of brilliant musicians, broke the color barrier on multiple counts, and became a household name. For five decades, he sustained what, according to him, was two careers, bandleader and composer. And for nearly 30 of those years, he had a secret weapon, whose life and work is almost impossible to tease apart from Ellington's own.

That secret weapon was a diminutive, bespectacled man from Pittsburgh who spoke Ellington's musical language fluently. This story can be a bit of a hot-button topic in some circles. Anyone who worships at the shrine of a particular artistic genius can rankle at the idea that that person's legacy was not built in a vacuum. As if it would diminish Ellington's genius to think that he relied at times on the genius of others. But of course he did. He was engaged in a collaborative art, and he'd be the first to acknowledge it. He said his band was his instrument. His autobiography is organized around chapters describing what he calls the dramatis filidae, the key players, more literally the important cats in his personal history. Just as he relied on the genius of his players to breathe orchestral life into his music,

he relied on other talented folks to realize the full scope of his achievements, He relied on other talented folks to realize the full scope of his achievements, including but not limited to his sister Ruth, who ran his music publishing business, his mistress Mildred, who ran his house and helped raise his son, his valet Jonesy, who did his hair and refilled his bath to keep it at a constant temperature, his road manager Jack Boyd, who physically hauled him out of bed before shows, and his son Mercer, who carried on his legacy. But creatively and professionally, Duke Ellington relied on no one more than he relied on Billy Strayhorn, and he knew it. Strayhorn was sometimes called Ellington's alter ego, But Ellington himself said no.

Billy Strayhorn was my right arm. My left arm. All the eyes in the back of my head. My brain waves in his head and his in mine. Even if you're not into jazz, you've probably heard this song. For close to 30 years, that was the signature tune of the Duke Ellington Orchestra and still serves as a hallmark song for the entire big band era. And yet, even though Ellington was a singularly prolific composer, that tune wasn't written by Ellington at all.

The story of how an anthem for one of America's greatest composers came to be written by somebody else begins in Pittsburgh in 1938, when a 23-year-old prodigy was delivered to Ellington's dressing room after a matinee show at the Stanley Theater. Ellington, who had agreed to hear the young man play as a favor for a local bigwig, didn't even open his eyes as he lay back in a chair getting his hair conked. Sit down at the piano, let me hear what you can do, Ellington said, according to the friend who arranged the meeting. Billy Strayhorn did as he was asked and chose to play an Ellington classic, prefacing it with, Mr. Ellington, this is the way you play this number in the show.

Strayhorn's friend, George Greenlee, recalled that Strayhorn's rendition was a flawless quote of Ellington's own playing earlier that afternoon. Ellington didn't move or open his eyes, even though his hair, by this point, was already finished. Strayhorn ended the song and then said, Now this is the way I would play it. By the time Strayhorn had wrapped up his own interpretation, Ellington was standing behind him, watching his fingers move across the keys. He started calling in other members of the band as Strayhorn played more, and then finally put his hands on the younger man's shoulders

while he played. Listen to this kid play, Ellington whispered. Greenlee characterized Strayhorn's version, as opposed to Ellington's, as slightly quicker. Pretty hip sounding, and further and further out there as he went on. Then, says Greenlee, things got hectic. Ellington started grilling Strayhorn on all things music. What was his background? Where had he gotten his training? If Strayhorn filled him in fully, he would have told him that, as a child, he bought himself a piano by selling papers and running errands, that he had been composing for orchestras since high school, that he had dreamt of being a concert pianist,

but that he saw no hope as a Black performer for a career in that field, that he had saved enough money working at a soda shop to pay his way into the local conservatory, though he stopped attending after his mentor, its founder, had a heart attack and died. He would have mentioned that discovering jazz had opened up a whole world of possibilities to him, both creatively and professionally, and that he had mounted his first public show of original music when he was only 19. But it wasn't so much what he said that made an impact, It was how and what he played. And there was something else. After demonstrating his ability for adaptation,

he went on to share some of his original work. Ellington said, It was the laugh that first got me. When Stray first came to see me in the Stanley Theater, I caught that laugh. I asked him the name of a tune he played for me, and he just laughed. If Ellington's telling of this first meeting is correct, if he did ask for the name of a song and Billy Strayhorn did respond with a laugh, it would, in a way, be the kernel from which their entire 30-year relationship would grow.

According to Strayhorn's biographer, David Hajdu, some of the music Strayhorn played was so new it didn't even have a name yet. So perhaps that laugh came simply from delight in Ellington's interest. But with the benefit of hindsight, it might also be possible to hear, in that laugh, the deflection of an unknown artist laying his talents at the feet of a giant, the way we laugh sometimes when we are uncomfortable or overwhelmed. Ellington, with 20 years in the business and international recognition, had all the power in that moment, as he always would, and both men were aware of that fact.

And even though Ellington was a consummate performer, and his interviews were likely more used as PR than confessionals, to say that the laugh was what got him is a curious detail. So perhaps in that moment, there was already a subtextual and complicated conversation taking place about the naming of things, and about who owns what. Or maybe that's just foreshadowing. After that first meeting, Ellington knew he wanted Strayhorn to be a part of his world, but he didn't yet know in what capacity. As Hajdu points out, the famous orchestra already had a piano player. His name was Duke Ellington.

So he gave Strayhorn an assignment. He said, you go home and write a lyric for this. And I did. His name was Duke Ellington. So he gave Strayhorn an assignment. He said, you go home and write a lyric for this. And I did. I rushed home and I wrote this lyric. Sadly, it's not known which song or lyric that was. But when Strayhorn came back with it, Ellington liked it enough to give him another assignment, to write a new vocal part for a song.

This time, when Strayhorn returned to present his work to Ellington, they were backstage at a show, and Ellington took the new arrangement on stage with him five minutes later and handed it straight to the players. The result, according to a bystander, was as pretty as a dream. Ellington paid Strayhorn $20 for his work and wrote down instructions on how to come find him back in New York City. But it was all a little loosey-goosey. There was no job offer, there was no plan. So Ellington moved on to his next tour date and Strayhorn just went back to working at the soda shop.

Every day people would come up and say, what happened? And I and say, what happened? And I'd say, nothing happened. I went down and sang and played for the man, and he's gone to New York. They'd say, what's he going to do? And I'd say, I don't know what he's going to do. And this went on for about a month.

I got a little weary of this, and I hadn't heard from Duke. Finally, a friend convinced Strayhorn to track Ellington down in New York and gave him the train fare to do it. In preparation for seeing Ellington again, Strayhorn decided to write something new to take with him, making use of the directions Ellington had written down for how to get to Harlem. Ultimately, this song, You Must Take the A-Train,

would come to define the Duke Ellington orchestra. But for now, it served as Strayhorn's calling card. When he finally reconnected with Ellington, backstage at a show in New Jersey, Mr. Ellington was standing in the wings with a pearl gray suit on. I'll never forget it. He couldn't remember my name. He didn't say too much. And I didn't say too much. We were just kind of looking at each other. I was scared to death. And he wasn't, of course. We just kind of

looked at each other. Finally, he said, well, it's really something that you have arrived at this moment. Yes, because I just sent Jack Boyd, who is his manager, upstairs to look for your address and send for you. You don't have to, I said. Here I am. He told a friend, I'm going to work for Duke. I played that tune A-Train for him and he liked it. I'm moving to New York. From that day on, Strayhorn was folded into the Ellington family. Within a couple of days of his arrival in New York City, he essentially moved in with Duke's son, sister, and mistress,

even though the original plan had been for them to put him up at the YMCA. Finally, Strayhorn had access to a lifestyle that suited him. As Mercer Ellington put it, He was really bougie. Strayhorn knew about wine and art. He was a great cook. Called by one interviewer a velvet little man with an effervescent personality, he loved nice clothes and for most of his life sent his best pieces home

to Pittsburgh for his mother to press. All this was contrary to his origins, which had been marred by disappointment and desolation. His parents were cultured and bright, but doomed by racism to lives of poverty and menial labor. They lost multiple babies to illness, struggled to provide for the ones that lived, and at one point shared a boarding house with a brothel where the young Billy delighted in the record player. Alcohol, to which Billy's father turned increasingly as life ground him down, brought out a mean streak that Billy and his siblings had to learn to avoid. In one of the worst moments, their dad tied Billy's brother up against the basement wall in a crucifix formation.

Now, a decade later, here was Billy living in an all-white penthouse surrounded by genteel women in the wake of the Harlem Renaissance, all expenses paid by Duke Ellington. Ellington was generous with everyone in his circle. He took care of his parents, raised his younger sister as a daughter, and paid his musicians well, giving them bonuses and making sure they traveled in comfort. His generosity was unusually well-funded because, as he put it, I have two careers, and they must not be confused, though they almost always are.

The fact that he was both a bandleader and a composer is significant not only as a measure of his vast talents and abilities, but fiscally as well. When big bands were all the rage, Ellington and his orchestra toured constantly, but even on the road, he never stopped composing. So when musical tastes shifted in the 50s, and big band music stopped drawing the same crowds, he still had a revenue stream in the form of publishing royalties, which he used to fund the band.

According to his son Mercer, That was the old man's secret. That orchestra was his instrument. More than that, it was his whole life. And nobody else was able to keep their band together year after year through all the changes in the music scene, but nobody had the catalog of compositions that he had. With all those royalties coming in,

he was able to meet his payroll, which was substantial, because a lot of those cats had been in the band for a long time, and they all made good bread. They were top men. Without those royalties, the old man would have been operating at a loss. He'd have gone under, just like the rest of them. So not only was it his disposition to be generous, he was able to follow through. And while being taken care of by Ellington would turn out to be a double-edged sword, in 1940, Strayhorn was thrilled to be taken in.

He integrated with Ellington's operation like a stream of water pouring into a river. After Strayhorn completed his first official arranging assignment, an overnight reworking of two tunes with no direction, Ellington almost never did any of the small band arranging again. Strayhorn said that, at 25 years old, You could say I had inherited a phase of Duke's organization. organization. The band called the five foot three inch tall newcomer with the cherubic smile sweepy or strays. And from that moment on, his scope of responsibilities only grew as Ellington came to realize the full extent of his abilities. They never had a contract or a job description, just a symbiotic melding of talents that started small and expanded to include pretty much everything. Ellington composed not just for specific instruments, but for specific players.

Voice was everything to him. Strayhorn called this The Ellington Effect. Each member of his band is to him a distinctive tone, color, and set of emotions, which he mixes with others equally distinctive to produce a third thing. Sometimes this mixing happens on paper and frequently right on the bandstand. I have often seen him exchange parts in the middle of a piece because the man and the part weren't the same character. Strayhorn spoke the same language.

He knew how to write in Ellington's voice so well, in fact, that it gave the impression the two communicated almost telepathically, sometimes coming up with nearly the same musical phrase while working independently on a song. There's a great article in The New Yorker from 1944 where a writer embedded with the band on tour and transcribed an impromptu middle-of-the-night collaboration session, which reads like some kind of high-level extraverbal twin language. But Strayhorn had been launched so high, so quickly, he sometimes wasn't even able to grasp how far he'd come.

When Ellington referred the singer Mary Martin to him for some arrangement work, Strayhorn was told he'd make five for the job. He grumbled to his new boss that he had been getting $5 per arrangement back in Pittsburgh. Ellington had to clarify the quote was 500. Adding Strayhorn to the mix was one of just a few adjustments Ellington was making around 1940, which also included firing his manager, getting new representation, moderating his drinking, moving in with a new girlfriend, and adding a few more voices to the brass and rhythm sections of the band.

All this teed Ellington and his orchestra up for a new era of success, just as one of his careers was about to hit a wall. The American Society of Composers, Authors, and Publishers, or ASCAP, was in a fight with radio stations over licensing fees, and as of January 1, 1941, any ASCAP-related music was banned from the radio. Because Ellington was a signatory of the society, that meant that most of his previously recorded numbers could not be played over the airways. It also meant that one of his all-important revenue streams had suddenly become blocked. Duke immediately deputized Strayhorn and Mercer Ellington, neither of whom had joined ASCAP, to create an entirely new library for his orchestra, essentially overnight. This was an unprecedented opportunity for the two young artists,

but the deadline was so immediate that they had to go on a 24-7 writing binge. One slept while the other wrote, and vice versa, for days. In the mad scramble to amass a body of work, Strayhorn pulled out old pieces that had not yet been published, along with a staggering amount of new material. One of the older works that got revived was A-Train, and it became Ellington's first choice

for the orchestra's next big number. An instant bestseller, Take the A-Train was Ellington's new signature tune and his greatest commercial success. Strayhorn's early success with Ellington had had a downside. His contributions to Ellingtonia had either been subsumed or co-opted. This wasn't necessarily intentional. It seems neither musician was tracking rights and credits very closely at the beginning. And Ellington operated at the heart of a big machine that did some things automatically, like putting Duke's name on the music he made. But now Ellington's name couldn't be added to anything, it wouldn't get played. So Strayhorn's name was able to rise up. And the music world was finally getting a proper introduction to him.

It sounded as if Stravinsky were a jazz musician. He just blew us away because he was doing very complicated, sophisticated things. And they didn't sound complicated to the ear at all. They sounded completely natural and very emotional. complicated, sophisticated things, and they didn't sound complicated to the ear at all. They sounded completely natural and very emotional. To bring all that complexity to bear and have it be so beautiful was something incredible to everybody who knew anything. Talking about music is like dancing about architecture. No one knows who actually said that first, but it's been attributed to everyone from Thelonious Monk to William S. Burroughs. Regardless, it's true. I'd love to

play these tracks for you here, as it would certainly be more eloquent than anything I have to say, but that would cost more money than we have. So instead, we'll have to keep settling for words, which are, still and always, cheap. But everything is easily found online, so please do go investigate if you're curious, and let the music speak for itself. Jazz great Gil Evans said all he was ever trying to do was what Billy Strayhorn did. Benny Carter said it made everyone else think differently about what they were doing. And Dizzy Gillespie said of Billy Strayhorn did. Benny Carter said it made everyone else think differently about what they were doing. And Dizzy Gillespie said of Billy Strayhorn, I got ideas from hearing him that I knew I could use forever.

But Strayhorn's visibility wouldn't last. Because Ellington was forever stretching into new territory, like an all-black theatrical review called Jump for Joy, which debuted in 1941, the show's director said later they, quote, should have listed Billy, too, as a composer of five of the songs, but that, quote, Ellington had the name. He was the big draw.

Sid Culler, the show's co-producer, said, Listen, the world wasn't ready to accept a show by Duke Ellington. It certainly wasn't ready to accept Duke Ellington and some guy nobody's ever heard of. He means the white world, of course. The show was a hit with the mostly black audiences, but the critics didn't go for it, and it closed after just 12 weeks. A similar thing happened when Ellington signed on to write the music for a Broadway show in 1946. This time, his appetite for conquering new territory was bigger than his interest in

actually going there. He said an enthusiastic yes when asked to write the music for an adaptation of the Beggar's opera, and then essentially punted the project to Strayhorn. Strayhorn threw himself into the job, working around the clock for months. And yet all the publicity for Beggar's Holiday, which was the project's final name, still revolved around Ellington. final name, still revolved around Ellington. The New York Times review praised Ellington's virtuosity in the show, even though the music was written either by Ellington and Strayhorn in collaboration or by Strayhorn alone. In the program, Billy Strayhorn was listed only as a personal supervisor of the orchestrations. What Strayhorn wanted most in the world was to be a successful professional musician and composer. With Ellington, he was both fast-tracked and, in a way, benched.

He would never be the headliner. He would hardly be known by the public at all. But there was one way in which not being the star suited him, at least for a while. As a gay man, he was determined to live openly. Being black in America was difficult enough. Even Duke Ellington had to endure comments like, if you'd been a white man, you'd been a great musician. But the fact of Strayhorn's homosexuality increased his risk of pain. Taunted in his younger years by classmates who called him a sissy, ostracized by at least one former bandmate for having no romantic interest in women, and bullied by his own father,

Strayhorn's life was lonely until he entered the orbit of Duke Ellington, who, according to his son Mercer, never cared one bit that Strayhorn was gay. He was never prejudiced against anybody he thought was really worthy. More to the point, he'd been exposed to homosexuality his whole life in the music business. It was nothing new to him. He knew plenty of gay men and women.

He backed up Strayhorn all the way. The difference this made was, according to at least one of Strayhorn's friends, immense. For those of us who were both black and homosexual in that time, acceptance was of paramount importance. Absolutely paramount importance. Duke Ellington offered Billy Strayhorn that acceptance. That was something that cannot be undervalued or underappreciated. that was something that cannot be undervalued or underappreciated. To Billy, that was gold.

We all hid. Every one of us. Except Billy. He wasn't afraid. We were. And you know what the difference was between us? Duke Ellington. According to this friend,

Strayhorn's choice in life was cut and dried, become a star in his own right, or live his life freely as a gay man. Whether by choice or by chance, he walked the latter path. In 1950, Strayhorn finally got curious about some things he had never paid close attention to before. He asked a friend for counsel on the business of music, and then looked into his own publishing situation, which was not simple. If you want a more thorough accounting, check out Heide's biography, or for an even deeper dive, the book Something to Live For, The Music of Billy Strayhorn. We'll put a link to them both in the show notes. Suffice to say, when Strayhorn opened the books on his credits and royalties situation, neither his nor Ellington's name was exactly where

it should be. His was left off pieces he had co-created, and Ellington's was included on pieces Strayhorn wrote before they ever met. There are even songs where Strayhorn was listed as the composer on the recording, but Ellington held the copyright and therefore received all the royalties. Strayhorn was miffed, but the situation was genuinely complicated. Ellington had given him stock in the publishing company that held those rights, so he was profiting, to a degree, from all those pieces, plus everything else they owned. Also, Ellington had launched his career and continued to underwrite Strayhorn's life, funding his home, wardrobe, travel, food, drink, and art purchases with no apparent limit.

Strayhorn was, in a way, a kept man, Cared for, protected, valued, but on a tether. And then, of course, there was the emotional complication. Ellington had been a father figure to Strayhorn, whose own father had failed him so completely. Mercer Ellington said, My father didn't take me under his wing the way he did Strayhorn. Lena Horne, who became one of Strayhorn's dearest friends, framed it this way. Their relationship was very sexual. Don't misunderstand, it wasn't

physical at all, but it was very, very sexual. Billy loved Duke, and Duke loved Billy. The problem is, Duke treated Billy exactly like he treated women, with all that old-fashioned chauvinism. Very loving and very protective, but controlling. Very destructive. Strayhorn's response, after he looked more closely at the books, was to take a step back from Ellingtonia. He leaned heavily into theater, recorded with other artists,

and only worked for Ellington occasionally when called. He became remote enough that Ellington offered his job to someone else, but the other man declined to take it. In this new semi-independent mode, Strayhorn's income was dwindling, but the tether was fraying too. And finally, in the mid-50s, Strayhorn decided to sever it entirely by going into business with someone else. Luther Henderson, who had been in Mercer Ellington's class at Juilliard,

asked Strayhorn if he wanted to partner up, and Strayhorn decided to give it a go. When they broke the news to Ellington, he was positive, but he was also intensely conflict-averse. He never fired anyone, simply hired a new person in their place. He didn't even tell his son when he and his wife, the boy's mother, separated. Ten-year-old Mercer just came home one day to find a woman he had never met before living in his house. So Duke's conversation with Luther and Billy went smoothly. But afterward, he called Henderson up and said, reportedly, Luther, Strays was telling me all about your plan. It sounds great. It's brilliant. Marvelous.

But you know, there's one thing I think I should tell you. You know, I've worked with Strayhorn for a long time. I know what he can do, and I have to tell you. You don't need Strayhorn. Not with your talent. He can't do what you can do. Ellington, whose genius revolved in part around sculpting every individual voice in his orchestra to best suit a tune, basically flattered Henderson into reneging on the deal with Strayhorn. And it's possible he did the same thing with Billy because they both just let the plan fizzle out. Instead, Strayhorn went to Paris,

where he spent a couple of years living lushly, as he might have put it. And when he returned, he saw that Ellington's orchestra was set to play a date at one of his favorite venues. According to a friend, he returned, he saw that Ellington's orchestra was set to play a date at one of his favorite venues. According to a friend, he said, well, I'll have to come see Duke Ellington and hear all those Billy Strayhorn songs. He did go hear them, and he and Ellington met. After that, he told another friend somewhat triumphantly, I talked to Edward. He would like me to be more engaged again. He asked me what sort of project I would like to do.

It seemed Ellington was ready for a different kind of working relationship, and Strayhorn had had enough of a break to try again. A couple of projects later, including a tricky crossover album with Rosemary Clooney and a legendary night at the first Newport Jazz Festival, Strayhorn and Ellington sat down for a more serious chat. As his close friend reported it, Duke said, I need you. From now, your name is right up there, next to mine. It's Duke Ellington and Billy Strayhorn. He was good to his word, though that meant there were still songs credited to them both that had been written by Strayhorn alone. When friends pointed that out, he shrugged and said, Ellington has insisted. And when Ellington has insisted, you know what we must do. We must do what we must do. Or, as the friend put it, Duke Ellington got what he wanted even if you weren't giving it to him.

By the time he hit his 40s, Billy Strayhorn's drinking had become a serious issue. At first, alcohol was part of the sophisticated lifestyle he cultivated for himself. A friend said the apartment he shared with his first partner was straight out of the pages of Esquire magazine, complete with a bar built into the living room. At his favorite haunt, Cafe Society, they had a martini named after him. But in 1957, drinking was no longer a lifestyle accessory. When his dear friend Honey Coles brought up a profile of Ellington that had come out in Newsweek. I asked him if he read it and he said, Yes.

Why weren't you mentioned? You owe every bit as much of that music they're fussing all over as Ellington and they didn't even mention your name. Why'd you let him get away with that? You know, about these things, I don't care. I don't believe you. I think you do care or you wouldn't be drinking I don't believe you. I think you do care. Or you wouldn't be drinking like a fucking fish every time I see you.

Strayhorn insisted he was better off without the publicity. But when Coles asked him if he was happy, all he could do was cry. Ten years after that conversation, in 1967, Billy Strayhorn passed away from cancer of the esophagus. Ellington, who called him in the hospital every day but hadn't visited because he couldn't bear to see him sick, heard the news from their mutual friend and family doctor while he was on a tour date in Vegas. Ellington broke down and when asked if he was going to be all right, reportedly said, Fuck no, I'm not going to be all right. Nothing is all right now.

As Ellington writes in his memoir, I started sniffling and whimpering, crying, banging my head up against the wall, talking to myself about the virtues of Billy Strayhorn. Why Billy Strayhorn, I asked. Why? Why Billy Strayhorn, I asked. Why? Strayhorn's death wrecked Ellington emotionally, but creatively it spurred him on. Yanking himself from the depressive depths of grief, he organized an all-star tribute concert to raise money for a scholarship in Strayhorn's name at Juilliard. His PR guy, a homophobe who had never been comfortable with Billy's sexual orientation, fabricated a quote he attributed to Strayhorn about being a rugged individualist that was not only meant to shove Strayhorn posthumously into the closet, but quash any suspicions

that Ellington was mourning a romantic partner. That guy had joined Ellington's organization in 1957, the same year Strayhorn's friend noticed he was drowning his sorrows in drink. After Strayhorn was gone, Ellington told a reporter, I'm writing more than ever now. I have to. Billy Strayhorn left that big yawning void.

How much did Ellington owe Strayhorn and vice versa? Some music historians have done the forensics on the thousands of pages of scores and notebooks that remain, but the question can never really be answered for multiple reasons. Beyond the issues of non-existent contracts and fluid collaboration styles and compositions cobbled together from parts written by different artists at different times, and the fact that the arrangements often weren't credited to anyone, Strayhorn's job was to make music that sounded like Ellington's. He was so gifted at it that one journalist wrote, Ellington called him a pure artist. At the same time, artists don't always make the best entertainers. And Strayhorn, with his quiet persona, rode the wave of Ellington's genius as a performer

as much as anything else. As producer Irving Townsend wrote back in 1960, The long-debated question about how much of Ellington's work is written by Billy Strayhorn will not be answered here, except to clarify their relationship as it pertains to Duke's records. The two men work together on virtually all major recording projects, and often it is impossible for an

acute listener to tell which parts were written by which man. That is the way they want it, and as it should be. Little of what either writes is left unchanged by the other, and Billy and Duke are present at all sessions. Now, Duke is careful to give Billy composing credit officially, and neither man has any interest in taking credit from the other for anything they've done. But this is a composing team, unique in musical history, and only by keeping their output intact and their contributions undivided can the team function. Billy has written parts of every album we've done, sometimes in the form of entire pieces, sometimes, as in the case of A Woman is a Drum and Anatomy of a Murder, short passages interwoven with the whole. Anatomy of a Murder, short passages interwoven with the whole. Billy has also played piano on most albums, usually with the whole band playing, while Duke escapes from the keyboard to conduct a difficult passage. Both write music or lyrics. Both arrange and orchestrate, and Ellington uses

the pronoun we advisedly. It has been said that Ellington liked to joke that Billy did the work and Duke took the bows, which might be a bit of a legend. But he did say in an interview once, To bow after a Billy Strayhorn orchestration, this is one of the things I do best. Perhaps in the end, the best description of their relationship comes from Strayhorn himself, who once said in an interview, He is he, and I am me. Special thanks to Anthony Obie and Open Mike Eagle for bringing Billy Strayhorn and Duke Ellington to life. I'd also like to thank Sashir Zameda, Sam Sanders, Miles Gross, Tavis Doucette, Jerron Ferguson, and Chris Hayes for lending their voices to the story.

Along with Jake Powell, my dad, for his recording of the signature musical riff from A-Train. And lastly, I'd like to thank my significant other for never trusting me to conk his hair. Check back tomorrow for my conversation with composer and musician Fernando Arroyo, in which we discuss musical collaboration in many forms. Arroyo, in which we discuss musical collaboration in many forms. Significant Others is written and read by me, Liza Powell O'Brien. I'm not a historian, and I'm greatly indebted to the work of those who are. In some cases, I use diaries or newspapers or court records as sources, but most often I draw from biographies and autobiographies and articles, which represent countless hours of work by people who are far more knowledgeable than I. Sources for each episode

are listed in the show notes. If you hear something interesting and you want to know more, please consider ordering these books from your independent bookseller. And if you are a historian or someone who knows something about the people I'm talking about, and you'd like to take issue Thank you. History is filled with characters, and we tend to focus on just a few of them. Significant Others is produced by Jen Samples. Our executive producers are Nick Liao, Adam Sachs, Jeff Ross, and Colin Anderson. Engineering and sound design by Eduardo Perez, Rich Garcia, and Joanna Samuel. Music and scoring by Eduardo Perez and Hannes Brown. Research and fact-checking by Michael Waters and Hannah Sio.

Special thanks to Lisa Berm, Jason Chalemi, and Joanna Solitaroff. Talent booking by Paula Davis and Gina Batista.