If you follow Philly jazz, you know Alexander Claffy. He's a bassist and bandleader with one of the busiest schedules on the scene, whether he's leading his own groups or working with everyone from Kurt Rosenwinkel to Louis Hayes. For Claffy (as everyone calls him), it's all part of a creative pathway that started in Philadelphia.
Claffy has a new album, Alive in Philadelphia, Vol. 1, recorded at his regular haunt, Chris' Jazz Cafe. For our series Philly Made, we welcomed him into the WRTI performance studio, where he played some tunes with singer Carolina Peña and pianist Tim Brey. Claffy also sat down for a conversation with Nicole Sweeney. Below, find an edited excerpt of the interview, and a few videos from the performance.
From what I understand, your home was filled with music before you even got there. Take me back to a day in the Claffy house. What's being played?
I kind of grew up in the womb on club dates, because my father, Joseph Claffy, was a great club-date bandleader in Philly, New York and abroad. My mom met him singing in his band, and she was on gigs while she was pregnant with me. So growing up, it was nonstop American Songbook around the house: Cole Porter, George Gershwin, Dave Frishberg. My dad also knew so much Black American music — Motown, go-go like Chuck Brown — and Brazilian music. It was always blasting in the car.
I wasn't sure he wanted me to be a musician, but music was everything, all the time, so I gravitated toward it. He became a lawyer later in life but still worked most weekends as a musician. My mom became a talent agent in Philly and New York, and I wound up being a voice on Blue's Clues. It was very show biz, but we lived out in Chester County, and my family is all over Manayunk and Roxborough, so we were in the city every couple of days.
I started on keyboards, like my dad. Then in high school, my friends — one of whom later founded La Reserve Records — needed a bass player, so I walked into West Chester Music and picked up an electric bass. I came down to the UArts summer camp and met Dahi Divine, Justin Faulkner and a lot of people who are still playing great around Philly, and they said, "Bro, you've got to switch to upright." I just wanted to be Jaco, the Norristown hometown hero. Rock and fusion. Then they said, "Check out this Coltrane," and that was it.
When I first got the electric bass, my dad took me on a private gig. I didn't even know where the notes were. He sat me down next to the piano and made me hear the tunes. That's how I learned to play the bass — all the standards I play now as a jazz musician. Not many people get that kind of training, and I was really fortunate.
Once jazz finds you, you're here to stay. Where did that start for you in Philly?
The Clef Club, at our first jam sessions. Lovett Hines — so important. I remember they had a reception for Christian McBride when I must have been 15. He picked up someone's random five-string electric bass and played "Cherokee" on it, and it was like a religious experience. Orrin Evans' band was around, with Stacy Dillard, Nasheet Waits and two amazing bass players, Eric Revis and Tarus Mateen, and I was taking lessons with them. And of course Mike Boone and the whole local scene.
I'd get out of high school at 2:45, and my girlfriend at the time would drive me to the R5 station — I don't drive, because I'm blind in my left eye. I'd take the train an hour and 15 minutes into the city, blasting Coltrane, meet up with friends like Dahi Divine and Jordan Howell, and we'd go to every jam session in town: Sid Simmons, John Swana, Lee Smith, Dave Brodie, Victor North, Neil Podgurski. Every night, even in high school, and somehow I'd make my way back to Chester County.
When I think about high school, I think about wanting to get home and get on the phone. You had that dedication even then.
I'd heard A Love Supreme for the first time, and I felt like I'd found my thing. One Up, One Down, the Half Note recordings, all those Coltrane records — and then being able to walk around North Philly and say, "He lived here." Jimmy Garrison was from Philly. McCoy Tyner. Reggie Workman, who wound up moving me to New York. He gave me a scholarship, because I wasn't going to be able to afford the New School. I met him at the Clef Club two weeks before my audition — we opened for him — and when I auditioned, he remembered me and all the other guys from Philly.
Reggie is a Philadelphia legend, a living legend, and a name we should be saying more often. Talk to me about the mentors who shaped you.
I'm inevitably going to miss people, because I've been so fortunate. I've had more mentors than anyone I know. Part of that is the kindness of people, but it's also in my nature to go seeking it. I figured out early that I learn through one-on-one communication. In Philly, it was the guys in my dad's band, then Mike Boone, Orrin, Revis, Tarus Mateen, Dave Brodie, Victor North, Wayne Smith Jr., and Justin Faulkner, who was our age but already so advanced that he was passing wisdom back to us from the bandstand.
When I moved to New York, I tried to learn from the whole faculty at the New School. A lot of it was Orrin Evans taking a chance and putting me on the bandstand long before I was ready, including with Kurt Rosenwinkel, who became one of my greatest teachers of music and life, and now a dear friend. Also Philly-born.
I recently learned that when Orrin puts musicians in that kind of space, it's purposeful.
Absolutely. He has a plan, even if you don't know it, because he sees something in you. There's always pressure to sell tickets and put certain names in your band. We all deal with that, just from the economics of jazz and Black American music, and putting people in seats is tougher than ever. But he always makes space for people he believes in. Kurt's the same, with Justin Faulkner and now with Philly musicians like Joe Block and Aidan McKeon. Philadelphia musicians have always reciprocated, at least for me. And my bass mentors in New York were unbelievable: Gerald Cannon, Buster Williams, Mr. Carter — Ron Carter.
I noticed your socks. Inspired by Ron?
I'm going to say Mr. Carter, because I love him so much. He changed my life forever. I definitely upped my sock game after him. These are actually socks I bought for my partner — they're from Finland — but I thought, "I have a nice interview today. Let me wear some nice socks."
Ron Carter isn't Philly Made, but you can't talk about jazz without him. Talk to me about working with him.
I studied with him for maybe 12 lessons. Plenty of students studied with him far longer, and I'm grateful for the time I had. I've put a lot of effort into studying his recordings, and I've gone to see him at least 100 times in New York. Those lessons were life-changing — really, the first one was. Focus and dedication. If you made a diagram of the truly amazing musicians I've been around who've had longevity, Kurt is the same way: they get there early, they practice really hard, and they'll show up at whatever hour they need to make the gig the level they want every night. Mr. Carter exemplifies that, and he was kind enough to write the liner notes to my first record, which has Kurt on it.
That first lesson was eye-opening: this is the level of detail you can operate at as a bass player. Sometimes bass players get typecast as being in the back of the band, where maybe people aren't listening. People like Ron Carter and Buster Williams, and their predecessors like Paul Chambers and Philly's own Percy Heath, redefined the bass as a force to be dealt with. He's my greatest inspiration.
You recorded an album right here: Alive in Philadelphia, Vol. 1 — which means more volumes are coming.
Volume one is actually the second night, with Jaleel Shaw — Philly again. It was recorded at Chris' Jazz Café. The entire staff there has been amazing to me since I was a kid. My first time, Dahi Divine and I went down to the jam session led by Luke Carlos O'Reilly, with Justin on drums and Tarus Mateen on bass. I was so scared. Tarus handed me the bass and said, "I'm gonna go get a bite. You got it." It was 45 minutes up there. I've never sweat like that.
Al McMahon, who books it, has done an incredible job of blending Philadelphia and New York musicians and giving dedicated musicians a chance, and Mark, the owner, is wonderful. I'd always wanted to make a record there. We planned it a year in advance, and it came out amazing. It was recorded by the late, great Michael Perez-Cisneros, who worked a lot with Kurt, Gilad Hekselman and me. And what a band: Bill Stewart, Seamus Blake, Jaleel and Kevin Hays. I got my butt whooped, to put it the PC way.
Why was the word "alive" important to you for the title?
Finding a good title for a live record is hard after so many great ones — Sunday at the Village Vanguard, Coltrane Live at the Village Vanguard, Cannonball's Nippon Soul. It might sound trite, but the music felt very much alive. I had a vision of people living their everyday lives in Philly, and all these amazing musicians who are alive in Philadelphia that people don't talk about enough. People come here from New York or wherever, and their jaws drop at the level of musicianship. That was just one night of many I've had at Chris', and at Time, and places like Grey's Lounge and La Rose in Germantown.
And I missed most of the legendary clubs. The day I started hanging out, the website said Ortlieb's had just closed. So I've gotten all the Ortlieb's lore and bootlegs secondhand, from Orrin, Mike Boone, Rodney Green — people who played there.
What can folks expect from Volume Two?
It's a different flavor. The first night was with Sean Jones. He'd just flown in, we had about an hour and a half for soundcheck and rehearsal, and right away it was hot Friday-night energy. Volume one captures a lot of intensity, but volume two goes further toward both ends of the spectrum: more tenderness, with a trumpet ballad and a piece where I play the melody on bass, and also some stuff with Sean where it really cooks. The rhythm section is locked in the same way, so it's a series, but Sean and Jaleel are totally different. I'm also excited for people to hear some Brazilian music I have coming out with Toninho Horta, and a couple other live records. My hard drive is full right now.
A saying that really represents Philly for me is "Stay ready, so you ain't gotta get ready."
That's my whole vibe. My buddy Dahi said to me, "The way you practice, it's like you're trying to stay ready" — practicing the hardest thing you possibly can first thing in the morning. I think New York taught me that. You never know what a day is going to require musically, so you have to stay in the zone.
New York might have taught you that, but Philly prepared you. If someone were coming to Philly for the first time, where would you send them for a true Philly experience?
First of all, if you're getting a steak, I'd send them to Angelo's. Sorry for the controversy — it's a big musician battle these days. Pretty standard: onions and provolone. No Whiz for me. Then some of the tourist stuff, of course — Reading Terminal Market, the Art Museum. But you've got to go to Fairmount Park, and there are beautiful parks up in Roxborough, too. For music and nightlife, Sansom Street: Chris' and Time. There are all these pop-up concerts now, too. Silk City — the diner, and then they have a dance party. Brooklyn Bowl. The flagship La Colombe in Fishtown — crazy-good coffee. If you have kids, the Franklin Institute; that was my favorite as a kid. And you've got to drive by Coltrane's house.
Give me a record by a Philly Made artist that everyone should check out.
Can I give you five? Number one: One Up, One Down: Live at the Half Note by the John Coltrane Quartet. That's the bible. Jill Scott's first record, Who Is Jill Scott? Kurt Rosenwinkel, The Next Step. Christian McBride, Live at Tonic. A Joey DeFrancesco live record from the early 2000s whose name is escaping me. Orrin has so many records I love that it'd be hard to pick one. Then there's Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers — one of their most amazing lineups was all Philadelphians except for him. The Heath Brothers. McCoy — The Real McCoy, Live at Newport. Bobby Timmons, Stan Getz. It's endless. If you put on a random jazz record, it'd probably be a Philadelphian. I hate to brag, and people give me a hard time because I was born in West Chester —
You're here now. That's the beautiful thing about Philly. Don't let anybody or any news outlet make you feel like Philly will close the door on you. That's never been my experience.
You're in New York all week, taking the subway, people bumping into you, and then you show up at Chris' and it's like a big hug. Everybody's having a jam session. There's no warmer feeling, and the level of musicianship is so high. Sometimes when people move from Europe and ask, "Should I go to New York?" I say, "Maybe go to Philly for a few years and just hang first." It's the best place to get acclimated.
Last one. Give me one word to describe Philly.
Two words: all heart. With the Philadelphians I've connected with, in and outside of music, it's a personality thing. It's warmth, too — that's another word I have to use. It's the way people connect with each other and feel empathy, and you feel it as soon as you're in the city. Whenever I bring people here, they say, "The vibe here is so warm." It's all heart and all warmth, and I'm trying to make it a principle, to carry that with me everywhere I go.
