Leo Gadson is a singular hero in the city of Philadelphia. He is the first and only prolific Black jazz producer in a Black city long known for its song and sound. His oldest brother, whose musical torch became an igniting and lifelong influence for Leo, was born a century ago; stretching this broadly and this deeply are Leo’s history and vision. 

Philadelphia is not a cosmopolitan city; it is, however, a world city—having been influenced by world culture, and yet influenced cultures the world over. Jazz, and its expressions in the city as freedom songs, songs of the people over the course of generations, is evidence of this. 

There is no jazz without the blues, without Black folk, without the sorrow songs, because it is a music that rings only when filled with one philosophy, that is the Black proletariat’s voicing of freedom—from a cry, into a demand, to an assertion: that we long to, and really, we must be free; our people, and the world situation demand it. 

Jazz, blues, gospel, and R&B are a music whose vitality draws from the same wellspring. Norman Connors, Robert Kenyatta, Spanky DeBrest, and Bootsie Barnes came up in the Richard Allen Projects; Leo shared this North Philadelphia lifeworld. So did Lee Morgan, The Stylistics, Bobby Timmons, The Intruders, Odean Pope, The Delfonics, Philly Joe Jones, and John Coltrane, among others. This cradle of Black life flowed into American civilization, furnishing its greatest music which became beloved by the world. James Baldwin wrote, “‘The Uses of the Blues’ does not refer to music; I don’t know anything about music. It does refer to the experience of life, or the state of being, out of which the blues come.” 

Today, the narrative of jazz is shaped by an essentially white worldview; one which separates it from the people who made the major contribution to its creation and continuance. Sanctioned by academics, journalists, nonprofits, and cultural elites, it is no longer viewed as a music expressing the freedom aspirations of the poor and oppressed. It is unanchored from its history in the Black Freedom Movement. Jazz therefore, if it is to have a future, must rediscover its ideological foundations in the people and the struggles for peace, democracy, and justice. The next generations of Charlie Parker, Thelonious Monk, and John Coltrane will emerge from the same dark soil that produced Leo. 

Jazz emerges from a Black Proletariat Imaginary, a futuristic vision of America and the world. Leo Gadson is the prophet of this vision and a hero of the people. A man who stands with humanity, and Black humanity in particular. We are better, more capable of transforming Philadelphia and this nation, for what Leo has given. He paid his dues, sacrificed. And worked, continues to find work, in order “to love somebody,” as Martin Luther King Jr. did. Leo’s life is the moral standard for us—the artist, the musician, the listener—today.

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Words on Words with Leo Gadson

Interview by Michelle Lyu, Anthony Monteiro, Kathie Jiang

Big Brothers

“My brothers, they was always in the arts. They had that thuggishness, but once they passed that off—man, my living room’s big like this, and we used to have them jam sessions, and I’m a little kid watching and stuff—didn’t know I was gonna be a jazz promoter, had no idea, you know what I mean. It just happened, fell in my lap. And I learned how to be a listener because when I came home from Vietnam, I studied Black music for seven years. And I didn’t do it to make money. I did it to show white boys and other folks, we can do this here too. 

“I’ve been artistic director since then and still now, you know. But I did it for Black folks, you know—‘We can do this too. I ain’t scared of this.’ You know what I mean, this is another fight.”

Growing up in the Tenderline 

“I was deeply into the music, brother. But never knew I would actually be a promoter, I had no idea.

“I’d been probably listening to Monk since I was about five, seven years old—not really, really into it—but enough to be handy and catch on that, you know what I mean. And my brothers—they introduced stuff, they introduced me to a lot of stuff, but I wasn’t soaking it up as fast as they wanted me to, they wanted me to be bad. 

“I was like the quiet kid. Quiet. I didn’t say nothing, but I tell people, you don’t want to mess with me—I’m dangerous. I’m dangerous. I said, y’all think my brothers were dangerous, I’m worse than they are, because I always been the quiet one. 

“Because my younger brother, he ran in the Tenderlines, back in the late 50s and 60s. Pee Wee, ‘cause back then we had structures, yeah, we had the Pee Wees, the Mickeys, the Juniors, the Singers, and the Oldheads. It was structured. They didn’t even know I was in the gang, ‘cause I was laid back, I was always quiet, you know. I didn’t say nothing, man.”

Jazz and R&B World

“Because on my block, we had them jam sessions, my brothers. My brothers were sophisticated in terms of the culture. ‘Cause we learned the culture, they forced culture on us. I couldn’t listen to no R&B until I was 18. Back then we had those little transmitter radios, like a cellphone. And I’d be listening to R&B—if they’d catch me, they’d take that out of my hand and smash it—say ‘You ain’t playing this.’

“Me growing up, I came up in the jazz world and the R&B. I was involved in the two; I just did jazz because it was cheaper for me. I didn’t have the kind of money to pay for the R&B cats, jazz was cheap you know what if I mean. 

“But if it wasn’t for my brothers, I don’t know. I know I got a legacy, I know that, no doubt about it, you know what I mean. Because I did something that people thought that you couldn’t do, unless you had grants. I never had grants.”

A Thousand Dollars 

“When I first started, my mother said I’m her baby, I’m just a special child, I was cool, I never got in trouble that she know of. I stayed close to home and do what my mother asked me to do, but when I started doing the jazz thing, I said ‘Mama I need some help.’ To this day I don’t know how my mother got this, because she’s a factory worker, I mean she graduated—she should have went to college but she never made it to college—but she stressed education. 

“But my mother gave me a thousand dollars. ‘Cuz they used to make you go up to New York; if I wanted to get someone I had to go to New York, just to talk to the booking agency. I had to pay them a thousand dollars, just to talk to them. My mother gave me that money, said what happened, and when I got the number of the cats personally, I got all their numbers. 

“I don’t go to booking agents. I go straight to the artist, and tell them, I say, ‘My name is Leo Gadson, and I’m with what’s called the Producer’s Guild. I’m trying to be a jazz promoter, Black promoter. 99% of them say, ‘Yeah, we’re going with you.’ And they in turn, after they said I was cool, make sure I pay them, you know what I mean, I wasn’t trying to get the money—and you show, and got the confidence, that was it, and then they turned me onto other people.

“Like when I did Dexter Gordon, an historical concert at that church at 48th and Baltimore. Nobody was in that church, just me, I was the first Black cat in there doing the music. I did Dexter Gordon, Jackie McLean, Slide Hampton, Ronnie Matthews, Strafford James, and Louis Hayes, in one concert. I put that together, I called it The Reunion Concert.

“Only one person refused me, told me to get the hell out of his dressing room. And that was Yusef, and I cried like a baby. Yusef Lateef—said ‘Get the hell out of my dressing room.’ I caught him on a bad day. But it hurt, I was young, it hurt my feelings. 

“But that was okay because I got many other people, I got a whole lot of people. They shared their friendship, with their friends, telling them ‘Hey, we got this Black cat in Philly trying to do something.’”

Vietnam and Manhood 

“I had a cultural awakening when I went to Vietnam. When I was called there, when I went to Vietnam, because I mean, I didn’t want to go, you know; and I’m not going to say something was wrong with me and all that crazy stuff. I’m gonna take my luck. I don’t have my degree, you know what I mean, but I tell everybody, I got my bachelor’s, my master’s, and PhD in Vietnam. Real quick.

“Talking about who is Black, one thing this country always did to us—saying to us that those other guys in South Philly, are really better than you in North Philly, and people over in West Philly are better than you. They always made North Philly out to be the worst part to be living in the world. Brother, why—we had fun down here, we was having fun. 

“It happened the same way in service with me—well them guys, officers thought this way. In the pictures we were all men, all Black men. We was all the same, just had different experiences. Out in Vietnam, a guy was showing me a picture from Chicago. I said, man we got the same picture in Philly: the high rise projects. They thought that we was so different, but we was the same. We were dancin’, and we were like in the middle of the jungle, each having a good old time. That brotherhood stuff coming in—you start learning who you are.

“Once you know who you are, nobody can touch you. Nobody. But we wasn’t taught that in the beginning, because really, that Black movement didn’t really start until like the late 60s, really. I’m gonna say after ‘64. But the early years, between the 40s, we ain’t really had no confidence in who we are, you know, not really. We believed everything we’d read. 

“You know, that’s what I liked about Lincoln, because they made us read, they made us read Black literature, everything, all that stuff coming. Those of who soaked it up was cool, you know what I mean. But a lot of people didn’t soak it up. But I didn’t force them ‘cause I had the culture side, then I had the revolutionary side, you know. And the reason why I became a revolutionary is because I fought in the war, so I knew we had more stuff than we had.”

I mean you were on the front lines. Yeah. What did you see? 

“Death. Destruction. I mean, I talk about death a lot with a lot of my friends, my wife—to me, I’m not afraid of death anymore—I’ve got to go, I got to go.”

Coming back from Vietnam 

How did it affect you when you came back from Vietnam and how did you integrate back into society, what did you see your purpose as after?

“I was still searching. I was highly revolutionary. That’s what I was starting to get to with religion. That’s what made me say, now how can we be serving the same God, with the Black and white issue, all of that? It took me up to 50 years old to solve that problem. Religion. Talking about God you know, all this crazy stuff. And my thing was, why are we arguing over Black and white, and we supposed to believe in the same God? I couldn’t understand.”

Family History

“My high school, when I went to Franklin in 1962, I was the first brother to have an afro. And the kids used to tease me. They had their hair cut short. I was the first one—they used to call me Mau Mau. That’s what they used to call me, ‘cause they ain’t really know. But I took pride, I was the first brother. But I got it from my brothers. Everything they learned, they gave it to me.

“My oldest brother was Richard. He was in World War II. He lied about his age, said he was 17 but he was only 14. He went to the war. I have three brothers that have been in war. My brother Norman, he was in the Korean War. My brother Richard in World War II. Then I’m the Vietnam War. It was interesting. My brother James is the artist I keep telling you about. Bad cat, man. If you want to know anything about my brother, the person who can really talk about my brother is Richard Watson.”

A Revolutionary Life

“My brothers, we’re revolutionaries, we’ll die revolutionaries. And my mother told us: if you will ever do anything for your people, it better be about helping them. It better not be about trying to beat them up. My mother said that. A word of wisdom. And she taught us all that.”

Brothers’ Block 

“They grew up in a time when jazz was really happening. Like I said, my brother was 22 years older than me—from 9 years, to 22. The one who was 22 years older than me, if he were still here, he’d be 100. They were listening to the art, the music. I mean, I was listening to Bird when I was a little cat.”

Philadelphia Renaissance 

“My brother had a studio in the 60s. At 8th and Fairmount, near Friends Neighborhood Guild; the last thing he had was on 15th and Market, an art studio. And they would never allow me to come there; I’d come there when nobody was there. But that’s how I learned how to throw parties, watching them—‘cause they had some mean, I mean, intellectual parties, where everybody’s about the arts. I mean my brother was hanging out with Betty Carter, they knew them people. They would come there. I mean Philly—see, they be talking about the Harlem Renaissance—they had one here too, that people don’t know about. I’ve seen that part; I got to meet all the artists.”

Finding Work

“I didn’t graduate. That was my ignorance, because I figured ‘I’m a hard worker,’ I could do anything I wanted to do; I’m hoping that somebody would like give me a job. ‘Cause I’m a worker. I’m a worker. 

“At my jazz shows, it seems like I would be sitting down, relaxing. I been moving around, I’m that cat. I’m the organizer. I can organize people. I have the ability, I can make people go there, and they’ll come with me, because they dig me. I had that sort of magic. People like me, you know. But if you do me wrong, we got a problem. I like to be real, and I speak to real people. But I didn’t graduate, now I should have.

“I’m somebody. And most Black people, everybody tell them they nobody, they can’t do this, they can’t do that—you can do anything you want.

“If those white boys can do it, I can do it. And I just did. I just did. 

“I needed to show them we can do this. ‘Cause they don’t know my background, they don’t know. They know me, but they don’t know my brothers. And all my brothers—I had some strong brothers, and I stand on their shoulders.”

James Gadson

“And my brother had a painting in the art museum in 1973. They just took it down three years ago—James Gadson. 

“Barkley Hendricks—my brother taught him. Really, brother. My brother taught him, and I didn’t know it. He wrote an article and said—if it wasn’t for James Gadson, Moe Brooker, he wouldn’t be who he is today. And he came to my brother’s school and my brother, he was sitting down at the Art Department, he ain’t say nothing. And he was speaking, he said, my teacher’s in the room with me now. He pointed to my brother and everybody, they couldn’t believe it.”

Reasons

“At the last show, you see me start crying—y’all didn’t see it. I started tearing up. Because I’m very passionate. About who I am and our people. That’s why I do this. That’s why I keep doing what I’m doing. I’m working against a lot of odds sometimes, you know. 

“This city really should be honoring me because of what I did. I brought some of the baddest people here with no money in my pocket. None. Ahmad Jamal. Ahmad Jamal, nice cat. Phineas Newborn Jr. I did Cecil Taylor. I did Sam Rivers. I did Jackie McLean. I did Joe Henderson.”

Bebop and Avant-Garde

“My brothers, they’re into not that avant-garde stuff. They straight bebop cats. But when I started doing it, I had avant-garde cats, I seen cats that like bebop—I turned them on; when they came to my Sam Rivers concert, they started loving the avant-garde. ‘Cause sometimes people get hung up ‘bout this, that and that—it’s all the same music. It comes from different eras. 

“My era, I’m just a little bit into bop. I’m not a bop cat like my brothers, but I had to know that. I didn’t even like big band. But I had to research, when I heard Money Jungle with Charlie Mingus, Max Roach. When I heard that, I started getting into Duke Ellington. So you got to keep doing research.”

Love for the Music 

“I tell all young musicians, if you’re gonna play your horn you got to love it like it’s your wife—if you don’t have the love for that, put it down. 

“It’s not about the money for me. It’s about the history of the music, where it comes from. Now I’m not gonna say what it came from. But I know it starts coming from Africa. In the fields. The church. That was where it comes from; you get the same kind of thing.

“I got people from my church, they don’t come to my concerts, they think it’s, you know, bad music. But it’s the same stuff. It’s the same stuff. It’s no different, it’s no different. They just play it different. Black music is healing music, it perks you up. Check out them little kids, little Black kids. When they hear music, they be doing it, where you get that spirit from? I’m into music for the spiritual aspect. And that could be another form of religion. 

“You got to be into it, you know what I mean. And you got to listen. All of it. Jazz, to me, it’s an artwork. Art. When they’re playing it. You’re never going to see that same piece again, by the same people.”

The Philadelphia Scene

“The white man ain’t give me nothing, and I don’t ask for nothing. When I do talk to them, I tell them ‘I’m underground.’ They think when I say ‘underground,’ they don’t really understand what I’m talking about, because they don’t understand my lingo. And I’m not no real proper guy, you know what I mean. I’m not. I’m not into that, I’m gonna keep it real with you. 

“I do all my shows; I’ve been losing money. These last couple years I’m breaking even. You know, but it all depends on the dollar amount. Before when I was coming in, when I first started doing concerts: five dollars, then seven dollars, for ten dollars, fifteen dollars, twenty dollars. They said I couldn’t do it. Now I know I can put on a show, get 50 dollars if I want to. But I’m gonna bring in the baddest cats that nobody’s seen.

“I proved that when I did Bobby Watson in Germantown. I brought Bobby Watson in there, I had over a hundred and eighty people—packed house. And they were shocked. They ran out of liquor; they didn’t do what I told them to do. I told them, have this set up; they didn’t want to do it because they didn’t think I knew nothing.”

Fierce Urgency of Now 

“If you don’t feel my spirit, you don’t know me. ‘Cause I’m very serious about this. It’s our history. And I don’t wanna slip. And I’m afraid that if we don’t stay on top of this, 10 to 15 years there’ll be some white boy John Coltrane. Come on, now. Because they gonna change our history, we know this. They lied to us. You know what I mean.”

The Producer’s Guild 

“When I first started The Producer’s Guild, it wasn’t called The Producer’s Guild, It was called The Black Producer’s Guild, I used it just for a minute, but I figured that scared people. When you say something is Black, that scares people. 

“Then I made it the Producer’s Guild, you know. But I ain’t give no names, unless you personally knew me, you know. And I had people think that it was like a lot of people involved, but it was just me.”

Well, why that name? It’s a special name, you know? 

“Producers Guild? I was trying to just show people that we can produce music just as well as anybody else. Because it was called ‘Producer’s.’”

Down from Heaven 

“I did a concert one time, 2019, and it was a bad concert. Jaleel Shaw was there playing. And I was behind the stage while he’s playing. 

“And I was just thinking, I wanted my brothers and my mother looking down on from heaven, looking down on me, seeing, a little Black kid from North Philly putting this together. That’s what I thought about, you know what I mean. Always being with me.”