Another chapter from Pity the Genius

Bill Frisell on Dennis Budimir

What I find especially cool about this chapter from my book is it involves two treats: the first is learning more about how the great Bill Frisell thinks. If you listen to how he describes what he considers great, you learn a bit about what makes his groups so great, and so unique. The second is learning about a guitarist that for most of us is way under the radar. Read on, and here our links to these two interesting pieces of guitar music.

Dennis Budimir with Bill Frisell: Miss Movement and Blues—Sprung Free

During the pandemic I hosted several teaching summits online. One of my favorites included Bill Frisell and others talking about 10 guitar tracks that had shaped them. Frisell’s choices taught me a lot about his own music. Most of his selections emphasized group interplay, artists that were lesser known, nothing heroic or overtly sensational. One of Bill’s choices included a name unknown to me, Dennis Budimir. I was thrilled to learn about someone new.

In October of 2023 Bill came over to my house and we continued our discussion about this lesser-known guitarist. Dennis was on the cutting edge of the post- bop jazz scene in L.A. and New York City in the late 1950’s. He made several recordings, notably as a sideman to drummer Chico Hamilton in a band featuring Eric Dolphy. In fact Budimir lived with Dolphy not far from where I currently reside. He made his own bracing trio records with a young Gary Peacock on bass in the 60’s. Dennis replaced Jim Hall in Hamilton’s band, which suggests his aesthetic. The two had plenty in common.

But then— in the mid 1960’s he ended up in L.A. as part of the famed studio outfit The Wrecking Crew. Subsequently Budimir played on hundreds of important recordings, Joni Mitchell’s Court and Spark, Bobbie Gentry’s The Delta Sweetie, Frank Zappa Lumpy Gravy, Ravi Shankar’s Transitions. He was the studio player of this era. His days as a touring jazz player ended.

Here is what Bill says about Dennis:

“My teacher, Dale Bruning, in Denver, told me everything. I had discovered Wes Montgomery and he started telling me about all the folks like Jim Hall, Jimmy Raney, Johnny Smith, and then Dennis Budimir. This is maybe 1970. I listened to a recording by Dennis, and it felt like that was the future. The next step after Jim Hall. When you hear Miss Movement, (from the 1959 Chico Hamilton record), it’s really crazy. His lines go a little farther than you’re expecting. Something about his choices, the phrasing and melodies that almost go off the rails—no cliches, and really surprising. So I got all excited about him—but then I was disappointed when I found out he’d become a studio musician.

I got this gig with Carla Bley, Michael Mantler, Steve Swallow and Nick Mason (Pink Floyd’s keyboardist). I’d recently met Swallow, we’re hanging out—I asked if he’d heard of Dennis Budimir, I thought I was being hip or something. Steve had definitely heard of him, you know Steve had lived on the west coast. So I was saying ‘He’s totally sold out. And now he’s just one of those studio guys, it’s such a drag, ‘cause he was like destined to be the next guy, the future of jazz guitar. And then he just went commercial.’

Swallow got mad. I got scolded. He said, “You have no idea what was going on. How can you say that? You don’t know what was happening in this guy’s life, or anything about this situation. You can’t possibly judge him.”

So I learned something. It was a big lesson. I mean, I’d never say that today.

It turned out Dennis had just come to New York in the late 50’s, and he was doing well, like, living with Eric Dolphy, and then somehow he had to go into the Army. So then he comes back and moves back home to LA, but a lot of his friends are gone. So where’s the work? He doesn’t know exactly what to do. Someone says, “Hey man, I got this recording with Frank Sinatra, why don’t you come?” So he’s on this record date playing all the crazy New York jazz stuff and gets reprimanded. But then he realized, oh, I have to play the right thing. And the next day he got a call again. And then he just fell into that studio work. He’s on everything we ever heard, but we never even knew that he was there.”

Bill and I listened to the long Blues solo Dennis takes on his 1968 record “Sprung Free.” Here’s Bill’s reaction: “So he’s already going out of the key, and the solo just started. Really different. That’s wild. I love how much time he spends in the low register. In a blindfold test you might think Dennis is Miles Okazaki. It’s that exact tone with the Charlie Christian pickup. He’s pushing off the edge of what they knew. It’s still connected to the tradition and everything, but— it’s really way out. There’s also some records with Dennis playing with Billy Bean. They’re just sitting around in the kitchen or something. Dale told me about Bean. People say he was the closest thing to Charlie Parker on the guitar. He’s outrageous, Billy Bean.”

I found an interview with Dennis by radio host Jake Feinberg. They spin those same records Bill and I listened to, and Dennis, who hadn’t heard them in decades, say, “Man, that guy plays his ass off!” He seems truly pleased to revisit his former self. Dennis recalls that at the age of 17 he was already turning heads. As I listened to the interview I wondered…how was it that these two entities co-existed inside Dennis? The cutting edge youngster and the esteemed studio elder?

I asked Bill about meeting and jamming with Dennis in 2021.

Well, it’s a long story—(the rock band) Wilco came to Seattle, and I sat in and they just handed me this guitar. And it was a Nash Telecaster. Bill Nash was there.
Then about three weeks later I go home and there’s a box, and he had sent me a guitar! I went down to his shop and he showed me all around. I had just recorded the record When You Wish Upon a Star, that uses movie themes. He told me his Dad was a studio trombonist who’d played on everything from 1945 on, and he told me about Bob Bain, another storied studio guy. I told him how much I liked Dennis’ records.

So he set up a lunch in LA where all these guys from the old studio days showed up, including Budimir and Bob Bain. Dennis was thrilled I knew his work, and I got him to sign a record. He was really gracious and kind. And then this Fretboard Journal guy set up this other meeting with Bob and Dennis where we played and talked. It was just so cool to meet those guys.”

Bill and I talked some more about what it was that set Dennis apart in those early records—he was one of the more transgressive players of his time, slippery phrasing, more like a horn player than some of their contemporaries. He didn’t have that boxed in feeling that some guitarists have. A true improviser…

Why is that important?

I’d like to try to explain in a way that might be understandable to a non-musician. To Bill, and to most jazz musicians, the goal is not what we already know—it’s discovery. New frontiers. We’re looking for something that’s never happened before. Let’s say we listen to back-to-back solos. The first is beautifully executed, but derivative. It’s been done. The second has new Ideas, it makes you raise your eyebrows in surprise, laugh. It may even be a little sloppier as the player stretches. Bill would likely prefer the second. You can hear that in Dennis’ jazz playing. It’s the more remarkable because of how young he is, only 21 at the time of the Chico Hamilton recording.

Picture two plates of pasta. One tastes exactly like you’d expect. It’s good, no complaints, you’ll walk away full. But the other makes you exclaim, “My God I’ve never tasted anything quite like that. It was different and delicious.” And then you remember that meal for a long time. That’s Dennis Budimir.

There were a number of great players in the late 50’s, some of whom I’ve mentioned before. Most of them found that the life of a jazz musician was untenable. Johnny Smith left the touring life to work in a music store and play a local gig once a week. Tal Farlow mostly retired in the late 50’s and worked as a sign painter. Jimmy Raney’s career was cut short by alcoholism and disease. Billy Bean also suffered from alcohol abuse. The Los Angeles studio scene kept many players going— Barney Kessel, John Pisano, Herb Ellis, Jimmy Wyble, and Dennis. It’s tantalizing to think where Budimir would have gone if he had stayed in New York and lived the jazz life. Instead, he became a vessel for other peoples’ dreams. My talk with Bill ended with us agreeing that the people behind the scenes in the studio, like Dennis, had earned our undying respect. It was as an honorable and enviable as living the jazz touring life.

And so this piece ended until I stumbled upon an ending I didn’t anticipate.

Once again the romance is sheared away, leaving dank dissatisfaction. I happened to mention my essay on Dennis to a guitarist who knew him well from the mid 80’s and on. He told me that becoming a studio ace embittered Dennis, that in general he felt he was playing music by hacks. Little of it was artistically satisfying. The scene was populated by people who preferred talking about their mansions and cars to music. He became cynical and dark—and rich. In learning to copy all styles, which is the calling card of a studio player, he lost his own. The high life changed him, made him condescending. And yet Dennis refused to go out and play his own music, “low money” gigs in clubs. He derided any younger player who chose that path. Better to become a lawyer than a player of any kind.

Addendum:

I didn't put this in the book, but it's worth adding that Dennis finally made his own record towards the end of his life. I read somewhere that he felt it was by far the best thing he ever did. It’s called “The Soul of Dennis Budimir.”

I cannot find it on YouTube or Spotify, though it is for sale on Amazon. I recall that when I wrote this piece, I listened to some of it, not sure how. Maybe it was during that interview that he did. It did NOT sound like his best record or his best playing to me.

I welcome your thoughts on it, if you can find the music!