Wes Bound: The Genius of Wes Montgomery

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With additional support from: Kenneth and Margaret Phares, Michael and Janie Maurer, Tom and Lana Cochrun, James Finch, Gayle Dosher, Eugenia Walker.

And these generous supporters.

Thank you!

Find that you miss him more than you ever thought you'd missed him.

NARRATOR: Robert Montgomery is on a mission, a journey really.

He wants to learn more about the father he barely knew, and he wants you to get to know him too.

Robert walks the very streets where his dad used to work.

But there's almost nothing left of the vibrant, exciting business district where his dad put in so many hours on the job.

Still, he has found people all around the world who remember what this place used to be.

People who remember his dad.

You're talking about a genius, genius.

You know, he's up there.

You know, what Coltrane is to the saxophone, Wes Montgomery is to the guitar.

You say his name.

You say Wes.

It's the sound, it's everything.

Like Miles was like that.

There aren't too many of those one-name people, and he's that.

He was a beautiful musician first, and a great guitarist second.

He had a reputation of being a righteous dude.

Yeah, he took care of family first.

And everybody liked him.

His sound was one of the best on planet earth, if not the best there ever was.

NARRATOR: They've been helping form a more complete picture of his father, as Robert continues his journey, "Wes Bound."

Wes Montgomery plunking guitar strings It's a good git-together I sing It's a good git-together, hear me sing Well, at a good git-together Ain't nothing else to do but swing NARRATOR: Robert Montgomery has heard about those good get-togethers, stories about his dad playing with the greats.

He and his siblings have lived their whole lives with childhood friends and even strangers telling them about their father as a famous musician.

NARRATOR: About their father's music on the radio.

The times they saw their dad on TV.

About the famous people they saw at their house.

I remember Cannonball Adderley being with us and Nat Adderley.

They were just people.

That's all they was.

Did you go, do you know that's so-and-so?

No, we didn't care.

NARRATOR: But Robert also realized as the youngest, he still has much to learn about his dad.

The man and the musician.

He never -- I never heard him play a bad -- I don't think he was capable of playing a bad note.

Everybody has a guitar face.

And your dad's guitar face, he had a slight smile all the time.

There was this inner joy.

If I had to name my favorite players on guitar, it would probably be Jimi Hendrix and Wes Montgomery.

You know, I mean, Wes's career was relatively short, and it was -- it ended back in the '60s.

So unless you're really into jazz, you might not be familiar with him.

But I don't know one jazz guitar player that doesn't bow to Wes.

And that's your dad.

You know, there's Wes, and there's everyone else.

So it is not hard to turn people onto Wes.

So that year, 1993, I was making the album dedicated to Wes, your dad.

My wife Carmen was pregnant, and we were having a baby boy, and the only thing that was on my mind, you know, was Wes, Wes, Wes.

And so it was really easy to name him when he came.

He was playing chords, and I heard the sound of the octaves.

Doo doo doo doo doo dee dee do.

And he played the chords as fast as he played the octaves and single notes.

Doh doh doh doh doh doh doh doh doh, bonk.

Doh doh doh doh, doh doh, doh dee doh.

I said, Man!

NARRATOR: For the past few years, while this film has been in production, he's been learning more about his famous father, and about himself.

Robert would say there's not much to tell.

He's the youngest of Wes and Serene Montgomery's seven kids, all born and educated in Indianapolis, well, except for the part of high school that Robert spent in California near his eldest sister there.

The older kids grew up north of downtown Indianapolis on Cornell Avenue, a neighborhood since wiped out by the development of merging interstate highways.

As their parents prospered, the family moved up to Butler-Tarkington, a neighborhood near Butler University that was becoming more diverse.

Robert was a happy, normal, if a bit energetic, kid.

You always was running around, Bobby.

That was your problem.

NARRATOR: Robert channeled all that energy into a successful career in business, with a specialty in logistics.

Along the way, he and wife Thresa had three kids, the eldest of whom is the father of their four grandchildren, one of whom is named Wes.

Thank you so much for keeping Wes life -- NARRATOR: Robert retired still a young man, which enabled him to represent the family at Wes Montgomery events, but also gave him time to realize there's still so much he doesn't know about his dad.

John Leslie Montgomery was the third son born to Thomas and Frances Blackman Montgomery.

So why the name Wes?

[ Laughter ] All I know is Wes.

So my theory was, like, you know, when he was young, maybe Monk and the guys were, like, trying to call him, they couldn't say Les.

He would always be Wes to me.

NARRATOR: Wes's father came north as part of the Great Migration and landed a job in the National Malleable Steel and Casting foundry in the ethnic non-melting pot known as Haughville, a neighborhood of small, neat houses with gardens, under smoky skies on the Indianapolis west side.

Thomas Montgomery came from Floyd County, Georgia.

His family's home at least, since his ancestors were enslaved, as far back as the 1830s.

Wes's mother, Eufala, or Frances Blackman, grew up in the same county.

Thomas was in his mid-20s when he became the first in his family to arrive in Indianapolis.

Others followed, including Frances.

She and Thomas married in 1919, and moved into a home on Pershing Avenue in Haughville where they had Thomas Junior; William Howard, later known as Monk; and on March 6th, 1923, John Leslie Montgomery.

A little girl died in infancy, but the family had another girl Ervena, and one more son, Charles, known as Buddy.

The Indianapolis Recorder noted Tom and Frances hosted rehearsals for a folk group called the Blackburn Quartette.

Give me that old time religion NARRATOR: Their kids say neither parent played a musical instrument, but Buddy remembered them as church people and singers.

Give me that old time religion Give me that old time religion It is good enough for me When you walk down the street NARRATOR: The harmony in the family deteriorated in the early days of the Great Depression.

And by 1932, Tom took the three eldest boys with him to live in Columbus, Ohio, while Frances kept Ervena and Buddy in Indianapolis.

For we are Americans, praise God We are Americans, praise God Never.

Never.

I never heard anything about the mother.

And the only thing I heard about the father was he was crazy, and he was upset about not making it to the Negro Baseball League.

Yeah, 'cause they wouldn't allow them to play in the majors.

But Mama called her Mama, because they stayed with her at one time.

Mama was crazy about it.

Grandmother Frances taught Mama some cooking.

They both baked and cooked.

NARRATOR: Not much is known about this period in the family's life, except Bill -- or Monk -- went to work as a teenager, which could explain why he could afford to buy a small, four-string tenor guitar for his younger brother, Wes, who was around 12 at the time.

In magazine interviews years later, Wes said he didn't do much with that first instrument, but it was a start.

The eldest brother, Thomas Junior, had taken up drums.

Thomas was really the oldest, who passed away at 19 of untreated pneumonia.

NARRATOR: By 1940, Wes and Monk returned to Indianapolis.

The Depression was slowly loosening its grip, and Wes began a lifelong habit of hard work.

Wes settled into work as a welder at Enterprise Iron and Fence on the Indianapolis east side, and lived at home with his mother back in Haughville on Pershing Avenue.

He started to get to know the hometown he had left behind as a child, and meet new people, including a pretty, petite girl who had moved with her family to Indianapolis from Canton, Mississippi.

Her name was Serene Miles.

And she was his first life-changing discovery.

Where did you all meet?

Church.

I liked to go to church, and that's where we met.

What did you like about him?

What interested you?

Just a nice person that you're meeting.

Can laugh and talk and -- and never no arguments and stuff.

He's always nice.

Whatever you want to do or however you want to do it is all right with him.

NARRATOR: They were only 19 when they married.

You two were pretty young.

Yes, we were.

[ Chuckles ] NARRATOR: Years later, Wes remembered his second life-changing discovery when DownBeat Magazine 's Ralph Gleason interviewed him.

Wes said he bought a used electric guitar and amplifier after the electrifying moment when he first heard jazz guitar pioneer Charlie Christian's record Solo Flight .

So you got married before he even picked up and started playing a guitar seriously?

Yes.

So he was a working man.

Yes sir.

That was it.

He worked.

You would never think that he would be the musician he was, the way he worked.

He's working, taking care of his family.

NARRATOR: Gleason quoted Wes saying: Days were for work.

Nights were for working on that guitar, playing Charlie Christian's records over and over again, and copying music note-for-note on his guitar.

When we're trying to connect a note that you hear in your head to the instrument on your hands, let's say for example.

That's what Wes was trying to do.

He's trying to solidify the notes in his memory first, and then take that memory and literally have it come out of the instrument in front of him.

Has to have a hugely good ear.

It's like a sponge.

It's like an -- you know, a photographic memory for music.

Eidetic is the word.

NARRATOR: The constant practice eventually paid off.

George Benson heard years later about the Indiana Avenue club owner who listened to Wes practicing as he walked by the Montgomery apartment every day.

He said, every day he walked by, Wes was better.

He could hear him from the window.

He said, man, you're going to be ready for my club.

Now you're almost ready to play in my club.

And then he finally ended up working at that club.

Yeah.

NARRATOR: Wes's earliest gig was at the 440 Club, long gone from its location at 440 Indiana Avenue.

Years later, Wes told DownBeat that all he did at first was play the Charlie Christian solos he taught himself, but it was enough to get him his first paid gigs.

But Wes did not leap into music as a full-time job.

He continued to work as a welder during the day, and play the 440 and soon other clubs at night.

NARRATOR: He joined local bands such as Four Kings and a Jack, and eventually, a touring band called The All-American Brownskin Models.

Mostly, it was about getting gigs along the expanding Indiana Avenue club scene, including the Ritz and the Rhumboogie.

And finding his own voice as a musician, growing beyond the Charlie Christian solos to begin to express himself as an original.

But more specifically now with music, somebody like Wes Montgomery, it would be imagination.

What causes someone to think outside the box?

What causes someone to hear, say, a blues progression and say, Well, I can do something different to that, or I can make it different.

I think I wrote once in a book talking about Wes.

Wes didn't recognize there were any limitations because he didn't pick up a book that says, "You can't do this".

When somebody tells you you can't do something, and you believe that, then it's already a self-fulfilling prophecy.

They used to study me once per month.

All the guitar players would get together.

NARRATOR: Wes agreed.

In this very rare TV interview with Jim Rockwell recorded at Wayne State University in Detroit in 1968, Rockwell nudges Wes to confront the benefits of blazing his own musical trail.

You're a self-taught guitarist.

Right.

And it's been said because you didn't know -- right?

Had you been a schooled guitarist, had you been taught, from the very get-go to do everything according to impeccable technique, everything as it should be done, you wouldn't be the player you are, I think.

Probably not.

Probably.

Because you don't have -- you don't have any instruction saying you can't do.

It's all in your own mind, what you feel like doing.

What you feel like can be developed.

Not having been channeled in a traditional -- Uh-uh.

In a traditional track of a schooled guitarist, you were free to go -- Right.

Fortunately, you went in a beautiful way.

Each of these three men that we've mentioned, Django Reinhardt, Charlie Christian, yourself, have all been self-taught guitarists.

Yeah.

NARRATOR: Wes was quick to acknowledge that he wasn't entirely self-taught.

He said early on that a man named Alec Stephens taught him a few chords.

Stephens played the Sunset Terrace in the 1940s.

By 1948, only five years after playing his first six-string electric guitar, the word was out.

Big-time touring musicians wanted to check out the quiet cat on guitar.

Lionel Hampton used to come through Indianapolis all the time, and he would hang out.

NARRATOR: Hampton fronted one of the most popular big bands in the nation, grossing a million dollars a year in the late '40s and rivaling his old band leader, Benny Goodman, as well as Duke Ellington and Count Basie.

He mixed swing with boogie-woogie, and some music critics said his hard-driving, rhythmic sound was a forerunner of rock and roll.

And Hamp wanted Wes in his band.

And there he is, 26-year-old Wes Montgomery playing a solo and holding his own with the Hampton Big Band.

NARRATOR: This was one year into his time with Lionel Hampton.

Wes was a full-time musician now, playing with a big-name act, but by early 1950, he'd had enough of the road.

NARRATOR: He missed his growing family and figured musically, he'd learned about as much as he could in that setting.

Mostly, though, he had grown weary of driving to all of Hampton's gigs, because he refused to fly.

He was terrified.

I spoke with Kenny Burrell, and Kenny Burrell said -- he said, Wes, you're gonna have to start flying.

You can't keep driving.

That's not good for your health.

NARRATOR: Wes ended his time in Lionel Hampton's band and came home to Indianapolis.

Wes Montgomery arrived home in 1950, no doubt happy to see his wife, Serene, and two daughters, Charlene and Sharon, who were still living on Cornell Avenue, just northeast of downtown.

He had left the road behind, and with it, playing for one of the biggest stars of his day.

Did he feel disappointed?

Did he feel like he walked away from the only opportunity to build his musical resume and eventually make it on his own?

Whatever he felt, he certainly didn't share it with his young children, a lifetime character trait, whether it was career or fear of flying, he kept those thoughts from his family.

And you know what?

Daddy wasn't one who showed emotions.

He really wasn't.

He was like Mama.

Yeah.

They didn't show them.

They didn't show fear.

NARRATOR: Wes went back to work.

His new day job was at P.R.

Mallory, a battery-maker, where he worked in the employee cafeteria.

And at night, right back to Indiana Avenue, where a veteran of the Lionel Hampton Band was in greater demand than ever.

Yeah, he took care of family first.

The job was for us, and the music was for him.

He have to go out and play his guitar.

NARRATOR: He paid for that dedication to his family and to his music at the cost of sleep.

Wes worked the day shift at P.R.

Mallory, came home and practiced, maybe caught a quick nap, had dinner, and then played a four-hour gig at a regular nightclub until 1 a.m. And everybody knew everyone else.

And they would play at the different clubs, like at the Sunset Terrace, the Cotton Club, the Turf Club.

And then they would go to the after-hours clubs and perform.

NARRATOR: And in Wes's case, maybe stray from jazz into some rare, raw blues.

It was a competition, and to see who could out-solo, out-jam the next one.

It was open 'til 4 a.m. People religiously -- I mean, it wasn't a choice.

Well, I'm going to go perform at the Sunset Terrace, and then I'm going to go home.

No, you had to show up.

Yeah.

NARRATOR: And Wes did, which got him home in time for Serene to make breakfast, and he was back on the day job at 7:00.

NARRATOR: That sound came from Wes's thumb.

I can remember Wes telling me -- he's always smiling.

He says, You know, Chuck, he says, holding up his hand, he says, They still haven't figured out what I'm doing with this.

[ Laughter ] Wes would always be smilin' when he'd be sittin' in the chair.

And he'd be playing and he -- that magic thumb, boy, woo.

You can recognize it within a second, primarily because of his thumb technique, of just using that fleshy underside and hitting it that way -- hitting the strings that way.

But you know, that ended up giving him his sound too.

And not -- not just the octaves, but you know, this -- kinda this so fat and warm sound that just jumped off the turntable.

NARRATOR: During Wes's 1965 European tour stop in London, the great British jazz saxophonist and promoter Ronnie Scott offers one explanation for why Wes put away the pick.

It appears that when he first heard the great Charlie Christian, when he was about -- when Wes was about 19, he proceeded to go out and buy himself a guitar and amplifier and start to practice.

And he used to like to practice with the amplifier on.

And this very much annoyed a maiden aunt of Wes's who lived in the next flat, and she did nothing but scream abuse at him through the partition wall.

Wes soon discovered that the noise was cut down considerably when the thumb was substituted for the pick.

The real story is -- Yeah, okay.

It wasn't the neighbors.

It was my mother.

Your mom!

Ha!

What did I said?

You said, Wes, if you don't turn that damn guitar down, I'm gonna throw you and him out.

Both of you.

So that's basically when he stopped playing with a pick.

He played with his thumb.

He didn't never play with nothing but his thumb.

The funny thing was, his thumb was as smooth as glass.

'Cause he used to let us feel it.

It was smooth as glass.

Well, I know.

I used to study his thumb.

Up close and personal.

He showed me what he could do.

He could take it, and bend it all the way back to his arm.

I said, Man, no.

He said, man, like nothing.

His use of the thumb was perpendicular to the guitar.

A lot of people who play like -- and I even do it too.

Play with the side of our thumb, but it gives it a wiping sound.

Chuh, chuh, chuh, chuh.

But as you do this, ding, ding-duh-ding-ding-ding.

'cause it sounded like he was playing with a pick.

This is a hard piece of material that you're going to strike the string with.

So it's going to give you a more abrasive, some might say more consistent sound, right?

But it's going to have a certain edge to it.

If you use a very soft surface, like your thumb for example, or your fingertips, that's going to produce a less aggressive tone on the string.

If we're just going to show that real quick on a single note, here's what it sounds like with a pick.

[ Playing one note repeatedly ] Versus what it sounds like with my thumb.

[ Playing one note repeatedly ] If you think about it, it's the front edge of the sound that's really different.

Never played a bad note either, Robert.

That's the amazing thing.

Never played a bad note.

NARRATOR: As Wes's reputation grew along the avenue, a new kind of spectator sport started there in the 1950s, and continues all over the world.

Fellow musicians became fans and studied Wes's musical techniques.

Steve Herberman plays jazz guitar in the Washington, D.C. area and also co-manages the Wes Montgomery Research Fan Page on Facebook.

There's so much to learn from his playing, I feel.

There's the idea of not overplaying, to leave space.

At such a young age, he just got it.

He just understood it.

It doesn't have to translate through a -- an item.

It goes right to the soul.

And so, I was fascinated by the fact that when you are playing as -- as well as your dad and you're playing, you know, very complicated very 32nd, 64th notes here, roaring through, hemisemidemiquavers, you know, his hammer-on technique I was fascinated by.

A hammer-on is using your finger to actually play the note.

Like -- instead of like -- You would matte my play.

And his approach to guitar was more like a piano player, you know?

Used a lot of dominate 7ths and 9th chords, which other cats didn't use.

We used them in places where they didn't use them.

Here's another piece that I wrote, and you can hear Wes in this uptempo piece I wrote called "Pack of Lies."

This is the head -- there's an intro, but here's the head, basic head.

So you can hear that octave thing in that.

I think what they're talking about there is a single note, single note line.

Because when you go to octaves, those are two notes.

And then, the chords, you know, multiple notes.

If I look at it as a guitar player, and I look at his hands, I think, he -- how do you play octaves like that?

How do you play chords like that?

The -- the -- with the fluidity of them.

When I saw the footage of him, the '65 footage from Europe, it's just -- there's just this fluidity to it.

This -- this graceful fluidity.

It's kind of hard to think of any other guitar player when you hear -- well, first of all, when you see them playing with the thumb, and then playing the octaves.

I mean, your dad owns that, man.

He owns that.

The octaves in your solo lines, again, this was a thing unheard until Wes Montgomery.

How did you hit on that?

Well, I was tuning up.

They would be in tune maybe down at the lower end, but up here, within this range, it would be out of tune.

So I used to take the first string and the third string and go like that, and find out how close they were together, and which one goes out.

Then, I'd tune it up.

So, while doing that, I ran a scale.

Accidentally, and I said, oh, that's not too bad.

So then I put them together and ran the scale again.

It sounds effortless, but if you were to try and do it, it takes -- it takes a lot of skill and practice to really -- and even then -- and even then, won't come to the fluidity that he has because it's so natural.

At its core, it's about storytelling.

And Wes, to me, above everything else, you could always follow it.

He had this amazing ability to describe very complex ideas in ways that were so clear, and so well, sort of backed up with spirit and soul and all that.

NARRATOR: Two families dominated the storytelling along the avenue.

The first was the Montgomery family, and it wasn't just Wes.

Younger brother Buddy had taken up piano about the same time Wes was touring with Lionel Hampton.

They drafted him.

Because he didn't read music, they couldn't put him in the Army band.

So he had to march like everybody else.

NARRATOR: But that didn't stop him from playing in groups when he was off-duty.

After the service, Buddy got his first professional job with Big Joe Turner.

Years later, he played vibes with the Miles Davis Group.

Older brother Monk watched Wes's gigs and started playing a standup bass at first, and then he too joined the Hampton band in the early 1950s and became the first successful jazz bassist to play and record on the new Fender electric bass guitar.

One of Monk's bandmates was a young trumpet player who once crashed at Wes's house on the floor.

His name was Quincy Jones.

By about 1953, the three brothers were playing dates together, but they weren't the only family act in town.

One of Buddy's early jobs was playing with trombonist Slide Hampton, who in later years taught jazz at Harvard.

Slide was part of an even bigger family of Indianapolis musicians, as second-generation recording artist and trumpet player Pharez Whitted remembers.

'Cause I know you guys are royalty.

Ah, royalty.

Right.

Grew up in Indianapolis, part of the Hampton family.

My mother, Virtue, married Thomas Whitted, aunts and uncles.

NARRATOR: The Hampton Sisters were fixtures along the avenue playing rhythm and blues, but Slide made the big time in jazz, and more recently, so did Pharez, recording jazz albums and even touring and recording with rocker John Mellencamp.

And there were all different levels.

There were some guys that were just kind of in there, hanging on, just like in everything.

And then there were guys up here, way at the top, that were the super greats that everybody looked to, and there was everybody in between.

NARRATOR: Also at the top from Indianapolis, trumpet master Freddie Hubbard, and trombonist J.J. Johnson.

In the 1950s, J.J. was already a name, although Freddie was just emerging.

But Sarah Vaughn, Dizzy Gillespie, Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald were already world-famous.

All played the avenue.

So, you know, Indiana Avenue was kind of the epicenter of music in the Midwest.

NARRATOR: As their fame grew, the Montgomery Brothers formed a quintet with Alonzo "Pookie" Johnson on sax and Sonny Johnson on drums, and they played outside the avenue, including a regular booking at a place called the Turf Club on Indianapolis' west side.

It was white-owned, with white patrons, and Black performers.

NARRATOR: That is, until the day Duke Ellington's band played a concert downtown, and afterward, band members came to see the guitar player everyone was talking about.

But Turf Club management would not let Duke's band in as paying customers.

The singer, Debbie Andrews was on stage at the time, and she -- the place was packed.

And she yelled -- they stopped playing.

She yelled, let 'em in!

Let 'em in!

And, no, we're not going to do it.

We're not going to do it.

And the musicians were ready to get off the bandstand.

They would have lost a lot of money.

So they said, wait, wait, wait, wait.

They set up a little table.

Here's your table and don't go anywhere but that table.

NARRATOR: The Montgomery-Johnson Quintet drove to a friendlier location, the Columbia-Epic Records studio in New York, for a recording session produced by Monk's old Lionel Hampton bandmate, Quincy Jones.

Wes wrote four of the five tracks, including "Far Wes."

NARRATOR: But no deal from the record company, and the recordings collected dust for decades.

For Wes, another disappointment, but he kept working.

After all, he had more mouths to feed, including Sandra and Frances, and a new day job at Polk's Dairy.

But it was the end of the quintet.

It was actually Monk, you know, that broke the thing because he wanted to get out of Indianapolis.

NARRATOR: Monk headed to Seattle, and later, Buddy joined him.

Soon they formed the Master Sounds.

Wes was never a permanent member but an occasional guest.

He was playing some of the slickest stuff I ever heard, and he was playing it with his brothers, the Master Sounds.

And that's what they were.

I never heard anything like that ever in my life before that.

They were unique.

I still remember the names of the guys in the -- the Master Sounds, Bennie Barth, Richie Crabtree, and Uncle Buddy and my dad.

NARRATOR: And the Master Sounds got a recording contract with World Pacific Jazz.

Buddy and Monk lived on the West Coast in the late 1950s, but Wes stayed at home, working day and night until September 7th, 1959.

Saxophonist Julian Cannonball Adderley burst into town with his brother, trumpeter Nat, pianist George Shearing and others fresh off the Newport Jazz Festival.

The Indy jazz scene was buzzing about a piece in Nat Hentoff's Jazz Review.

Gunther Schuller wrote, Indy jazz was quite superior to what some bigger cities had, and he called Wes an extraordinarily spectacular guitarist.

And he worked the Missile Room, the after-hours place.

And I took Cannonball, and the other cat was there, the cat that wrote that in the newspaper too.

But I took them down there to hear Wes.

And it was Paul Parker and Wes and Melvin Rhyne.

I wasn't there at the particular time, but Bengal, who was there explained it to me what happened.

He said, like, when they start playing, Cannonball came up to the first row.

Put his hands behind his head, crossed his legs, and before the set was over, he was on the phone, talking to New York.

NARRATOR: Riverside Records executive Orrin Keepnews recalled that Cannonball saved the recommendation for his return to New York a few days later.

Either way, less than a month later, they recorded Wes's first album for Riverside, The Wes Montgomery Trio , A Dynamic New Sound .

Including Wes's tribute to the scene of his big break, "Missile Blues."

NARRATOR: DownBeat gave the record four stars, but other reviewers were less enthusiastic.

Still, that didn't stop Riverside from rushing Wes right back into the studio just three months later to record The Incredible Jazz Guitar of Wes Montgomery with a different lineup, including the Heath Brothers on bass and drums.

It earned almost universal critical praise.

The record featured four compositions by Wes.

I love your dad's compositions.

He was a great composer.

This is one of the things I said in one of my videos about how there are standard-standards that your dad played, like "Days of Wine and Roses," and all of these traditional songs.

You know, "Yesterday," "Stella by Starlight," "All The Things You Are."

I mean those are standard-standards.

Then there are jazz standards.

And "Four on Six" is a jazz standard.

"West Coast Blues" is a jazz standard.

Jazz players play them.

NARRATOR: Wes liked the West Coast, and moved his family to the Bay Area in February 1960, but he went back on the road.

And a pattern emerged.

Extensive touring and an average of two albums per year, including being matched with other recording stars: Cannonball Adderley, Organist Jimmy Smith, vibraphonist Milt Jackson, and others.

But by 1961, Serene was singing her own West Coast blues and convinced Wes to move back to Indianapolis.

Where the following year, child number seven, Robert Anthony Montgomery, was born.

For years after that, Wes's home movies looked like real estate ads.

He filmed desirable neighborhoods, possibly to entice Serene to move west permanently, but she never did.

NARRATOR: The move back to Indianapolis came just as Wes won both the DownBeat Readers' Poll and the Critics' Poll for best guitarist.

In all, he won nine DownBeat polls in the '60s.

No more day jobs for Wes.

In fact, practicing and composing became his new day job.

When he went in there to practice and closed the door, we as kids knew you do not go in there until you see him come out, period.

NARRATOR: It wasn't all work when Wes was home.

His kids remember his soft spot for cartoons.

Was Roadrunner.

Yeah.

He loved -- 'Cause he laughed -- he would laugh so hard at how fast he could run.

Yes.

NARRATOR: The Montgomeries still talk about their dad's sense of humor and generosity.

But Robert didn't realize how many musicians mentioned the same things, or how he earned the nickname Rev, for choosing not to drink or do drugs.

Everybody loved him.

It's kind of like Stevie Wonder.

Everybody loved Stevie Wonder.

To me, Wes is like that.

I never knew Wes to curse or anything.

Well, Wes was one of those guys that -- like Clifford Brown, you know.

The beautiful ones, that took care of their family and had a reputation of being a righteous dude.

I feel something when I hear him play, and that has never changed in 40 years, something extremely warm coming up at me.

I noticed that a lot of fans, like the two of us, are very much emotionally connected to him.

What I've observed about Wes Montgomery, is really, it's so inspiring his reach, and the audience that he reaches all around the world.

NARRATOR: Which would explain why so many musicians rooted for him as his star rose.

Growth was steady with Riverside.

But a move in 1964 to the Verve Label sent him skyward with the release of Movin' Wes , with producer Creed Taylor bringing in a big band behind Wes.

It was the first Wes Montgomery album to sell 100,000 copies and charted in the Top 20 jazz albums that year.

That success led to a European tour in the spring of 1965.

The tour promoter convinced him that there would be only one flight over and one flight back.

Cars, trains and boats got him to Paris, London, Germany, the Netherlands, Belgium, and Italy.

So many memorable moments, but to this day, musicians marvel when Wes, the musician who couldn't read music, became the teacher.

F-minor.

Start with a B flat.

Whole step.

Yeah, another whole step.

I think I'll try some blues.

NARRATOR: On some dates, like that one, Wes sat in with a house band.

Other times, his group, led by pianist Harold Mabern, took the stage.

Wes returned to the U.S., but kept up the torrid touring and recording pace, recording Bumpin' only a week after returning from Europe.

This one had Don Sebesky's string arrangements and it became Wes's first to chart on the Billboard Top 200.

Just weeks after completing that recording session, Wes joined forces with Miles Davis's rhythm section, the Wynton Kelly Trio.

Their legendary gigs at New York's Half Note led to the album Smokin' at the Half Note , one loved by critics and fans alike.

But the biggest moment so far in Wes's career came in 1966, when he covered a pop tune by Little Anthony and the Imperials.

NARRATOR: The song was "Goin' Out of My Head," the title track to an album with sales that almost hit 1 million, and the next year, a Grammy Award for Best Jazz Instrumental Album.

Breathtaking success, album sales, awards, concerts.

But by the time Creed Taylor and Wes moved to A&M Records in 1966, whispers had reached a crescendo.

Critics were accusing Wes of selling out, cranking out pop records with only a little jazz sprinkled in.

Even from DownBeat , where he won so many critics and fans polls, a review of his California Dreaming album mused: And they were doing great arrangements and -- and great productions.

You know, of course, the criticism was that they were over-produced.

I don't see him as a person who sold out.

I see him as being intelligent enough to cash in.

There's no virtue in being a broke virtuoso.

I gotta say it, jazz musicians can be the biggest snobs in the world.

You have to remember that once upon a time, jazz was pop music.

Okay?

People used to dance to jazz music.

And if anything, maybe Wes Montgomery was, like, reclaiming that pop aspect, enlarging on it.

His music was so compelling that he could reach non-jazz people and then cross over.

Because it's the kind of thing you can dance to.

It's the kind of thing you can make love to.

It's the kind of thing that could change your feelings.

And everybody ain't able.

It isn't just skill.

Anybody can learn to play fast.

Anybody can learn to play high.

But everybody can't learn to play like Wes Montgomery.

NARRATOR: When he played concerts, there was no big band, no strings, just Wes.

And in later years, his brothers and maybe two others, including drummer Billy Hart.

The more record sales, the more awards, the more he and his band traveled.

And he pointed his Cadillac where he wanted to go.

North to Canada and Detroit.

East to New York, Philadelphia.

And west all the way to the lighthouse in Southern California.

But generally not south.

One of the reasons that he may have preferred to drive was he knew the realities of, you know, Blacks getting on a train or a bus.

NARRATOR: In 1967, Wes tested his luck and played Atlanta, Georgia, his ancestral state.

And Billy Hart remembers that's when things got dicey.

Just as they were leaving town, heading to the West Coast.

Police stopped us.

And, you know, went through -- went through that stuff that you hear about.

Who are you?

You know you was speeding.

You know, we weren't speeding.

You know, they just -- you know, we just had a nice car, and you know, it was like that.

So -- so, I jump -- I jump up and say, you know.

I said, Do you know who this man is?

Do you know who you talking to?

And Wes is, you know, don't do it.

[ Laughter ] Do you know who you talking to?

[ Laughter ] I said, Man, this is one of the greatest musicians in history.

Wow.

You know, and he's very, very, very famous.

If anything goes down weird here, all the newspapers all over the world are going to know about it.

And then they let us go.

Is that right?

Yeah.

Well, my Daddy didn't think that, though.

He's like, man, if you don't shut up.

[ Laughter ] If you don't shut up, we can get out of here alive.

NARRATOR: Black men in a nice car in the deep South in 1967.

They survived that one, and Billy Hart can laugh about it now.

But it was one more stress point for Wes, a band leader who drove to concerts over much of the map, tried to get home to see his family, and worked to make each new album a success, including a Gold Record for his album A Day in the Life .

The good and the bad of life as a successful touring musician.

He was with him on the road, and that night, I guess it was probably at the end of the tour, Wes said, I don't feel too good.

I don't feel too good.

And I can't remember whether Buddy said, Well, come in and sit with me for a while.

I really can't remember.

But I remember him saying he didn't feel good, and then everybody went home.

NARRATOR: A short drive for Monk, a manageable one for Buddy, and yet another cross-country drive for Wes.

Phoenix to Indy, and only a few days off before the next leg of the tour, with festivals in Pittsburgh and Virginia.

'Cause we were supposed to go back to some gig that Monday or Tuesday, and this was like a Saturday.

We had just come home.

It was a Saturday morning, between maybe 9 and 9:30.

I had just walked past my dad.

He was sitting in the dining room, reading the newspaper.

I walked past him.

My mother was cooking him breakfast, her usual thing.

And I went upstairs in my sister Sharon's room.

Told Mamma bye.

First time she ever let us go to summer school.

She wasn't gonna let us go, and Daddy said, Let 'em go, 'Rene.

Let 'em go.

All of a sudden, I hear this bang!

I mean, it was so loud.

And we -- my mother screamed for my sister.

We ran downstairs, and he was in my mother's arms having a massive heart attack.

We got all the -- we were walking down the boulevard, and this girl ran out and said, Did you hear about your daddy?

And somebody said, shut up.

'Cause I -- we had no clue what she was talking about.

I was in my bed.

Wow.

Right, you know?

And -- and Mabern called me.

Yeah.

I picked up the phone.

I say, What's up, man?

He said, uh -- he said, Is it true?

I said, Is what true?

He said, Man, I just heard that Wes is -- Wes is gone.

I said, What?

It was mind-blowing.

Devastating.

And what happened was when we got the news, and the news started to get out, the whole block seemed to find out about it.

I was gone.

Next thing I knew, I was laying on Mama.

We were riding in a car, and every time they changed the radio station, it was announcing that my dad had died.

And so finally, they just cut it off and we rode in silence.

When we got back here to the house, this whole street, from there, down there, across the street, there were people everywhere.

And then everything goes blank from there.

I couldn't believe it.

I mean, it was six weeks later.

Right!

We had just seen him.

And I remember my mom -- 'cause she knew it would be upsetting for me.

Well, it was June -- June 15th, right?

June the 15th.

And she said, You know, Pat, something in the paper today you should see, and she showed me.

You know, I just couldn't believe it.

When he passed away, the first thing came to my mind, I said, Man, there's a big hole in the music world.

And we're playing a party and one of the other older musicians -- I think we were on a break.

And he came back, Hey, Lee, did you hear that Wes died?

He just died.

And I -- and then I was devastated, man.

NARRATOR: Wes's fear of flying added to the grind of his brutal touring schedule.

His brother Monk -- the same brother who bought Wes his first guitar -- recorded an audio-only interview in 1980 and dropped a bombshell.

Both Wes and his doctor saw the heart attack coming.

And then, you know, what I wondered some time?

I wondered why the Lord took Wes from us.

We needed him, and he just went away.

NARRATOR: John Leslie Montgomery was 45 years old when he died.

Just a few days later, more than 2,000 friends, fans, and fellow musicians helped the family mourn Wes.

400 pressed into the little Puritan Baptist Church for the service.

Everett Greene sang.

Billy Hart joined Monk and Buddy as pallbearers.

The old Indiana Avenue musicians were there, and so were major recording artists.

It all happened so fast, heart attack, death, funeral.

Just as Wes was playing theaters, not just nightclubs, and booked for a tour of Japan.

Just as he was hitting his peak in ticket and record sales and awards.

All in a full-time recording career that lasted less than a decade.

It wasn't enough time.

Not enough time with his family, a family shaken to its core in that awful summer of '68.

A family still coping with his loss more than 50 years later.

I think they're living their lives, but I don't believe they've dealt with it.

'Cause I didn't.

I was a grown man when I finally -- well, actually, you know, I give God the credit for that, because it was Him who helped me through it.

And helped me come to the place that I am today, being able to do this documentary.

NARRATOR: In 2022, for only the second time in his life, Robert Montgomery visited New Crown Cemetery and his father's final resting place.

You find that you miss him more than you ever thought you missed him.

I just -- I would love it for him to see me and see my kids.

NARRATOR: And perhaps to see his place in music recognized around the world, as a prolific performer, the frontman or co-headliner for more than 20 albums in less than 10 years, as the writer of more than 60 compositions, and as an innovator and voted the best-ever to play jazz guitar.

Cause everything started in the house of the Lord NARRATOR: His music lives on, not just the original releases, but a treasure trove of freshly discovered recordings helping Wes Montgomery find new fans, and helping Robert and his family strengthen their connection to their father.

Now, those are reasons to celebrate.

I think your dad would be proud of you today, brother.

He would be very proud of you, as I am.

I'm gonna sing I'm gonna shout I'm gonna tell the whole wide world what it's all about I'm going sing out loud I'm gonna praise my God Cause everything started in the house of the Lord Yes, I'm gonna shout Gonna spread the word Gonna tell these city folks What they never heard I'm gonna sing out loud Praise my God Cause everything started in the house of the Lord Yes, I'm gonna preach Save my soul Gonna tell the new-time folks about the old-time ways I'm gonna sing out loud I'm gonna praise my God Cause everything started in the house of the Lord Well, I'm gonna sing I'm gonna shout I'm gonna tell this whole wide world what it's all about I'm gonna sing out loud Gonna praise my God Cause everything started in the house of Lord "Wes Bound: The Genius of Wes Montgomery" is made possible with the generous support of: Since 1894, Gibson's goal has been inspiring musicians of all ages.

Gibson Gives supports music education and music wellness programs around the world.

Gibson Gives, changing lives through music, one guitar at a time.

The Lenfest Summer Research Program at Washington & Lee University.

Sweetwater.

Brad and Pam Cooper.

Steve and Brenda Walker.

The Jacobs School of Music at Indiana University.

Marc and Martha Allen.

With additional support from: Kenneth and Margaret Phares, Michael and Janie Maurer, Tom and Lana Cochrun, James Finch, Gayle Dosher, Eugenia Walker.

And these generous supporters.

Thank you!