Merl Saunders was born Merl Saunders Washington (he dropped the "Washington" for show biz purposes) in San Mateo, California on February 14, 1934; he passed away early this morning (October 24, 2008) at Kaiser Hospital in San Francisco.
Saunders grew up in San Francisco and was a proficient piano player by age 10. He attended Polytechnic High School, Served in the Air Force and Attended University of Mainz in Germany. Saunders married Betty Crenshaw and leaves behind three children (Anthony Saunders, Merl Saunders Jr., Susan Saunders) and a number of grand kids.
Saunders became one of the preeminent Hammond B-3 player of his generation; beginning his long strange trip by apprenticing with the great Jimmy Smith. In 1970 Saunders began playing with Jerry Garcia in the Bay Area under bands called Legion of Mary and then Garcia/Saunders. The duo recorded a number of famous albums including Heavy Turbulence, Fire Up, and Live at the Keystone. Their 1990 collaboration, Blues from the Rainforest, was a Billboard Top 10 in the New Age category.
Saunders contributed to the Grateful Dead album Grateful Dead (1971), and in the mid-1980s worked with the band as musical director for the "Twilight Zone" television show.
He became known as the senior member of the jam band scene having played with Phish, Blues Traveler and Widespread Panic. He was instrumental in allowing young talent to play and record with him, giving first opportunity to the likes of Sheila E, Chris Hayes (Huey Lewis & the News), Bonnie Hayes (Billy Idol) and Bob Steeler (Hot Tuna).
In parallel to his rock career, Saunders worked as a jazz trio player, performing and recording with Harry Belafonte, Frank Sinatra, Lionel Hampton, Miles Davis, B.B. King, Bonnie Raitt, and Paul Butterfield. He also contributed to the scores of the films "Heavy Traffic" and "Fritz the Cat."
I've always dug a few of their tunes (Message of Love, My City Was Gone, Middle of the Road) but never owned an album. Heard this song on the radio last week and was blown away.
The best way to hear Randy Newman is alone. Hearing him at home with someone else snickering along to his jokes isn’t much pleasure. Hearing him live, with other people around you, is peculiar torture.
He’s an excellent torturer. Not that that he’s a bad performer, or that he makes bad art. It’s the opposite of bad art — done in fine strokes, with unreliable narrators, several kinds of irony and proud resistance to musical trends. Al Green hands out roses when he sings. Randy Newman distributes shame.
"I pity the poor immigrant Who wishes he would've stayed home, Who uses all his power to do evil But in the end is always left so alone. That man whom with his fingers cheats And who lies with ev'ry breath, Who passionately hates his life And likewise, fears his death.
I pity the poor immigrant Whose strength is spent in vain, Whose heaven is like Ironsides, Whose tears are like rain, Who eats but is not satisfied, Who hears but does not see, Who falls in love with wealth itself And turns his back on me.
I pity the poor immigrant Who tramples through the mud, Who fills his mouth with laughing And who builds his town with blood, Whose visions in the final end Must shatter like the glass. I pity the poor immigrant When his gladness comes to pass"