Biography
Studio musicians such as cellist Ronald Cooper remain so little documented that curious listeners first encounter odd insider phrases like “funky cello,” “golf balls,” and “gliding music.” Beyond those labels, almost nothing surfaces; researchers have assembled barely a single paragraph about the entire cohort of studio violinists, violists, and cellists, most of whom also hold chairs in classical ensembles.
By comparison, drummers, bassists, and guitarists who work the same rooms now receive full-length biographies that steadily enlarge their role in hit-making, as though the players themselves were being rolled larger through accumulating slush. Rhythm-section contributors supply the grooves and feels that anchor successful records; guitarists and keyboardists devise signature licks that frequently outweigh lyrics in determining the fate of rock or country tracks. A cellist like Cooper, however, is typically handed sustained whole-note parts that many listeners in a given style would rather omit.
Arrangers’ sketches filled with such notes resemble clusters of golf balls on the page and produce the thick, largely unnoticed string cushions heard on countless pop sessions and orchestral-pop concerts. A related ’70s term, “gliding music,” arose around the lush CTI jazz productions, where the word alluded not to flight but to romantic encounters.
Funky cello stands as a career highlight for Cooper, a notion that may surprise listeners who doubt the phrase can exist at all, yet the series of Earth, Wind & Fire albums on which he performed demonstrates otherwise. The quality of his written parts improves markedly the farther back one listens, with the 1970s Earth, Wind & Fire material far surpassing the 1990s sessions for Michael Bolton. Still earlier, in the 1960s, Cooper collaborated with forward-looking arrangers including Quincy Jones, Doc Severinsen, and Don Ellis, the last of whom plainly preferred striking actual golf balls with clubs rather than drawing bows across “golf-ball” notes.
By comparison, drummers, bassists, and guitarists who work the same rooms now receive full-length biographies that steadily enlarge their role in hit-making, as though the players themselves were being rolled larger through accumulating slush. Rhythm-section contributors supply the grooves and feels that anchor successful records; guitarists and keyboardists devise signature licks that frequently outweigh lyrics in determining the fate of rock or country tracks. A cellist like Cooper, however, is typically handed sustained whole-note parts that many listeners in a given style would rather omit.
Arrangers’ sketches filled with such notes resemble clusters of golf balls on the page and produce the thick, largely unnoticed string cushions heard on countless pop sessions and orchestral-pop concerts. A related ’70s term, “gliding music,” arose around the lush CTI jazz productions, where the word alluded not to flight but to romantic encounters.
Funky cello stands as a career highlight for Cooper, a notion that may surprise listeners who doubt the phrase can exist at all, yet the series of Earth, Wind & Fire albums on which he performed demonstrates otherwise. The quality of his written parts improves markedly the farther back one listens, with the 1970s Earth, Wind & Fire material far surpassing the 1990s sessions for Michael Bolton. Still earlier, in the 1960s, Cooper collaborated with forward-looking arrangers including Quincy Jones, Doc Severinsen, and Don Ellis, the last of whom plainly preferred striking actual golf balls with clubs rather than drawing bows across “golf-ball” notes.
Singles
