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It’s incumbent upon Brubeck fans to occasionally defend their devotion. The pianist has always been somewhat suspect when it comes to the critical game of guessing who’s a trueblood jazzer and who’s a lightweight, mainly because he’s white, popular, and associated with “cool jazz.” Not to mention that he occasionally drops in classical allusions and doesn’t swing his single lines in the Bud Powell manner. For the record, Brubeck never had any classical piano training. He studied composition with Milhaud, but his practical piano know-how came on jazz jobs. The truth is that he swung and he was a distinguished improviser and writer. He did these things in his own way - his solos incorporate everything from blues licks to bizarro chord clusters to bar line tricks; his writing is as internally clever as it is outwardly appealing. Inasmuch as “Vive le difference” is the credo of any open-minded listener, Brubeck was and is unassailable as a dedicated jazz force. If he took it to college and Carnegie, well, more power to him, eh? The one objection comes to mind is that he wasn’t part of jazz’s general incest. You wouldn’t expect to find his name on any Blue Note jam sessions or whatever. Was it because he was unwelcome, or incapable? Maybe, I don’t know. However, he did have his own working bands and creative say within his recording contracts. He called his own shots and did not, by necessity nor art, need to be a versatile sideman. To get back to the point: I sometimes think, what a shame that Brubeck wasn’t a part of that game, maybe that’s what folks hold against him, but then, hey, Monk wasn’t either. And Monk is the consummate classic jazz artist in my mind. Yet he was as inflexible (and probably much more so) than anyone you could name. Monk did his own thing, and he surrounded himself with people who could help him do it. Now, I’m not trying to equate Brubeck and Monk, but if the latter did some brilliant work in relative isolation, why can’t we say the former did as well?
See, there I went defending Brubeck again. Oh well. Here’s a fraction of his vast catalog:
Erring on the side of cool. Brubeck and altoist Paul Desmond had spun out a few live titles already, and this collection captures their quartet appearances at Basin Street in NYC. “Lover” is the most interesting track: Brubeck and bassist Bob play one pulse, drummer Joe Dodge states another, and Desmond ultimately sides with the brushes and delivers a double-timed gem. After that comes a selection of friendly, mid-tempo standard material. Desmond thrives on the steady support of the Bates/Dodge team and his solos are consistently inviting. He creates more sequences than usual, even getting into some question/answer exchanges with himself. Brubeck hints at future experiments with rhythmic counterpoint and the occasional classical tidbit, but for the most part a lot of his playing is fairly soft, which should surprise those who think of him as a brick-fingered, china shop bull. He tempers the clever-clever moments with dashes of lyricism and real blues. “Indiana” stands out as an example of cool-bop at its best, and Brubeck’s original “The Duke” makes a brief appearance.
The recorded mono sound is intimate in a 1954 kind of way, the only fault being the hiss that on one occasion resonates from one of Dodge’s cymbals. (Some cymbals have “wash”; this one is a rainstorm.) The two bonus tracks on the 2001 CD issue don’t add much, and “Closing Time Blues” disrupts the sensitivity that Brubeck had cultivated in his playing during the main program. Not an essential acquisition, but anyone with a passing interest in Desmond will enjoy most of the tracks.
While in town for the Basin Street gig, the Brubeck quartet slipped into the studio and knocked out the bulk of this affable album. Two highlights: the gentle blues “Audrey”, featuring Desmond’s feathery tone, and “Stompin’ For Mili”, which stomps along and gets kind of harsh as it reaches its denouement. And we may as well mention Desmond’s spunky solo in “Why Do I Love You” and the pianistic zeal of Fats Waller’s “Keepin’ Out of Mischief Now.” There’s a restraint to some of the other tracks, whether they are wearing cardigans (“Jeepers Creepers”) or burdened with canon treatments (“Brother Can You Spare a Dime” has little of its intended poignancy). Brubeck goes off on contrary tangents here and there, and there’s some of the improvised counterpoint that Paul and Dave were known for. Yet these are relatively safe performances - “Mili” aside - that don’t shine much beyond the individual playing times. Everyone has to hear “Audrey” at least once, though. Again, Desmond is the selling point of this album. (Despite the fact that the album cover reproduces the Brubeck cover of Time magazine. And doesn’t Joe Dodge look like a lunatic in his photo?)
Sometimes the Very Popular Album is a good one, even a great one. You have to buy Brubeck’s insistence that this wasn’t a commercial shot; come on, a bunch of tunes in goofy time signatures? It turns out that some of these themes were damn catchy, and the group’s solos were logical enough to follow, and lo, here’s one of the most famous jazz titles ever. Brubeck was headed toward this album all along, considering his rhythmic restlessness of the past decade, and he had just the right support team - Eugene Wright’s bass foundation, Joe Morello’s dexterous drumming - to make it work. The music has staying power due to its simplicity and openness. The first three numbers make up the most classic LP side Brubeck ever cut. “Blue Rondo” works because the fancy 9/8 exposition is eventually ditched for a straightforward 4/4/ blues swing, giving the players (and listeners) room to breathe. “Strange Meadowlark” is relaxed all the way, from the out-of-time piano intro through the lyric solos, and maybe because it’s not a rhythmically demonstrative piece, it remains the hidden gem of the record. And then there’s “Take Five”, the most popular quintuple meter tune in the Western world. Desmond wrote it, and in rehearsal he had the classic line of understatement, “I’ve got these two themes, but I can’t get them to go anyplace.” Dave’s constant piano vamp keeps the players oriented in the unfamiliar meter, and it’s wonderfully hypnotic against Morello’s sparse solo. Note how Desmond solos on just the one chord/mode, and how he tests most of the notes therein as points of emphasis. I wonder how he would have sounded on Kind of Blue, seriously.
The back half of the album is slighter. The theme of “Three to Get Ready” is a little too precious, but Brubeck’s mixed meter solo pays off. The way he hammers at the keys in “Everybody’s Jumpin” is ridiculous, yet a cool 6/4 figure pops up every so often. And how not to get sucked into Wright’s simple six-note “Pick Up Sticks” bass line? Everyone’s heard this record hundreds of times, and familiarity has a strange habit of breeding you know what. Listening with virgin ears is near impossible, but give it a shot anyway - you might just revive some of that first-kiss magic. Hyped or not, it’s one of this band’s very best, and why not stick it on a list of jazz’s best albums as well? There’s hardly a note put wrong, and the novelties lead to genuine depth.
This disc reeks of sequelitis, exploiting the unexpected commercial success of Time Out. Brubeck parlays his time experiments into a blues suite with varying meters, but for one thing, there’s nothing bluesy about such trivial material as “Charles Matthew Hallelujah” or “Unsquare Dance” (clap along in 7, y’all). Also, all the attention drawn to the rhythms is kind of gimmicky. In the 1996 reissue, Brubeck acknowledges how “self-conscious” he was in his original liner note explanations, and the band really was out on a limb at the time, so one can look back on these things with a bit of forgiveness. In any case, the blues is authentic when the band goes for the laid-back, smoky vibe, as in “Bluesette” and “Blue Shadows in the Street”, both of which are fine settings for Desmond’s airy tone. Brubeck has nice ideas in “Maori Blues”, and on several tunes he harks back to the old, old school of piano with saloon-like inflections. It’s strange to hear this sort of anachronistic playing on a forward-looking 1961 record, but you can tell Brubeck means what he plays, and his love for the Wallers and Blakes and Willie the Lions is real. And so goes “It’s a Raggy Waltz” - the theme is more tinsel than sinew, while the enthusiasm of Brubeck’s solo justifies the composition.
“Far More Blue” picks up the “Take Five” rhythm and barely evades redundancy; “Far More Drums” gives Morello a polymetric solo spot, and he about steals the album with it. Apart from this obvious highlight, nothing really stands out. The best parts come when the band is in no hurry.
The third installment in the “Time” cycle runs the quartet through a full orbit of 11 tracks. “Castilian Blues/Drums” is another two-parter in 5/4 with a Morello money shot, yet everything else has a fresh scent to it. Even “Someday My Prince Will Come”, which the quartet had already recorded, prompts fine solos and a wiser rhythmic ambiguity. Dave still explains all the rhythmic happenings in the liner notes, and it’s a good read because the hijinks are less obvious by now. “Why Phillis”, for example, is just a bass feature for Wright on the surface, but there’s a lot of metrical tugging and pushing going on at the same time. And the count juggling in “Three’s a Crowd” is so smooth that you’d hardly notice the lonely bar of 2/4 in there. “Countdown”, featuring tympani, bass, and boogie-woogie piano, is a cool groove piece in 10/8, especially when Brubeck and Wright lock into the walking bass riff together.
The last half of the album includes four pieces that Brubeck adapted from a ballet he was writing, and their charts stir classical breezes. (Except for “Fast Life”, a tricky swinger. A rare occasion when Wright and Morello burn.) I like the tender theme of “Waltz Limp”. “Danse Duet” develops modulations from a previous century before modernized solos from Desmond (in 3) and Dave (in 4). Part of the charm of these pieces might be their brevity, yet that could be levied as a criticism as well. Only “Someday My Prince” runs to investigative length, and producer Teo Macero keeps everything else to concise running times, either through pre-planning or the post-prod razor blade. (You can hear several edits on the quartet’s studio albums of this time.) This begs the question: if the odd-times are so adventurous and inspiring, why does the group rein in their performances so much? Part of the answer is that the group does not hold back in the live situations, and the other part probably resides in the LP playing time consideration. That’s a small beef anyway, as there are a lot of colors in this particular album, and the leader plays well. The closing “Back to Earth” is watering-hole blues, and the bonus “Fatha” pays homage to Mr. Hines.
For all their time experiments and thematic albums, the Brubeck Quartet didn’t forget how to entertain a room. This double length live set makes a case for them being one of the best quartets ever, and I base that on a criterion of group identity and resource, i.e., they were a unique alignment with everyone slotted into complementary roles, and they had a sound. You think of some of the great small jazz bands - Coltrane’s quartet, Miles’ quintets, certain Jazz Messenger lineups, the Brown/Roach groups - they were more than the sum of their parts, and they had an inimitable collective sound. Well, so does this team, and they had two distinctive soloists, plus a tight rhythm battery, and they balanced their originality with strong traditional ties. Bold comparisons or not, the evidence is right here in an amazing Carnegie Hall concert where nothing is held back. They deliver the hits along with choice standards, and it’s a fun ride from the opening “St. Louis Blues” to the predictable finale. “Three to Get Ready” is toughened up, “Blue Rondo” is very effective, and the slight-in-the-studio “Bossa Nova USA” comes alive here. As for swing, “Pennies from Heaven” is a prime exhibit, while the rendition of “For All We Know” takes desert island honors. Desmond’s solo is immaculate, utterly melodic, and Brubeck follows with contrasting, abstract ideas. Wright and Morello are watertight throughout the concert, and the drummer gets an extended spotlight in “Castilian Drums”. This is the album’s weak point - not in Morello’s actual solo, but in the way the audience is mixed LOUDLY as it turns the drum solo into a spectator sport. Was Joe working the crowd, or did people just have an instinctive clapping and hooting response to blurry drumsticks? For the home listener, it’s distracting. And note that Morello keeps his later “Take Five” spot very brief - enough’s enough.
There’s a certain formality to a show at Carnegie, and surely the setlist was well deliberated. The balance of uptempo heat and ballad reflection makes the music ring true. The mix balances instrument presence with a hint of ambient room tone - notwithstanding the intrusive audience on the drum solo. This is the best representation of what the quartet was about, in material and performance.
The dark, driving trio track “Iberia” leads off, with Brubeck sculpting a jagged chord solo and Morello finding the sweet spots on his toms. After that, the sun comes out in such lighthearted material as “Unisphere” and “Cable Car” - nothing outstanding. “World’s Fair” has a terrific exposition in 13, but the strange beat divisions hinder the ensuing solos. Joe Morello gets his own composition, the childish “Shim Wah”, which Brubeck lends some authoritative fingerwork. This mini-program is but prelude to the main attraction, “Elementals”, written by Brubeck and performed by the quartet and an A-list orchestral conglomerate conducted by Ray Wright. Third-stream ventures are often cause to be apprehensive, yet this long-form piece (sixteen and a half minutes) is quite good; it blows the doors off Brubeck’s “Brandenburg Gate” concerto of a few years earlier. The blending of the small and large ensembles is seamless - like four olives in a big martini - and the scoring is full of color. Threads of Gershwin, Duke, Mingus, and Stravinsky are woven in a mid-20th century tapestry, along with Brubeck’s own identity.
“Elementals” begins with dramatic pulses and ascensions from strings, over which Desmond says hello and Brubeck offers splintered greetings. The heavy overture reaches a climax at three minutes, and then begins a lyrical waltz theme. These chords are explored at some length by the score, which allots solos to alto and piano, and the background is constantly alive. A second, grander theme for brass and strings is introduced, and just when the whole waltz section seems exhausted, it segues (about the 11-minute mark) into a burst of new textures. This signals the elongated homestretch, with hot rhythm figures, tense strings, and a general escalation in fervor. There are two crescendos, split by a percussion section (can’t forget about Joe), laced with big-band measures, and the whole comes crashing to an ambiguous halt. Fantastic. Nothing else to do except play it again, or else listen to the bonus track “Theme From Elementals”, where the quartet extracts a lyrical segment as an aperitif.
An underrated/overlooked gem. The Quartet’s visit to Japan left a number of impressions on Brubeck, one of them being the way Japanese pop music adopted the Western parody of parallel lines to conjure that stereotypical Oriental sound - they didn’t mind the irony. Neither does Brubeck, as the opening “Tokyo Traffic” uses this fourth-hand tactic (along with woodblocks and a gong) to dip its feet in Eastern waters. It’s a humorous way to start the program (with great solos from all), and it would be the only parallel lines ‘re-parody’ on the album but for the cheeky boogaloo “Toki’s Theme”, a brief misfire. Most of the other Japanese influence seems to be spiritual and emotional, as the gentle landscapes of “Fujiyama” (a slow canon) and “Koto Song” (a blues at heart) have a profound meditative quality rarely heard in the group’s previous work. Desmond is spellbinding on both, and Brubeck’s playing retains a real sense of space, where even his imitative koto trills work. “Rising Sun” is one of his greatest compositions, a rich chordal labyrinth that sounds majestic and introspective at once. “The City is Crying” also touches on the dramatic, with heavy chords and bass glissandos up front, followed by effortless brush swing and more prime Desmond. The altoist is inspired by nearly every piece, and he even drops a dry-martini honk into his last “Osaka Blues” chorus. Doesn’t Eugene Wright sound great as well? For some reason, his bass really stands out on these tunes.
“Toki” aside - and we might even forgive it its sins, as it was written for a TV show - Jazz Impressions of Japan is as beautiful as the quartet could be. The surface affectations of “Tokyo Traffic” turn out to be a red herring, as the majority of the album has the group immersed in something truly different, and sounding much at peace with it.
In the nonchalant final album of the Time cycle, a few pieces traverse odd meters, but no fuss is made about it. Primarily, the album is about melody, be it fleeting (“Lost Waltz”, “Cassandra”) or reflective (“Softly, William, Softly”, with lovely solos). The band’s 5/4 has been smoothed into a light pulse in “Forty Days”, an evocative tune. “Lonesome” follows the piano trio on the dusty, starlit trail for a couple minutes, whereupon Desmond joins them like a lost friend, and Brubeck ends the journey with a delicate statement. Brubeck and his mates aren’t out to impress anyone with their formal cleverness anymore, and as far back as “Unsquare Dance” they knew to keep their cutesy pieces short in duration. (In this case, it’s the tambourine-laden “He Done Her Wrong”.) By the same token, Time In doesn’t ascend as many unique heights as the earlier titles, and it even has an antiquated feel in spots, but it’s kind of a hedge-your-bet situation. Even with such a banal starting premise as “Travellin’ Blues”, the solos manage to deliver.
The title track stands out as a sudden example of Brubeck’s modernism. One wants to mention Wayne Shorter regarding the writing, and Cecil Taylor in the playing. At the very least, “Time In” would make a good blindfold test for Brubeck fans - how long until recognition sets in? It’s a trio piece with a chord map unlike almost anything Brubeck had done before, deployed with surprising accents and harmonic links. It is undeniably him, but it hints at a parallel career as a more obscure, iconoclastic player. The superimposed honkytonk riffing betrays him at the last minute. Mark this track along with “Lost Waltz” as a strong brief of Brubeck’s piano skills.
So titled because these are previously unreleased live recordings from Mexico City, exhumed from the vault (from the same reels that brought you Bravo! Brubeck) and released in 1998. It’s not the most revelatory of documents, but one gets to hear the classic Quartet not long before they parted ways, and the song selection covers some nice second-tier originals (“Mr. Broadway”, “Forty Days”). Waltzes, 5/4, tango, whatever, the band is smooth as silk, and this is easy listening…in a good way. In “Koto Song”, Desmond extracts riches from the slow blues in a divine solo, much more elaborate than the studio take, and “You Go To My Head” is one of those ballroom ballads that this group delivers so well. Brubeck gets uppity at times and also pulls back to the point of fragility. Mostly you can hear how comfortable he sounds with his comrades, which in retrospect might be the reason why he wanted to shake things up (i.e., call it quits). “Sweet Georgia Brown” is a coy presentation with fun solos; for even more fun, try to ignore the theme and pretend instead that the guys are playing Monk’s “Bright Mississippi”. The obligatory “Take Five” goes through the motions, while “St. Louis Blues” sends the set out handily. (Ooof.)
A four disc box originally released in the early 1990s and then reissued in smaller packaging several years later. The selections start with the early Fantasy records, go through a whole swath of the Columbias, then venture into the Atlantics and other labels through the set-capping “Stardust” duet with clarinetist Bill Smith. Paul Desmond is at Brubeck’s side from day one, eventually replaced by baritone Gerry Mulligan (not as seductive a pairing, if you ask me). And in the 1970s, Dave’s offspring start to play backup for him. I’m not really thrilled by any of the later material, although the unreleased “Tritonis” from the late ‘80s has a definitively polyrhythmic piano solo.
The collection is mostly aimed toward the casual fan: Everything You May Or May Not Have Wanted To Know About Brubeck, But Your Cousin Saw Time Out On Your Shelf And Thought You Might Like This Box For Christmas. Well hell, lest I seem snooty, I got it when I first started delving into jazz, and I still think it’s a great sampler. The best music comes from the classic quartet, and there’s nice stuff on either side of that equator. For better or worse, there’s lots of intentional variety, like a few guest vocals and a couple of orchestral combinations. The booklet (including a historical essay by Doug Ramsey and a track by track commentary from Brubeck) is very good. Worth it as an intro to Brubeck’s world - it’s all casual ears should need - although the more serious jazz fan will eventually require some of the quartet albums listed above.
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