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A page for single titles whose artists don't have their own page. (Yet.) Current residents: Derek Bailey, Iain Ballamy, Kenny Barron, Gary Burton, Paul Desmond, Eric Dolphy, Gil Evans, Red Garland, Grant Green, Charlie Haden, Mark Isham, Milt Jackson, Rodney Kendrick, Steve Khan, Roland Kirk, John McLaughlin, Hank Mobley, Modern Jazz Quartet, Oregon, Duke Pearson, Terje Rypdal, Matthew Shipp, Pete LaRoca Sims, Cecil Taylor, John Taylor, Tony Williams, Larry Young.
Derek Bailey Ballads 2002 / Tzadik Had Jackson Pollock unveiled a still-life circa 1954, we’d have a fair analog to this album. Avant guitarist Bailey rendering standards after years spent in the free-improv underworld is a startling anomaly, but he did start out, way back when, playing by the rules. (Ditto Pollock.) Bailey’s liner note comment addresses the inevitable question: “I thought maybe there’s something there.” All right, then. The fundamental “something” that Bailey finds in the likes of “Stella By Starlight” and “Body and Soul” is hardly new - an impetus to play, a launching pad for individual invention. Yet Bailey’s inventions, as always, defy custom. Faithful theme readings give way to spiky harmonics, microtonal dissonances, and isolated rhythmic cells. Any hint of chord cycling or melodic development is in the next aisle, filed under Jim Hall. Bailey can sound like a random noise generator in his study of shapes, intervals, and density. The logic of these solo improvisations becomes more apparent with each listen, although they shed little light on the source material.
Ballads is not an about face, nor is it a sly send-up courtesy of exec producer John Zorn. It’s a chance to hear Bailey’s guitar (acoustic, did I mention?) up close, accessing tradition but shunning its methods. Purists are warned away, and improv converts might enjoy this temporary bridge between the “old” and the immediate.
Heavy on ballads, this album from British saxophonist Iain Ballamy (alto, tenor, soprano) makes pleasant background music. Ballamy doesn’t drip sap, but neither do these compositions command attention, which is unexpected, considering the mischievous company of Django Bates (piano), Steve Watts (bass), and Martin France (drums). The most excited they get is in the playful step of “Serendipity” and the polite deconstruction of “Haunted Swing”. The rest of the time, they play exquisitely within tunes that seem to evaporate despite subtle complexities (“Blennie”, “Oaxaca”). I’ve owned this CD since it came out and I still can’t remember how half the tunes go unless I’m listening to it. There are two exceptions, though, one being the title track, which drifts on a beautiful bed of stacked saxes and develops a reflective premise. The other is “Meadow”, the melody and bassline of which are impossible to forget, and where Ballamy and Bates (doubling on E-flat horn) engage in casual dialogue. Ballamy’s lyrical command is admirable, yet this disc mostly gets entangled in its own scenery and doesn’t hint at Iain and Django’s wilder sides.
This album plays up the romantic notion of a quiet jazz performance held within a sanctuary of alcohol and hushed tones while the city outside clangs through overnight motions. Night and the City culls tunes from Barron and Haden’s duo gig at NYC’s Iridium, leaning toward well-known standards and a couple of originals. Bassist Haden has deep respect for melody (“Body and Soul”) and a slightly askew rhythmic sense, where he skirts the beat but doesn’t lose it. It makes good support for Barron’s flawless pianisms, which cover a lot of ground and leave the listener wanting nothing.
The tunes breathe naturally as mood dictates. The eerie opening flourishes of Barron’s “Twilight Song” set a nice atmosphere. The highlight “Spring Is Here” is propelled by Haden’s hypnotic octave pulse and Barron’s chord melody. In contrast, “For Heaven’s Sake” and “Waltz for Ruth” make use of boppish elegance. “The Very Thought of You” displays a bit of improvisational osmosis, as Barron’s solo drifts imperceptibly into Haden’s. Music this intimate doesn’t reach out and grab you, but there’s plenty to sink into. Throughout, we can occasionally hear the ambient clinking of a club full of rapt patrons, and this perhaps is the point of the album’s concept, more so than the poetic liner notes or O’Keefe cover painting. In effect, the listeners have joined the musicians in a vibrant if understated communion. Unlike most other rituals, it offers more in the way of subtle surprise instead of knowing what’s coming next.
It’s hard to book more eloquence and experience than this modern summit session with Pat Metheny, Chick Corea, Dave Holland, and Roy Haynes. Burton is the picture of ease on vibraphone, and with the dulcet guitar tones of Pat on the one hand, and Chick’s verbose piano on the other, it’s the ideal record for note-aholics. Holland is buried underneath, while Haynes’ drums cut through and provide the only sharp edges to be heard. Good thing, too, as the whole threatens to get too smooth at points. Material comes from the front line. Pat leads the way with “Question and Answer”, a modern classic that he previously recorded with Dave and Roy, and it comes across very well here. His new piece “Elucidation” challenges the group with a brisk sequence of boppish changes, and Pat also brings the drippy stuff, like “Tears of Rain”, the kind of folksy back-porch jazz that might put Type-As to sleep. Corea pitches in a couple of oldies, “Windows” and “Straight Up and Down”, the former a delight as always, and the latter provoking bright swing and acute solos. The title track is the better of Burton’s two tunes, sounding tailor made for Corea. The two men, after all, were not unfamiliar as duet partners, and they do display like minds at times.
The playing is super slick, almost to a fault. These guys are too good. The album is a congress of giant peers, and they intermingle as one might expect. Metheny has his favored licks in place - including the descending major-thirds followed by the ascending intervallic run - and Burton and Corea play off their duet experience. Holland and Haynes lend considerable prowess. This tightrope music sounds safer than it is, and if that paradox appeals to you as much as any two of the names on the album cover, check it out.
Sometimes you just need a little Desmond - that light, floating alto sax that breathes every note into the right spot. On the surface, Desmond seems like a very relaxed player, but such smart phrasing indicates a quick mind, even if he doesn’t generate heat like Bird or Cannonball. This quartet record with guitarist Jim Hall is one of a few that Desmond made while moonlighting from the Brubeck gig. The title track rewrites the popular “Take Five”, albeit with a more inquisitive melody and a darker solo section. After that come a couple of light-hearted standards (“Alone Together”, “Nancy”) interspersed with a few bossa nova selections that tend to blur together, like “El Prince” and “Embarcadero”. The latter sounds vaguely “Autumn Leaves” as it slides through basic changes, though it has an unexpected major-chord resolution. Desmond is well suited to the polite drive of the bossa beat; it buys him time between phrases and gives him a variety of accents to stress, as can be heard in the percolations of “Theme from Black Orpheus”. “The One I Love” and “Out of Nowhere” go into a straight swing where Desmond and Hall let loose. As likeable as this album is, it’s also so laid-back that it can come across as background music if you don’t listen closely. Anyway, it gives the Brubeck fan a slightly different perspective on their star saxophonist.
The neighing, whinnying, bleating, groaning bass clarinet of the opening “Hat and Beard” gives fair warning of just how irritating this record is. Dolphy had made a singular name for himself on Prestige, and also within the bands of Mingus and Coltrane. Primarily an altoist (who rivals Ornette Coleman for ear-bending sonorities), with sojourns on flute and bass clarinet to match, Dolphy bridges out-bop to the avant-garde, always treating material with utter spontaneity. His sole Blue Note title is a challenging, crowning effort of all original material played by a modern team: Freddie Hubbard, Bobby Hutcherson, Richard Davis, and Tony Williams. “Hat and Beard” marches a merry way, with Davis and Williams agreeing on everything except a traditional beat, Hutch scenting the air with spare vibes, and Freddie Hubbard, well, being Freddie. He comports himself “out there” with a combination of bop pyrotechnics and low-register blatting. Dolphy pushes the bass clarinet to its limits in a whimsical solo. “Something Sweet, Something Tender” features the same instrument, often in tandem with Davis’ fat bass, and the track is dirge-like as well as tender. “Gazzeloni” entangles flute and vibes in an abstract theme. Hutcherson’s solo eggs Tony into aggressive action - listening to this portion of the drum track in isolation, you’d swear it was from Filles de Kilimanjaro or something. The head to “Out to Lunch”, rendered by Dolphy on alto, twists like a snake. “Straight Up and Down” is a bloody annoying theme for alto and trumpet in high, pitchy unison, sounding like circus music from hell. The solos and swing redeem the tune in part.
On the formal and interactive levels, the album is a progressive success. Regarding the crucial contributions of Hutcherson, Davis, and Williams, it’s important to note that they are not just updating or abstracting modern bop accompaniment - they’re actually creating a new model of support customized to the material in question. Meanwhile, Dolphy’s playing is bold and passionate, although the unsanitized timbres and phrasing aren’t exactly pleasing or immediately logical. Personally, I’ve struggled with Dolphy here and elsewhere. I admire his freedom and virtuosity, yet his sound is often a subjective barrier. But that’s irrelevant to the objective merits of this record.
Coming on the heels of successful collaborations with Miles Davis, this album reasserts Gil Evans as his own man. Surrounded by a crack jazz orchestra including Johnny Coles (who, incidentally, sounds similar to Miles on this record), Jimmy Knepper, Ron Carter, and Elvin Jones, the arranger/pianist moves out of the cool and into the groove. For anyone who ever said that Gil didn’t understand swing, the opening “La Nevada” provides comeuppance, from the little piano lick at the beginning to the compounded momentum that builds over its duration. After that, “Where Flamingos Fly” and “Bilbao Song” are reconstructed with beautifully dissonant colors and mournful lead statements. Notable ingredients include Knepper’s trombone solo in “Flamingos” and the tuned percussion in “Bilbao”. “Stratusphunk” is probably the most entertaining track of all; Evans layers the roly-poly main line to humorous effect, accelerates for swinging solos, and then lowers the temperature again. The closing “Sunken Treasure” has some flaws (notice the edits) but effectively roams a desolate area, topped by Coles’ milesian anguish. There really isn’t a dull moment on the album from start to finish.
Out of the Cool was first remastered on CD in 1996 - right around the time of the Miles/Gil Columbia boxset, in fact - and is now available in the Impulse Originals series. The 2007 edition misses the bonus track “Sister Sadie” and the informative booklet notes of the previous package, but the five main tracks satisfy by themselves, and the sound is great. Even though this is my Gil Evans album of reviewing choice, there are others worth exploring. In 2006, Blue Note combined New Bottle, Old Wine and Great Jazz Standards into The Complete Pacific Jazz Sessions, which is pretty dandy but sounds less modern (to me, at least) than Out of the Cool. To hear how Evans kept current in the 1970s, try Svengali.
A straightahead good time - the apostrophe, personnel, and date tell you all you need to know. Donald Byrd and John Coltrane play trumpet and tenor above the piano trio of Garland, George Joyner, and Art Taylor. Coltrane and Garland were tight chums at the time, appearing on each other’s albums as well as having spilled blood together in the Miles quintet. It’s Prestigious incest that really clicks. Red’s piano playing is infectious as always; he gives his block chords and tight-knit lines a touch that makes everyone sound better. The title track is a twenty-minute blues at medium tempo with generous solos. Sustaining 12-bar interest for this long requires some dynamics (of which there are none) or else interesting players, and Coltrane for one fills that bill. The other soloists fall into base blues cliches and easy quotes. In one of his final choruses, Garland plays a lick that Trane would feature as his opening phrase in “Locomotion” on Blue Train, and that saxists from Jackie McLean to George Coleman would cop later on. If it’s a quote of a common tune, I’m blanking on what it is.
The standard showpiece “They Can’t Take That Away from Me” puts the emphasis on show, with Byrd taking the A sections and Trane handling the bridge. “Our Delight”, swinging hard, completes the blues-standard-original triptych. Coltrane fans will dig the album, provided his own large selection of Prestiges hasn’t quelled their appetite for his ‘50s playing.
A semi-modernized blowing session for sextet, and one of guitarist Green’s more interesting albums. Joe Henderson and Bobby Hutcherson are featured on tenor and vibes, while Duke Pearson, Bob Cranshaw, and Al Harewood cover rhythm duties. Add Green on guitar, and you’ve got a lot of voices in the room. The modern bits come in Green’s “Jean De Fleur” and Pearson’s “Nomad”, both of which have harmonic tracts ahead of their time, and the sprightly melodies forecast uptempo Metheny, for want of a better comparison. (I’m sure it’s just Grant’s guitar that made me think of Pat.) “Nomad” rolls on for twelve minutes with good turns from Henderson and Hutch, and Green is escalated from his usual settings. Great piece. “Jean De Fleur” is more insistent and compact. In “Django”, Green returns to his earthy roots and the band wallows in melancholy.
The centerpiece is the quarter-hour “Idle Moments”, a snail paced, meditative Pearson theme. The liner notes explain how the track went on much longer than intended, due to a misunderstanding of what constituted one chorus length: 16 or 32 bars? The piece tip-toes forth like a midnight snacker trying not to wake anyone else in the house. Green plays with bluesy simplicity, and Henderson’s solo gets the gold star. The tenor blows at barely above a whisper, spinning each phrase into a delicate thread. The understatement makes it a major statement and one of his very best solos anywhere. So there are nice individual moments on the album; add the varied cast of characters, and it’s borderline must-hear. Two bonus alternate takes extend the goodness.
What a joy it is to hear Joe Henderson again. The disc begins with the unaccompanied tenor tracing a chorus of “Round Midnight”, patented nuances in place. When Henderson passed in 2001, jazz lost a distinctive and versatile voice, leaving us only the potential of posthumous releases like this to augment his legacy. The recording dates from bassist Haden’s weeklong stint at a Montreal jazzfest in 1989, from which other trio encounters have also been released. Opening night featured Henderson, Haden, and drummer Al Foster, a simpatico lineup. The four selections explore some of the linear free association that Haden purveyed with Ornette way back when. “In the Moment” goes left field in its first few minutes, eventually morphing into solid swing. Henderson personalizes “Round Midnight” with the same slithery phrasing he always brought to it, while he stamps “Passport” with Rollins-like zeal. Haden steps out on a couple of occasions, but he’s at his best behind Joe, as both men have warm tones that mesh wonderfully together. Foster’s drumming fits like a glove and his intelligent solos draw deserved ovations. The only complaint is leveled at the recording, which suffers at times from a distant soundstage. Surely someone could have sat at a mixing desk and brought the connections of this trio into clearer focus. So, some assembly required, but otherwise a good record.
(By the way, of Haden’s other Montreal Tapes recordings, I prefer the one with Geri Allen and Paul Motian.)
Tributes to Miles’ electric era sometimes leave me puzzled. What exactly are the performers trying to get out of such loose, player-specific music? Is it some elaborate fantasy to pretend they’re in the 1970 studio with Miles, Teo, Michael Henderson, etc.? For sure, it’s a more vague job than diving into “Ah Leu Cha” or “Footprints”, and reproducing atmosphere is not easy. Regardless, trumpeter Mark Isham – not best known for doing this sort of thing – takes a good stab at Miles’ dark ages. His tone is more robust than Davis, but he shares a similar spaciousness and knack for repeating cool motifs, so earns the role, remarkably so at times. Backed by two guitars (Peter Maunu, Steve Cardenas, both effects-laden) and rhythm battery (Doug Lunn and Michael Barsimanto), Isham brings a new sense of adventure to the music. “Spanish Key” grooves under Milesian shrewdness, recedes into a haze, and roars at the end into a heroic climax. “It’s About That Time” milks muted suspense before boarding the fortissimo F7 riff. Elsewhere are compact funk pieces (“Ife”, the original “Internet”), out and out rockers (“Right Off”, a wah-happy “Black Satin”), and a couple of ambient moods, like the leadoff “In a Silent Way” that includes a disembodied kiss of “Milestones”. The loop-possessed “Great Expectations” makes an unsettling soundtrack. A couple of cuts are expendable, and maybe the guitars get wanky in a couple places, but I think the overall contemporary relevance mostly justifies Isham’s efforts.
The 1952 session features John Lewis, Percy Heath, and Kenny Clarke (sound familiar?) as the rhythm team. Lou Donaldson lends alto sax to a few tunes. They play six pieces, three of which are doubled in alternate takes. From the romance of “Lillie” and “What’s New” to the uptempo bop of “On the Scene” and the classic blues “Bags’ Groove”, Jackson’s vibraphone is never less than infectious. His phrasing is so slick that it’s easy to take him for granted as a soloist, but Milt is an outstanding mind at work. Donaldson’s happy alto comes to the fore on a couple of tracks (notably “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore”) to break up the vibes-piano dominance. The last half of the disc features a meeting with Thelonious Monk in 1948. (Bass and drums are John Simmons and Shadow Wilson.) Here are eerie first versions of “Misterioso”, “I Mean You”, “Evidence”, and “Epistrophy”, Monk warhorses all. Jackson’s usual effervescence is enveloped by Monk’s piano. Take the elementary, walking-sixths blues “Misterioso”: Milt improvises as he would any other blues, yet Monk’s support figures make the vibes sound like icing on the cake. Monk’s own “Misterioso” solos focus on split seconds (the master take) or ornate unpredictability (the alternate). The obtuse chordal theme of “Evidence” isn’t stated until the end of this version, underneath Milt’s ongoing improvisations. The first A section of “Epistrophy” is underlined by a triplet piano vamp that creates a boatload of tension, and the tune’s zig-zagging chords keep Milt from racing too far ahead in his solo. I don’t think these are definitive versions of the pieces, yet they are quite daring for the time and stand apart for Monk’s genius.
From the same session come takes of “All the Things You Are” and “I Should Care”, both sung by Pancho Hagood in a mannered style. Milt and Monk get half-chorus solos. Monk would revisit “I Should Care” as a solo piece in later years, and one can hear some of his ideas already present behind Hagood’s crooning. For the instrumental tracks, this RVG is a must-have for Monk collectors, and Jackson’s fans will find joy in the ‘52 session. The collection proves that Bags was a mallet-wielding wizard, and also that Monk was a sorcerer with a growing book of spells.
Trio work from pianist Kendrick, backed by Tarus Mateen on bass and Turu Alexander on drums. Not one for melodic subtlety or ease, the heavy-handed Kendrick emphasizes percussive attacks and wayward spaces, which actually bring some authenticity to his take on Monk’s “Rhythm-a-Ning” (cleverly interpolating bits of “Little Rootie Tootie”). On the other hand, his blunt keystrokes weigh down “Just One of Those Things”, an odd standard choice for a band more enchanted with syncopation and force. And in that regard, we have the obstinate rhythms of the African “Jahjuka” and the monstrous “Fight the Beast” (with the bassline of doom), both of which are aggressive fun. Later in the program, “Mystery of Love” is an unsettling oasis, the dark cousin of Evans’ “Peace Piece”, getting more indulgent as it goes. Best, perhaps, is the throwaway “Around the Corner”, lulling the listener with reflective chords and a rim-click groove before Kendrick’s syncopated octaves enter the picture apropos nothing. At which point the track fades, as if this nonchalant development was the point of the tune’s brief existence. Overall, not bad, and the stomping bits will appeal to fans of MMW, or even The Bad Plus.
I’m nonplussed by the title and doodly cover art, but this is still one of my favorite jazz guitar records. For one thing, Khan’s round tone is as tasty as his playing. Secondly, the tunestack includes Ornette’s “R.P.D.D.”, Wayne’s “Paraphernalia”, and Keith’s “Common Mama” right off the bat, wonderful pieces that you don’t hear covered on many albums. Third, the busy yet unobtrusive rhythm team of John Patitucci (bass) and Jack DeJohnette (drums) is ideal for a trio format. Also, to keep things varied, half the tracks add percussion (including Don Alias) to Latin-ish arrangements. Khan spreads out the melody of “Paraphernalia” over the rhythm section’s fast tempo, giving the impression of two different time zones. This is furthered in the track’s percussion breaks. The tender “I Have Dreamed” has a similar mix of relaxed melody and hypnotic rhythms. For straight-up neo-bopping, “R.P.D.D.” and Khan’s original title piece deliver well. Khan phrases angular ideas in such a smooth manner, and he fills the gaps with provocative chord colors. He hints at the blues without cliche in “Common Mama”, Eddie Harris’ “Sham Time”, and Lee Morgan’s “Cunning Lee”. Balladwise, “I Have Dreamed” is lovely, and Khan also dotes on “The Last Dance”.
Sometimes the music gets repetitive, like the vamp that goes on forever in “Sham Time”. Otherwise, the playing sustains interest. Being a guitarist myself, I’m kind of picky about the instrument, and I admire Khan’s sound and style on this record no end. Patitucci always struck me as sort of a chop-head when I heard his early stuff, but somewhere in the ‘90s he turned into a mature, interactive bassist. Jack DeJohnette – what can you say? Listen to him tumble through the uptempo numbers, and how he colors the ballads. Good work. Great recording, too.
Early Kirk. Very jazzy music with an occasional “what was that?” prompted by the multi-axe attack. Backed by Andrew Hill, Vernon Martin, and Henry Duncan on the first session, and Wynton Kelly, Martin, and Roy Haynes on the second, Kirk plays all sorts of reeds on a variety of tunes. Originals include the lovely “Stritch in Time” waltz (very Coltrane-like) and the charging “3 in 1 Without the Oil”, which has touches of dissonance and a cool flute break. J.J. Johnson’s “Lament” is cheered up a tad (give a dog a bone), while the theme of Loesser’s “I Believe in You” goes from tenor to stritch (or manzello?) to combined horns. That’s Kirk’s best trait, I think - using the arsenal for dynamic purposes. Anyway, “I Believe in You” is an irresistible sample of Kirk’s pure jazz feel.
The bonus tracks include an alternate of the nifty title tune and a rave-up of Monk’s “Let’s Call This”. Kirk connoisseurs may or may not rate Domino very highly (because it’s not as “original” as his later music), but I happen to appreciate his style more in semi-traditional settings, and in any case, there are a few moments here that ditch protocol.
Despite all the high-octane fusion and accomplished acoustic visions to follow, Extrapolation remains one of guitarist McLaughlin’s most likeable and unique efforts. Joined by John Surman on baritone and soprano saxes, Brian Odges on bass, and Tony Oxley on drums, McLaughlin explores a catchy niche between jazz and rock. Apart from a few rapid runs, his guitar doesn’t grab as much attention as his tunes do, from neo-boppers like “Extrapolation” and “Spectrum” to the altered blues templates of “Arjen’s Bag” and “Binky’s Beam”. (Or is it “Binky’s Dream”? The liner card and the CD do not agree.) On other pieces, Surman’s husky saxes bring life to McLaughlin’s suggestive chord progressions, and Oxley leaves a lot of question marks over his grooves, though he leans toward bar-less swing for the most part. We also get a taste of free jazz (“Two for Two”), and on a couple of tracks, McLaughlin recoils into a meditative state. Not much of the music indicates what would be in store for Johnny Mac, but if you sped up “Binky’s” and added more electricity, you’d have a prototypical Mahavishnu Orchestra piece.
Mobley has never been one of my favorite tenor saxophonists, nor have I gotten attached to his other albums as a leader (much as I enjoyed Soul Station at one time), but No Room for Squares is a big exception. A couple of the tracks caught my ear in a record store (long live brick and mortar), and I loved it even more listening at home. The modal tunes “Up a Step” and the title track define the album’s modern atmosphere, swinging so infectiously with Mobley in sharp form. Good support from the sidemen, too, including trumpeters Lee Morgan and Donald Byrd, pianists Andrew Hill and Herbie Hancock, bassists John Ore and Butch Warren, and drummer Philly Joe Jones. (The music comes from two separate sessions.) Obviously, Mobley’s earlier tenure with Miles Davis helped spark the aforementioned modal tunes, and Hank sounds comfortably inventive in the open terrain. He’s just as hip when dealing with standard chord changes in “Three Way Split” and “Old World, New Imports”, two upbeat tunes in which Philly Joe also distinguishes himself. The ballad feature is “Carolyn”, a pretty but not too deep number by Lee Morgan. The album makes room for one square in “Me ‘n You”, a boogaloo blues that doesn’t fit the tone of the other pieces. Nonetheless, “Three Way Split”, “Up a Step”, and “No Room for Squares” are enough to earn the disc an enthusiastic endorsement.
Originally released in two LP volumes, this much-praised live set is now available on one CD (Collectables, 2006). Sometimes the MJQ gets knocked for being too reserved, or too neoclassical, but they really helped ‘dignify’ jazz and bring it to audiences worldwide. Plus, they’re class musicians – John Lewis’ piano, Milt Jackson’s bluesy vibes, and the limber bass and drums of Percy Heath and Connie Kay all bond into an elegant package. For sure, portions of this concert step lightly (the contrapuntal “Vendome”, the precious waltz “Skating In Central Park”) or get academically cute (a “Round Midnight” that I cannot make head or tail of). But for the most part, classics like “Django”, “Bags’ Groove”, and “It Don’t Mean a Thing” represent the MJQ at their melodic, easy-swinging best. “Django” in particular encapsulates the group’s multi-paneled approach: the downcast opening eventually slips into a groovier section of solos, then back again. I’m also partial to “Festival Sketch” and “The Cylinder”, two of the more invigorating selections. Listen closely to the ballads, too, where Jackson improvises from the get-go in “I Remember Clifford”, and how delicately “Odds Against Tomorrow” unfolds. The similarity between piano and vibes gives the MJQ a fairly static sound, but sometimes this works to their advantage – Lewis and Jackson seem to share one mind when trading bars at the end of “I’ll Remember April”.
This is a fine live recording, though there’s a glaring skip/edit in the midst of “The Pyramid”. Since that’s not one of my favorite tracks, I’m not too bummed. For another comprehensive MJQ document, check out The Last Great Concert, recorded in 1974 and featuring several of above tunes along with plenty more. Or you might want to backtrack to Django, recorded with original drummer Kenny Clarke, when the quartet was getting their style in order.
The long-running group Oregon resumes its legacy nicely with this album. Core members Ralph Towner (acoustic guitars, piano, keyboards), Paul McCandless (saxes, oboe, etc), and Glen Moore (bass) are joined by drummers Arto Tuncboyaciyan and Mark Walker, who underline the group’s multi-ethnic outlook. The strongest pieces mix serpentine consonance with jazzy spark (“Fortune Cookie”, “Nightfall”, “Yet to Be”) and highlight the rich sound of the band. The rendition of “Joyful Departure” misses the structural concision of Towner’s solo guitar version (on Ana), yet the guitar-percussion interplay is excellent. At times, the music falls toward lite-jazz, as in the maudlin melodies and cushy synth pads of “Lost in the Hours” and “Claridade”. However, such moments are offset by Moore’s angular “L’Assassino Che Suona” and interludes that range from downsized jams (“Don’t Knock on My Door”, “Over Your Shoulder”) to ambient jaunts (“Under a Dorian Sky”, the title track). “Take Heart” seems wispy in its first few measures but develops in a lovely direction. Towner plays equally well on guitar and piano, surrounded by McCandless’ crystalline melodies and Moore’s bass. The most intense track is “Nightfall”, where a stealthy beat supports a jagged 12-string vamp (not unlike Miles’ “It’s About That Time”) and wailing sopranino. The album has a few other worthy peaks and is certainly recommended to Towner/Oregon aficionados.
In the disarming title ditty, a cheery, reverbed flute theme (this is James Spaulding?) over a skipping rhythm recalls all the placid TV theme tunes you’ve never heard from the era. Need some lightheartedness in the collection? Blue Note’s house pianist and artist-producer liaison has got the answer. Pearson as a composer is mostly concerned with melody, and he calls on Spaulding, Freddie Hubbard, and Joe Henderson to give voice. The material, for the most part, doesn’t bring out their strengths, even if the tunes are on paper somewhat challenging. “Sudel”, for example, sounds a lot more pedestrian than it really is. “Empathy” hints at contemporary moods, with a flute/muted trumpet theme to illuminate its dark hallways. All Blue Note records from this period were required by law to include at least one danceable, bluesy hit, and “Big Bertha” is as fun an example as any other. For a luminescent highlight, turn to “Gaslight”, a 22-bar piece which according to Pearson “gives you the feeling that it’s always going up. You somehow no longer hear the point from which you started.” So true, and Henderson navigates the chromatic playground with assurance.
A meeting between texturally minded guitarist Rypdal, bassist Miroslav Vitous, and drummer Jack DeJohnette. In these six scenarios (they aren’t really tunes), the ethereal strings are held aloft by Jack’s busy cymbals. Occasionally a guitar or bowed bass melody steers the music on a certain path, but mostly, things ebb and flow like the weather, or a relaxing dream. Rypdal sometimes adds organ to the mix, although it’s almost indistinguishable from his cloudy guitar chords. I like his spacious approach, and the soft yet piercing sustain of his lead tone. The chameleonic “Sunrise” rises and descends beautifully, and Jack does some excellent drumming near the end. Vitous’ “Will” sounds just as entrancing as it did on Weather Report’s Sweetnighter. A couple of other tracks go overboard on the dreaminess, but the free “Flight” supplies some aggression, and “Seasons” closes the album with the most varied arrangement, including guitar synth. This isn’t a typical guitar trio effort by any means; it’s more for listeners who want obscure atmosphere.
Billed as the Matthew Shipp “String” Trio: Shipp’s piano, Mat Maneri’s violin, and William Parker’s bass act in accordance of free improv laws. The principles of recapitulation and variation are in effect, as certain angular piano themes recur in the dozen separate improvisations. Yet the tenuous thematic unity is merely an academic side effect, as the real attraction is in Shipp’s immediate act at the keyboard, which knows no past or future. Shipp postulates several ideas at a clip, intensely concentrated, occasionally perching on repetitive figures or microcosmic expositions. He leaves no key untouched, working the whole range of the piano with precision, posing abstract questions to himself and then answering them. He fills both iterations of “Grid” by himself - audacious, impromptu piano on par with Taylor or Jarrett. Both Maneri and Parker seem employed for sonic texture as much as note choices; the violin provides grating counterpoint to the piano, and Parker shoulders the activities like a downtown Atlas. When the trio rises as one in force - “Whole Movement”, or “P X” - it’s a thing of ugly beauty. Elsewhere, they hold aloof conversations that Shipp tends to dominate. Small doses make the album easier to assimilate, and there’s a lot to digest. It ends with an antagonistic version of Duke’s “Solitude”, played as if the group (especially Maneri) hates the song. How much more effective it would have been to play the song straight, contrasting the freedom of the rest of the disc.
Everyone I’ve ever loaned this CD to wound up getting their own copy. I’m sure they found the modal quartet music very likeable from the first listen on (as did I), and I suspect they were also hooked by how the recording borders on the psychedelic (for jazz, anyway). John Gilmore’s tenor sax is slightly electrified, Chick Corea’s piano sounds like it’s coming from the end of a hallway, and leader LaRoca’s drums sound even farther away. Only Walter Booker’s bass occupies a fixed point in space; the other three voices have artificial distance. But that’s cool, because it matches the exotic modes (mostly Middle Eastern variants) and rhythms. The music sounds like it’s coming from somewhere, and it puts the listener in the position of chosen receptor. However, take away the reverb and stereo shifts and you’ve got a typical postbop album. Gilmore is pretty much the star of the show, sounding like Coltrane’s spiritual cousin (“Love Planet”). Corea breaks out in “Marjoun” and elsewhere provides a couple of the album’s most insinuating riffs. One is the locked hands backdrop to LaRoca’s drum solo in “Dancing Girls” - sort of like Morello’s “Take Five” from another planet - and the other is the sad piano line of “Bliss” that trickles down over and over like droplets on a windowpane. Both tunes create unforgettable moods, as does the title track. Booker’s bass ostinatos play a big role in the music, too. The only piece I’ve never quite embraced is the anxious “Sin Street”. After that, the album closer “And So” recaps some of the preceding themes.
This title was originally issued on Muse and then disappeared for a long time before emerging from 32 Jazz’s underdog kennel in 1997. Whether or not it’s still in print, I don’t know, but it’s worth looking for.
A monumental album in which pianist Cecil Taylor explores the grand-scale potential of free jazz. The two lengthy pieces “Conquistador” and “With (Exit)” both open with nice melodies and then move through various improvising areas, some volatile, some mysterious. Jimmy Lyons’ alto sax lends a strong, singing component, while Bill Dixon’s trumpet gives precarious second voice. Underneath, two basses (Henry Grimes, Alan Silva) and drummer Andrew Cyrille play fragmented rhythms, and Cecil oversees everything with splintery piano. There are solos, in the basic sense, but the constant interplay and absence of explicit swing exemplify true freedom. (Unlike Ornette’s Free Jazz, which was tied to swing at its core and had barely any dynamics.) Everything feels cradled by the energy of the group, such as the Coltrane-like groove and melody in the middle of “Conquistador”. I marvel at how the other players sometimes feed off of Taylor’s piano kinetics. Instead of a civilized vamp, for example, Taylor might repeat a grandiose, keyboard-spanning figure a few times and thus steer the ship in a new direction. Cyrille’s drumming is fantastic, too.
Despite some duff moments, I say the disc is monumental because of the formal structure (you can hear the music following a long roadmap) and because of the group’s commitment to a collective spirit. Also, it’s not a noise-making or angst-ridden album; the players are considerate of musical content, however abstract it might be.
British pianist Taylor is heard here in a candid trio setting with support from bassist Marc Johnson and drummer Joey Baron. Taylor’s music, so consonant and relaxed on the surface, is of a rare strength and depth, and it creates its own emotional space. The closed harmonic circuits and sparse melodies of “The Bowl Song” and “Between Moons” set up an approach that relies as much on chordal detours as it does on finespun single lines. The pace and touch are hypnotic on the slow vamping title track, and the inventions on the sole standard “How Deep is the Ocean” brighten the song anew. The “Ocean” arrangement starts with dramatic pause and then the core of the song flowers in a delightful way. A couple of tunes by Ralph Towner and Kenny Wheeler point up the “ECM-ness” of the date, and the Taylor original “Field Day” provides an uplifting finale. The sound of the CD is superb; the instruments all have a punchy proximity in the mix, while a slight reverb lets reflections hang in the air. Definitely recommended to piano fans.
It’s a measure of the drummer’s artistry (and precocity - he was still a teen) that his debut album was neither a technique-flexing drum barrage nor a dues-paying patchwork of standard bags. In fact, the most striking piece is a piano and bass duet in which no drums are heard at all! Of course, Tony Williams had already demonstrated himself as a sideman, and with nothing to prove as a player, he was free to try out some abstract ideas. The most conventional workout, relatively speaking, is the postbop trio piece “Tomorrow Afternoon” with tenor Sam Rivers and bassist Gary Peacock. The suite-like “Two Pieces of One” adds bassist Richard Davis to the mix, and the twin basses make for dark environs, particularly in the ascending themes of “Red”. Williams and Rivers share a wild duet in “Green”, which is followed by an abstract drum solo. “Memory” holds a percussion discussion twixt Williams, Bobby Hutcherson, and Herbie Hancock, and then there’s the aforementioned “Barb’s Song to the Wizard”, a rainy evening soundtrack played only by Herbie and Ron Carter. The sum of all five pieces isn’t that great, but the uniqueness of the individual moments counts for something. Call it skeletal avant-garde.
One of the very best Blue Note titles; heck, one of the best jazz records ever. Reasons why: Young takes the organ beyond soul-jazz into advanced hardbop territory, Joe Henderson turns in yet another ace sideman performance, Woody Shaw contributes three awesome, challenging tunes, and, as a bonus, I consider this Elvin Jones’ finest drumming on record. (Coltrane devotees might dispute that, but I’ll stick to it.) Each of the four musicians brings something special to the party, and the result is a burning, inspiring record. It’s not just a musical synergy; the actual sound of the quartet is dark and deep. Maybe the biggest story is trumpeter Shaw, only twenty and already writing such complicated material as “The Moontrane” and “Beyond All Limits”. Both invigorating tunes run the soloists through harmonic gauntlets. Shaw also writes the opening “Zoltan”, which begins as a march then opens into an Elvoid rhythm with wobbly organ chords. Henderson’s “If” repositions standard 12-bar blues changes into something more abstract and befitting this quartet; they can either play the blues in the solos or go elsewhere. In an organ/drum duet version of “Monk’s Dream”, Young finds all kinds of knick-knacks in the tune’s brilliant corners. “Softly as in a Morning Sunrise” has a wonderful Henderson solo with Elvin on brushes and Young burbling the B-3.
Anything else I could say would just be subjective gushing. The album doesn’t have any weakness I can detect, and its strengths mount track by track. The leader mixes the organ’s electric soul with the demanding harmonic requirements of the material. Joe, Woody, and Elvin have rarely sounded better. Rudy’s recording is faultless. The album cover is cool. Five golden stars for an outstanding forty minutes.
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