A Road Not Taken

John Gilmore spent the better part of his professional career playing with Sun Ra, a gig that allowed him to not only play smoking tenor saxophone and clarinet but to chant in harmony when called on, play various percussion instruments, and wear funny hats and colorful vests. (And live in a communal situation with an orchestra–load of men, but let’s not go there.) Who could resist that? Well, Gilmore himself apparently did, at least for a brief moment in the mid-1960s when he joined Art Blakey’s Jazz Messengers. He can be heard to fine effect on the Blakey album “S’Make It,” but actually seeing him with the band concretizes this strange interlude. The fact that Gilmore sounds so good in a straightforward hard bop setting gives us a tantalizing taste of a career path he might have taken. With Blakey breathing down his neck in that hit-it-or-hit-the-road way of his, Gilmore turns in a charging solo that sets off lucidity with passion. So much so that the gale force solo by Lee Morgan that follows doesn’t diminish Gilmore’s efforts in any way. But space was obviously the place for Gilmore and he soon returned to the Sun Ra fold -- hard bop’s loss was Saturn’s gain. For more strong Gilmore work minus the Sonny Blount unit, try “The Artistry of Freddie Hubbard” on Impulse!

Baby Steps

What a fascinating clip this is! Remove the images of Burton and Company's Summer of Love getups -- drummer Bob Moses's Nehru nightmare wins the prize -- and you might think you were listening to a particularly hip performance from, say, Red Norvo. In all, it's more a delicious bit of modern chamber jazz than a glimpse of the fusion future. Steve Swallow is still on acoustic bass, Coryell has yet to turn up the juice, Moses is on his best behavior, and Burton remains downright polite. Tame only in relationship to where things would go in a year or two, this band could have stayed in this relatively conventional mode and still have generated interest as a kind of updated Modern Jazz Quartet. But the siren song of fusion was calling, and each of these men had to answer it in his own way.
Still, those are some sweet threads!

Fusion Pipe Dreams: Part One

By the mid-Sixties, if not earlier, Miles Davis was actively listening to pop and rock music. By the late-Sixties his own music was displaying rock influences -- hear the Hendrix-derived "Mademoiselle Mabry" from the 1969 opus "Filles de Kilimanjaro" for starters. In 1970 Davis recorded a spacey, Indian-infused take on David Crosby's "Guinnevere," which had debuted just a year earlier on the first Crosby, Stills and Nash album. Ever since hearing that performance (first released in 1979) I've tended to file away classic rock tunes that I wish Davis had looked into. "Coming Back To Me" is one of the Jefferson Airplane's masterpieces, a moody sonic dream that stands as one of the great ballads of the era. The Airplane had certainly been listening to Miles: Grace Slick, the composer of "White Rabbit," -- yet another masterpiece from the glorious "Surrealistic Pillow" album of 1967 -- described the song as being a cross between "Sketches of Spain" and "Bolero." Although Slick had actually written the song for an earlier band, The Great Society, Davis was obviously still in her ears. Hear her recorder obligato to Marty Balin's plaintive vocal on "Coming Back To Me." In her own modest, hesitant manner, Slick is channeling Davis. Maybe that's what alerted me to the song's potential for an MD interpretation. I can just hear Davis etching his way through a diaphanous melody that seems to evaporate in the air, right after piercing your heart.
File this one under Fusion Pipe Dreams...

Wayne Shorter: Role Model

Sometime in the Fifties, the great jazz critic and aesthetician Andre Hodeir wrote a crusty essay, "Why Do They Age So Badly?" stating his contention that jazz was strictly a young man's game. It was a dumb idea then and it remains just as dumb now, particularly with Wayne Shorter giving lie to the entire notion as we speak. Just in time for a new millennium, Shorter, then into the seventh decade of his musical career, assembled the first permanent, fully acoustic jazz ensemble he had ever led, and began making the most avant garde music of his life. In league with a quartet of considerably younger players, Shorter's music became more responsive, elliptical, mysterious, poetic, unpredictable, dramatic, disruptive, and gorgeously arresting than it had been since the saxophonist left Miles Davis's band in 1969. There are more dangerous ideas in that septuagenarian head of his now than there ever were. In his own dart-and-dash improvising, lyrical writing and open form band leading, Shorter outstrips the majority of contemporary jazz musicians, young or old. If this is jazz maturity, I say bring it on.

Israels On Israel

Say what you want about Chuck Israels as a musician; as a man, he must be applauded for his sheer guts. I happen to hardily admire Israels as a bassist, particularly his 1960s work with Bill Evans -- the gig that, like it or not, Israels will be most remembered for. A straightforward player with a sturdy tone and an ever musical imagination, Israels nonetheless never stood a chance when it came to critical reputations. His guts had much to do with that. In 1962 Israels took on one of the most challenging roles a jazz player has ever placed him or her self in. After the sudden death of the bassist Scott LaFaro, his employer, Bill Evans fell into an understandable funk. LaFaro had not only revolutionized the role of the jazz bass, granting it an unprecedented independence, he and Evans (as well as trio mate drummer Paul Motian) had also developed a group concept that similarly liberated established roles within a small group. With his colossal technical skills and fearless inventiveness, LaFaro was a phenomenon who, like Jimmy Blanton, showed what could and should be done, and then, in the blink of an eye, was gone.
Who could replace LaFaro? Who would want want to? It was a thankless job, but someone had to do it. Enter Israels, who, while influenced by LaFaro, as was every open-eared young bassist, was already quite comfortable with his own more conventional style. He urged Evans to resume playing and became the anchor of the pianist's trio, with only intermittent gaps, between 1962 and 1966.
Israels was no revolutionary like LaFaro, but he remained a dependable and engaging player during his entire tenure with Evans. One of my favorite bass solos is his fleet and melodic turn on Johnny Carisis' "Israel," the beautifully crafted blues he recorded with Evans and drummer Larry Bunker on "Trio '65". (Numerous polished solos and solid accompaniment by Israels can be heard on other significant Evans recordings including the stunning "At Town Hall.") Bassist Eddie Gomez comes on board in 1966. According to Evans himself, as well as a legion of fans, Gomez's entrance signals an artist rebirth for the pianist. I tend to believe that Gomez, with assistance from early 70s Ron Carter, sends the acoustic bass into a maelstrom it has yet to ascend from, but that's another story ...

Charlap Steps Out

Bill Charlap is special. Here's a performance that glories in melody. Billy Strayhorn's tune, originally found on Duke Ellington's 1957 album "Such Sweet Thunder," is stated with minimal embellishment by the pianist; his gorgeous touch and judicious use of space tell the story. Deep improvisation is beside the point, yet only a seasoned jazz player could have pulled off this performance with such taste and grace. Knowing what not to say, becomes the mark of genius.
Charlap's surrounded here not by his regular trio mates, bassist Peter Washington and drummer Kenny Washington, but by bassist Jay Leonhart and drummer Bill Stewart in a group dubbed the "New York Trio" to distinguish it from the Washington-based crew. And once again I'm made aware of how extra special Charlap sounds when stepping out on the Washingtons. Piano trios don't come any tighter, but I find Charlap's usual trio too constrained, too formal. (Charlap's admiration for Oscar Peterson may express itself more fully in the airtight group concept, rather, thankfully, than in Charlap's own playing.) Kenny Washington knows his hard bop lexicon backwards and forwards, but, to my ears, he's not the most sympathetic of percussionists, particularly in this setting. Whitney Balliett would use the word "pinioned" when describing overly rigid drummers, and that's the adjective that always springs to mind when I hear Kenny W. with Charlap. I much prefer the pre-Washington albums that Charlap made with other rhythm teams, including "Distant Star," "Souvenir" and "Along with Me." Those recordings display a sense of relaxation and expansion that went noticeably missing when Charlap hooked up with with the regular crew.

Effective Guitar Work

Now here's a band that, hopefully, won't find itself tossed off in the far receses of jazz history. I profess total ignorance of Julie Andrews' rendition of this lighter-than-air ditty as sung in the 1966 film "Hawaii." But I do know that Elmer Bernstein's Oscar-winning song brings out the best in Frisell and Scofield. This performance also demonstrates the significant importance of technology as it applies to individual style: both guitarist's distinctive sounds are dependent on the electronic effects they are utilizing. Products of the rock era, these effects are judiciously used, in the hands of sensitive players like Frisell and Scofield, to enhance an unmistakeable jazz aesthetic.
Frisell unveils the spacious lyricism we've come to expect from him; Scofield, for his part, is particularly aware of the value of the chiseled phrase -- being in continual contact with Frisell must have rubbed off on him. A special performance from a near-forgotten band well worth investigating.

"My Wishing Doll" can be heard in its original recording on "Bass Desires" (ECM Records)

Listen and Weep

For a guy who could blow anyone off the stage (or out of a recording studio) with the sheer velocity of his playing, Johnny Griffin also knew how to take it way, way down. What made Griffin truly great was his seeming awareness of each note he played, applying the appropriate heft and warmth to achieve a tone that coated the air. The notes could fly fast, but they all had weight, each packing a visceral punch. I love how he takes his time here, making sure every musical utterance counts. (Ok, I'm not so crazy about that hoary blues riff at the conclusion of his solo, but he makes up for it with his concluding Ben Webster-ish flutter, a subtly beautiful homage. )

I also enjoy the non Duke-like arrangement by Kornel Fekete-Kova with that nifty sax interlude following Griffin's improvisation, and the obviously practiced Budapest Jazz Orchestra with its brace of flugelhornists. Discerning expats like Griffin could always find the cream that the Continent offered.