Thank You!

If It's Not Asking Too Much

Dear Powers That Be: Please reissue Ornette Coleman's 1972 Impulse! album "Crisis" in the U.S. Please.
Drawn from a 1969 New York concert, this sorely missed album features a Coleman quintet that gathered together familiar faces including bassist Charlie Haden, trumpeter Don Cherry, tenor saxophonist Dewey Redman and drummer Denardo Coleman, Ornette's 23- year-old son. Although the other horns are heard only during the melody reading on this track, it's obvious from Coleman's impassioned improvisation, as well as composer Haden's typically burrowing solo, that the band was in grand form that night. The album's absence particularly hurts because there's precious little recorded work from the late 60s-early 70's period when Coleman still led acoustic bands prior to plugging in with Prime Time.
And if it's still not asking too much: Please post more album tracks onto YouTube. Please.

All The Things He Is

Jim Hall turns 80 next month. The recent years have been rough on the master, but he can take consolation in the fact that he remains the premier jazz guitarist. Not to slight contemporaries ranging from Wes Montgomery to John McLaughlin, but no jazz plectrist has yet to match Hall's extraordinary touch, harmonic imagination, lyrical bent or economical approach. His sound is instantly recognizable and consistently beautiful. Equally munificent is his craving for new musical experiences. If ever there was a man who could safely luxuriate in his own comfort zone it's Hall, but something keeps pushing him to rattle the cage. His openness and generosity is clearly illustrated when he goes head-to-head with younger players who have been influenced by him. The stealthy Bill Frisell wears his Hall credentials more openly than the dashing Pat Metheny, but Hall himself takes both stylists in stride. It's the old man who makes the young bucks sweat.

How Cool Was T-Bone Walker?

Answer: very.
In doing some research on basic T-Bone info, what do we find? It's a centenary year for the immortal musician, a brilliant guitarist, singer and songwriter ( "Stormy Monday Blues" anyone?) who was as comfortable in a jazz setting as he was in the blues. Here, fronting an A-list J.A.T.P band, Walker is his old unflappable self, pealing off silken guitar runs touched by characteristically eccentric touches and singing so smooth it gives you the tingles. With T-Bone you hear those that he obviously listened to for inspiration -- Charlie Christian, Eddie Durham -- as well as later giants who turned to him for guidance: B.B. King, Chuck Berry, Jimi Hendrix.
And speaking of eccentricities... Walker may have held his guitar like a keyboard at times, but he still played a recognizable instrument. Clark Terry, on the other hand, leaves his horns behind for his solo, tooting the blues on a mouthpiece. Not surprisingly, T-Bone seems to get a kick out of it. As Dizzy and company likewise feel for this Texas titan.

Eric Edits

The wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am force of this brief but telling performance is a perfect example of how a focused artist can assert his individuality in a relative blink of an eye. From the first cymbal blast on, "G.W." practically explodes like water from a busted hydrant. Barrelling through the boppish head in no time at all, Dolphy is then out of the gate and charging through a compact solo that decisively announces his unmistakeable sound and approach. And much like a studio improvisation from another alto deity, Charlie Parker, it's over before you know it, leaving the desired paradoxical afterglow:You're left satiated yet wanting more.(I love how trumpeter Benny Bailey is on Dolphy's tail practically before his solo concludes; these guys are laying down the jazz equivalent of a three minute single and leaving not a second unaccounted for.)
Dolphy's work here reminds me of some of his equally brief yet satisfying statements on Oliver Nelson's classic "Blues and the Abstract Truth." Assessing just how much space he had, Dolphy would tumble in, grab your collar with a burst of weird intervals and jolting rhythms, and jump ship before you knew what had hit you. Be they miserly in length or expansive, a Dolphy solo --whether on alto, bass clarinet or flute -- had its maker's name on every note.

Eddie the Eccentric

The line between individuality and sheer eccentricity can become mighty porous sometimes. Take the late pianist and vibraphonist Eddie Costa. If remembered only by aficionados today, Costa, judging by the myriad sessions he appears on during a brief (1956-1962) recording career, was a well-respected and in-demand player. And versatile as well; he can be found alongside giants as diverse as Coleman Hawkins and Ornette Coleman, Bill Evans and Benny Goodman, Gunther Schuller and Tony Bennett. Yet for all his adaptability, scooting blithely from mainstream dates to avant-garde projects, Costa was anything but a proficient, faceless musician.In fact, given the opportunity, exhibited here on one of his few album as a leader, he shows himself as among the most unconventional, near strange, stylists of the era.It's difficult to pin down Costas's piano influences; sometimes traces of his friend Bill Evans can be detected, other times, Monk, Tristano, Silver and Brubeck rear their heads. Antecedents are immaterial though when it comes to character-filled playing like this. Costa is no one so much as himself, a player who obviously adored risk and its unpredictable rewards. The breaks in particular are jolted by his weird sense of time, darting rhythms and those gothic rumblings in the deep bass region that became a trademark of sorts. That Costa avoids willful oddness for its own sake is the secret to his distinction. No doubt about it, he was an authentic eccentric.

Jimi Forty Years On

1970 was the year that Jimi Hendrix both left this world, and, nine months earlier, recorded his greatest performance. First take a moment to appreciate the fact that the late show performance of "Machine Gun" -- the New Year's Eve take that was included on the album "Band of Gypsys" --was captured on videotape. (Do we have footage of Charlie Parker stealing the show at J.A.T.P with "Lady Be Good" or John Coltrane tearing through "Chasin' the Trane" at the Village Vanguard?) Let's just give thanks for the technology that's allowed us to experience this epochal moment.
Jimi left us much, much too soon, but this terrifyingly vivid performance proves that he didn't leave us with promises unfulfilled. "Machine Gun" is the climax of his too short career, a summing up of all that he had achieved as a guitarist and sonic mastermind, as well as a gift to future musicians. It can also be heard as Hendrix's unspoken challenge to those who would follow: "This is what can be done with an electrical instrument -- now where are you going to take it?"
The beauty and musical significance of "Machine Gun" lies in Jimi's expressive use of technology. Never had a guitar been made to cry with the pain that he extracts from it. An electric guitar that is, one hooked up to an arsenal of amplifiers and effect boxes, all in Hendrix's unerring control. The machine was essential, but the man told it what to do.