In its pell-mell rush from New Orleans to infinity, jazz has
left a number of styles behind. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing in some cases,
but others ought to be placed on an endangered species list and lovingly
fostered. Right now, I’m thinking of the school of bop-influenced Lester Young tenor
disciples like Zoot Sims, Stan Getz, Allen Eager, and Brew Moore. They all achieved
a beautiful mix of sound and ideas that seems all the more refreshing in contrast
to the Hawkins/Rollins/Coltrane school that dominates our era. Above
all, they had the gift of easy, inevitable swing in every note they played. I love today’s tenor players, but couldn’t
they relax once in a while? Given the news these days, we could use some
relaxation.
Take Milton
(Brew) Moore (1924–1973), for example. He famously stated that “Anyone who
doesn’t play like Lester Young is wrong,” yet he also assimilated the language of
bebop. A true jazz itinerant Jack Kerouac was a fan), Moore wound up in Denmark
before his untimely death from a fall in 1973. In the 1950s, he temporarily relocated to San
Francisco, where he recorded The Brew
Moore Quintet, a good introduction to his work. It’s a fine collection of old
standards like Tea for Two and Them Their Eyes, along with a number of
originals by pianist John Marabuto. Moore tips his hat to Prez with I Want a Little Girl. Although he could
really caress a ballad, as on Fools Rush In, the other tracks are exemplars of the
wonderful laid-back swing that seems to be virtually a lost art these days. Trumpeter
Dicky Mills, Bassist Max Hartstein, and drummer Gus Gustofson are uniformly
good, but this album is Brew’s show.
Here's I Can't Believe that You're in Love with Me. Enjoy!
In one of those infinite universes out there, the Beatles
and the Rolling Stones never made it big. Instead, the sounds of the British mods—1950s
R & B, 1960s soul, ska, and hip jazz tunes—swept the world, led by my man Georgie Fame. I wouldn’t
really want to do without the British invasion, but…
Because we have to operate in the universe we’re given,
Georgie Fame, aka Clive Powell, remains a fine but relatively unheralded (at least in the
U.S.) singer and organist who had a bunch of hits in the 60s and an excellent musical
career in the years since. I’ve been a Fame fan since I first heard Yeh-Yeh, his biggest U.S. hit aside from The Ballad of Bonnie and Clyde (not a favorite of mine). Years later, I picked up the U.S. pressing
of his first studio album and subsequently have collected as many of his LPs
and CDs as I could. I recently ordered an elaborate, five-CD box set of all of
his 1960s recordings via Juno
Records in the UK ( a good price and excellent service, I might add) and
will be talking about it here in the near future.
A few months ago I picked up a copy of Stephen L. Isoardi’s The Dark Tree: Jazz and the Community Arts
in Los Angeles at our local library’s semiannual book sale. I hadn’t heard of the book, but it was about Horace Tapscott, a legendary figure in the
West Coast avant-garde, came with a CD, and was only four bucks, so why not?
Having just finished it, I’m here to say it’s an important read for anyone
interested in the culture and politics of the 1960s, 1970s, and beyond; the
evolution of spiritual jazz; and the ongoing racial and political issues it reflects.
Beginning with a brief history of L.A.’s Central Avenue jazz and R & B
scene in the 1940s, it recounts Tapscott’s lifelong commitment to the arts in the
African-American community, his bringing together the Pan-Afrikan Peoples Arkestra
and the Union of God’s Musicians and Artists Ascension (UGMAA), and their participation
in a host of arts projects and organizations from before the Watts riots through
the early 2000s. The book, based mainly on
interviews with about 100 Arkestra/UGMAA participants, also provides a glimpse
at the personality of Tapscott himself, a charismatic yet modest person who was
both a devoted family man and night-wandering bohemian (his wife Cecelia must
have been a very patient woman).
This story resonated with me because of my own knowledge of
how all of the arts became weapons in the Movement of the 1960s and 1970s
against war, racism, and imperialism. The abundance of groups and efforts that
were born and died in the struggles of those days come alive in Isoardi’s
narrative, which also demonstrates how little I
knew about this important segment of the jazz world —one that continues in
various forms today. In a period of time during which the perennial issues of
race, class, and the arts continue to haunt American society, it’s both
depressing to see how little progress has been made and uplifting to see the persistence
of efforts to make this country what it professes to be.
The accompanying CD contains a number of previously released
recordings of the Arkestra and its various components. It made me want to hear much more of this fine
music. Here’s a sample.
Sometimes you start out in one direction and wind up
somewhere else. Years ago I bought a record by Rein de Graaff, the Dutch
pianist. Recently, I ran across a de Graaff CD I had bought with several others
on the (also Dutch) Blue Jack label. What
I hadn’t remembered was that the CD, Blue
Lights, was a tribute to the compositions of saxophonist Gigi Gryce. I knew
about Gryce’s career in the late 1950s, his renown as a composer, his struggles
on the business side of the music biz, and his sudden disappearance from the
jazz scene. A few years ago, I read an article about his personal crisis,
conversion to Islam, and lengthy career as a dedicated music teacher in an NYC
public school. Aside from knowing the names of some of his compositions, like Social Call and Nica’s Tempo, that was it for me.
Thanks to Rein de Graaff and Blue Lights, I now appreciate Gryce’s compositions much more. I was
particularly taken with Sans Souci
and Evening in Casablanca. Both are impressionistic
pieces in the Tadd Dameron mode, although Gryce must have visited Casablanca round midnight. Some tribute
albums are slapdash affairs, but this one provides a well-thought-out showcase
for a neglected composer.
The musicians are first rate. Altoist Herb Geller, on the
scene since the 1950s, is fiery, with a bit of Johnny Hodges lyricism mixed in.
John Marshall, like Geller an American expatriate, is excellent on trumpet. De
Graaff solos and comps beautifully throughout, and Marius Beets and Eric Ineke
on bass and drums furnish solid support.
Tadd Dameron once said, “There’s enough ugliness in the world. I’m interested in beauty,” and Blue Lights delivers. Here’s Minority.
For many years, Clarence Wheeler and the Enforcers were nothing
more to me than a catchy name and a thumbnail album cover photo on the inner sleeves
of some Atlantic LPs. Recently I got a chance to pick up Wheeler’s New Chicago Blues album at a bargain price
and took the plunge. While I was waiting for it to arrive, I did some homework
on the band and didn’t come up with much. They put out two albums from the 1969
and 1970 on Atlantic, then New Chicago
Blues in 1972(the Enforcers
aren’t mentioned on the cover but several of them are present), and one more in1980.
Neither Wheeler nor the Enforcers have Wikipedia
entries (in this day and age!). Aside from a
thread on Organissimo, which includes a discography, there are a couple of online
soul jazz/funk blog reviews, and that’s about it. All I can say is that based
on the liner notes (by Wheeler) these guys were a Chicago band influenced by
Gene Ammons, Eddie Harris, and the whole Chi-town music scene of the day.
It’s too bad, really, because New Chicago Blues provides a fine assortment of blues (Oblighetto, featuring Buddy Guy and
Junior Wells), 70s soul (How Could I Let
You Get Away), a fine Wheeler ballad performance (Don’t Go to Strangers), something with a Latin tinge (Kuumba) and some solid soul jazz (New Chicago Blues and Miss Gee). In addition to lots of
Wheeler tenor, other band members featured include Sonny Burke and Kenny Price
on organ, Frank Gordon and Sonny Covington on trumpet, and Billy James and
others on drums and percussion. My guess is that Gordon solos on New Chicago Blues and Covington on the
other tracks, but the liner notes don’t supply solo credits. I’m also guessing
that it’s Sonny Burke who’s so strong on Miss
Gee. If anyone has more info on these matters, let me know.
America owes a debt of gratitude to Ace Records. For decades, this UK-based
outfit and its subsidiary labels have hunted down, remastered, annotated, and
repackaged jump blues, doowop, R &B, Northern soul, 50s and 60s sunshine
pop, psychedelia, rock instrumentals, and a good amount of oddball stuff that together
demonstrate the incredible richness of our nation’s musical history over the
past six decades. Thanks to a familiar blend of corporate greed, negligence,
and indifference, coupled with the nature of our ever more disposable culture, the
U.S. often seems incapable of performing this important service.
Take, for example, Ace’s resuscitation of Mainstream
Records. Bob Shad was a veteran producer
of jazz (Charlie Parker at Savoy, Clifford Brown and Sarah Vaughn at
Mercury) who previously had run a small record label (Sittin’ In With) that put
out some fine late 40s blues sides. He also dabbled in rock with his own Brent
subsidiary and jazz with Time Records. On 1964, he started Mainstream, which for
the rest of the 60s issued jazz and rock material. Ace has issued some his popsike
stuff on a two-CD compilation and the straight jazz on another CD, along with
individual albums by Blue Mitchell, Harold Land, and Hadley Caliman.
By 1970, though, that straight jazz was in one of its
eternally recurrent declines, so Shad moved into soul jazz, recording both new
vocalists like Ellerene Harding and Alice Clark as well as veteran musicians
like Curtis Fuller and Charles Kynard in beat-laden contexts. The folks at Ace
were canny enough to pick out this thread in the Mainstream tapestry and put together
The
Message: Soul, Funk, and Jazzy Grooves from Mainstream Records on the
BGP (Beat Goes Public) label. As usual, it’s got a booklet containing a brief
introductory essay, commentary on each track, and numerous photographs of the
artists.
I really wasn’t sure what to expect when I bought this CD,
so playing it was a bit of an adventure. After I played House of Rising
Funk by Chubokos, I thought, “Pretty good!” by the time I got to
Afrique’s cover of Manu Dibango’sSoul Makossa, I was
foot tapping and head bobbing too much to think about anything. Thanks to the
notes by dean Rudland, I also knew that these two bands were the same group of
studio/mainstream guys working under different names—thanks, Dean. There are so
many great cuts on this record that it’s hard to know which ones I should call
out. Funky Butt by the
Delegates (another studio band, it got its name because the 1972 political
conventions were going on at the time) features David T. Walker on guitar and
Charles Kynard (also featured on a couple of other tracks) on Hammond B-3. Ellerine
Harding kills To Whom It May Concern (All I Need), which
also has a bit of a political slant (“I don’t need your study groups or your
benign neglect” and “I don’t need your Doctor Jensens to study my IQ”). Maxine Weldon really works out on Grits Ain’t Groceries,
and Sarah Vaughn (!) gets a bit political AND spacy/funky on Inner City Blues (Make me
Want to Holler).
Most of the tracks on The
Message are instrumentals. The Jackson Five’s I Want You Back
doesn’t seem to call for a 65-piece band named Bobby Shad & the Bad Men (if
I ran a record company, I’d do my thing, too!) but it’s actually excellent—check
out the dueling trumpets toward the end. Blue Mitchell and Curtis Fuller manage
their funk quite nicely, and lots of great jazz artists pop up throughout (Don
Pullen on the B-3 for Charles Williams’s Bacon Butt Fat? Why not? Anyway, he acquits himself nobly.
OK, I’m totally taken with The Message. (I do wish that Blue Mitchell had played a little more
on the title track, but you can’t have everything.) Ace has uncovered and
revived a trend and some artists that I didn’t know about, as well as others with
whom I was familiar but in a new context. I’ll leave you with Patience by Dave Hubbard, one of the
former, who played on many organ trio dates for Prestige and other labels but
recorded only this one Mainstream album commercially. It features Albert
Dailey, one of Stan Getz’s favorite pianists, in an un-Getzian bit of
post-Trane funk. Sadly, when I Googled Hubbard, I learned that he had died just a
few days ago, so this appreciation is also a tribute to him. I hope you enjoy
it.
A lot of people revere the Blue Note label, and rightfully
so, but I’m a Prestige guy. Aside from being located in New Jersey, my natal
state, Bob Weinstock’s record company put out a slew of great music in the 1950s,
1960s, and 1970s. Early recordings by Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, and Sonny
Rollins; music by older jazz artists on Prestige Swingsville and older blues artists on
Prestige Bluesville; more cutting-edge material by people like Eric Dolphy and Steve Lacy on New Jazz; and a seemingly
endless array of soul jazz—all came from the little giant in Bergenfield, NJ.
Weinstock has had his share of detractors, but he wasn’t the only music
business figure that sometimes indulged in sharp financial practices. As for
the “junkie label” libel, the same could have been said of any independent jazz record label of the day (and the major labels,
too). The fact remains that Prestige put out a ton of great jazz and blues that
still speaks to us today. For this reason, I’m starting a series of posts about
Prestige albums drawn from my ever-expanding stash of CDs and LPs (yup, I’m a
Stone Ager for sure).
Today’s pick is Shirley Scott’s Blue
Seven.Scott recorded quite
a bit with Prestige, often featuring her then-husband Stanley Turrentine. For this date, she used a quintet featuring Joe
Newman on trumpet and Oliver Nelson on tenor. I love Nelson’s playing—it’s too
bad he moved more into composing and arranging, but that’s where the money was.
To me, his expressive tenor work always conveys a slight, pleasing tinge of
melancholy, which fits in with the bluesy tone of this recording. Newman, who
was one of the stars of the second Basie band, plays with a seamless blend of
bop and swing that made him fit into any setting. The record includes the title track, by Sonny
Rollins, an extended workout on Wagon Wheels, no
doubt copped from Sonny’s Way Out West
album), a nice version of Nancy (with
the Laughing Face), and an up-tempo Give
me the Simple Life. Scott plays inventively throughout—I need to listen to
more of her. George Tucker (bass) and Roy Brooks (drums) provide strong support
but don’t get any solo space.
The verdict: a relaxed date, great for some laid-back
listening. I just wish they had done more up-tempo tunes, though—Give me the Simple Life was my favorite
track. Enjoy!
A few years ago, I was listening to WBGO—one of Newark, New
Jersey’s many gifts to jazz—and heard a song by “Elin.” It had a romantically
hypnotic lilt to it, often repeating the word “sweetness” as a kind of grail to
seek and find, both universally and personally. I heard it only a couple of times, but it really stayed with
me. Recently, as sometimes happens, Elin
suddenly popped into my mind. I found some of her stuff on YouTube, tracked
down her web page, and bought her
first and so far only album. It turns out she was raised in Sweden, came to
the U.S. to go to college, and then learned Portuguese, all the while aiming at
a career as a jazz singer.
Elin’s Lazy Afternoon
is a spicy stew of jazz and Brazilian music knit together by Elin’s strong multilingual
vocals. She does a great job of turning Fascinating Rhythminto
the Brazilian song it always should have been, does an especially languorous version
of the title tune,
and nails songs by Tom Jobim, Dori Caymmi, and Milton Nascimento. The “Sweetness”
song turned out to be Sugar, an Elin original,
and it still does me in. She also sings a gorgeous version of Billy Strayhorn’s
Lush Life. As a bonus, she’s backed
by a strong suite of jazz musicians, including Claudio Roditi on trumpet and
fluegelhorn, Anat Cohen on clarinet, Harry Allen on tenor, and Hendrick
Muerkens on vibes.
To give you a taste of her Portuguese side, here’s Milton
Nascimento’s Vera Cruz. Enjoy!
