Crystal Fingers, Feet of Clay

 

When German entrepreneur Manfred Eicher started ECM Records he signed many US artists already under contract to domestic labels.  But he framed these artists in contexts completely separate from other recordings.  Pianist Keith Jarrett was a case in point.  Jarrett worked with a quartet, first with Atlantic Records and then with Impulse, domestically.  On this, his first record for ECM in 1971, he headed off for new frontiers.  Recorded solo, Jarrett came to the session with no charts or compositions.  He basically just sat down, the tape rolled, and he improvised spontaneous compositions.  The session worked splendidly and Jarrett went on from here to make this a more or less permanent subset of his career.   

One of the reasons I think this was such a success is that Jarrett was able to quickly sketch melodies that were really beautiful.  And once sketched he developed each with an astonishing range of technique.  In particular, the tunes In Front and Lalene are standouts.  Even today I am as likely to find myself whistling the motifs of these compositions as I am Monk’s In Walked Bud.  Also, the production values brought by Eicher to this recording were unheard of at the time.  The piano sings and chimes with a presence that brings the listener right into the studio.  I was simply astonished when I first heard this album.  Jarrett’s reputation really grew when he began recording these improvised sessions in a concert setting. 

I finally had the chance to see Jarrett perform solo in Cincinnati sometime in the mid-‘70s.  And I remember how excited I was to see him in concert.  But after filing into the club the audience was informed that the ventilation system would be shut down for the performance because of the noise.  (Okay, I can deal with this, even if the bar is pretty smoky.)  Then, after playing for just a few minutes, Jarrett rebuked the servers for making too much noise.  (Wait a minute, this is a bar not Lincoln Center.)  Finally, he stopped again after someone in the audience took his picture to lecture us on the point that the sound of the shutter clicking was louder than the note he had played. (*&@#%, did you bring along an extra truck to haul your freaking ego?)  After that, I was so pissed that I have absolutely no recall of whether anything he played was good or not. 

So today I content myself to listen to Jarrett’s recordings and steer clear of his concerts.  I have to watch my blood pressure.

The Jazz Ark

 

At some point in my teen years I stumbled upon the best radio station ever!  This was WNOP, broadcasting from a seedy hotel in Newport, Kentucky, just across the river from Cincinnati.  Newport was famously the repository of all the vice that Cincinnati would not allow in its city limits, and WNOP was just the kind of radio station one might expect that city to produce.  In fact the station was nicknamed Radio Free Newport.  The station programmed jazz but not the kind meant to educate or inform.  The DJs played what they liked—greasy soul jazz, blues, big bands, and saloon singers.  They even signed off every night in a signature style by playing The Star Spangled Banner by Lou Rawls. 

Leo Underhill was the morning DJ and always seemed to be nursing a hangover.  (On snow days he would broadcast neighborhood bar closings!)  His musical tastes ran to the likes of Sinatra and Woody Herman and he was wickedly funny.  In the afternoon Ray Scott took over the chair.  Calling himself the Grey Wolf he came across as more urbane but still a bit of a drunk.  Scott played lots of Jimmy Scott, Stanley Turrentine and Gene Ammons/Sonny Stitt.  On weekend afternoons Oscar Treadwell had a show called The Eclectic Stop Sign featuring pioneering jazz from Ornette, Miles, Coltrane and friends as well as burgeoning underground rock.  This was heady stuff for a 16-year-old! 

Somewhere along the line the crew moved out of the hotel and into a small orange enclosure that floated on the Newport side of the Ohio River.  It was quickly dubbed the Jazz Ark.  So now Underhill would complain about speedboats caroming too close for comfort and kids who insisted on stepping out onto frozen river ice.  And Scott would occasionally broadcast right from the little café next door where he liked to hang out.  This is the place where I developed my taste for the Jazz Crusaders and Boogaloo Jones, where I first heard of the jazz nightspot The Viking Lounge, where I discovered Dodds Music–the only place in the area that sold component stereo equipment.  I still recall driving across town in my dad’s old Fairlane listening to Gary McFarland’s 60 Miles An Hour Through Beer Can Country! 

Of course this couldn’t last.  Today the Ark is gone, WNOP is a Catholic religious station, and Newport is a gentrified ghetto.  Progress…sheesh! 

Footnote: in checking out a few details on the web to refresh my memory I found someone selling an air check from an old Underhill broadcast in 1962.  It should be here any day.  Isn’t it amazing what you can find on the internet?

Woody Steps In

 

The late ‘70s were bad times for jazz music.  The scene just kind of collapsed and musicians were floundering for a toehold.  At one end of the spectrum there was a free jazz movement that was chaotic, and all but the finest practitioners were mostly making noise.  At the other end were great musicians trying to figure out how to make a living, and this unfortunately meant adding electric guitars, even a disco beat.  Charles Mingus was ill and failing fast.  Rahsaan had a stroke.  Miles glowered from behind shades and a keyboard, offering up the occasional bleat on his horn.  Bad times, indeed. 

But somehow a very minor figure stepped forward and made some great, great music in this environment—trumpeter Woody Shaw.  To this point Shaw had mostly worked in a back up capacity.  He played extensively with Eric Dolphy, Joe Henderson, Andrew Hill, John Coltrane and many others.  He had recorded some dates in his own name but they were underappreciated independent records.  Then on the recommendation of Miles, Columbia Records signed him in 1977. (Miles said, “Now there’s a great trumpet player. He can play different from all of them.”)  This led to a year for him that must have been breath taking. 

Shaw recorded the album Rosewood, an extraordinary outing that featured both small group and small orchestral settings.  The trumpeter brought a modal orientation wedded to a hard-edged approach learned at the elbow of guys like Dolphy.  And the music was unapologetically unadulterated jazz.  The title cut, Rahsaan’s Run and Sunshowers are particularly noteworthy.  The critical raves poured in.  The album was nominated for two Grammys and voted Best Jazz album of 1978 in Downbeat’s Readers Poll.  Shaw was voted Best Jazz Trumpeter in the same poll.  He went on to make several more excellent albums for Columbia in the next two years. 

The label never managed to market this great music effectively; Shaw had health and habit problems; and Columbia cut him loose.  While he did not vanish from the scene completely, that one-year peak was never regained.  He went back to playing a largely back-up role.  And then in 1989, under still uncertain circumstances, Shaw fell beneath the wheels of a subway car.  He lost an arm, and then shortly thereafter, his life. 

This album was unavailable for many years so it is gratifying to see it back again.  Listen to it, if you get the chance.

This Guy Is Cryin’

 

When you ask someone to name modern influential blues artists, the same ones will generally crop up: BB King, Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, John Lee Hooker.  Never in this group is Elmore James mentioned, except by the most knowledgeable.  And that is largely due to the fact that he was dead by the time of the blues revival in the ‘60s.  In fact, James did not even record until he was 34, retired for four years due to a heart condition, and died at 45.  So the span of his entire professional career was no more than seven years. 

But listen to any blues-rock bands and you will hear his influence everywhere.  Early Fleetwood Mac covered Dust Your Broom, Shake Your Moneymaker, Something Inside Me and The Sky Is Cryin’.  The Butterfield Blues Band covered Look On Yonder Wall.  The Allmans did Done Somebody Wrong.  Stevie Ray, Clapton, George Thorogood and many others also played these songs.  This album contains all of this and much more. 

Recorded between 1959 and 1961 these sessions show James at his peak and are his last studio recordings.  The guitarist had a distinctive sound when using a slide.  It had a high-pitched, human sounding character that provided counterpoint to James’ vocals.  When not playing slide he plays much lower with an almost country-western sound.  His bands throughout this period are varied—sometimes using horns, sometimes harmonica, and sometimes a simple trio format.  All of his lyrics center on the theme of alienation and loss of place in the world.  He is also the only bluesman I know of who references the violence of World War II in his lyrics (Look On Yonder Wall).   

These are key recordings for anyone interested in blues.

East-West

 

When the Butterfield Blues Band formed in 1965 there was not another group anything like them.  Four white kids, who had immersed themselves in the Chicago blues scene, teamed up with an African-American rhythm section.  And none of these guys looked like college-hippie types who played (or tried to play) “authentic”.  With their konks, pegged pants and shades, they looked like the kind of people your parents warned you about.  Their music was also the real deal, probably the first actual blues many white kids ever heard.  But when the group recorded East-West in early 1966 for its second album the doors just busted loose. 

Based largely on the Indian raga form the piece was a drone over which each soloist played extended solos, and what solos they were.  Mike Bloomfield had an instantly recognizable, piercing sound that drew in turns from blues, jazz and rock for inspiration.  Elvin Bishop had a much more rhythm-based style at this time that relied on tasteful chords for a base.  And Paul Butterfield on harmonica coaxed sounds out of his harp that seemed impossible to get.  All of this was anchored down by the steady 4/4 of bassist Jerome Arnold and the colorful drum accents of Billy Davenport.  The number stretched out to 13 minutes to cover one side of the album.  Now keep in mind that this is happening when the Beach Boys’ Barbara Ann was all over the charts! 

Today’s album is a collection of three live versions of this great number.  The first was recorded at the Whisky A Go-Go months before the studio recording.  The second comes later that spring at Poor Richard’s in Chicago.  Both of these hew closer to the album version both in length and form, although each solo is unique.  The final rendition comes from the Golden Bear in California a year later and clocks in at 28:06.  It is fascinating to watch this number develop during a critical 12 months in the history of popular music.  The recordings themselves are somewhat primitive but the music is so cool that it is easy to overlook the sonic quality. 

If you don’t have the original East-West album, pick it up.  If you do, then check this out!

Jimmy Smith

Although the electric organ was occasionally used as a jazz instrument before Jimmy Smith, he was the musician who toted the massive Hammond B-3 into the musical history books.  Invented by Laurens Hammond in 1934, the instrument was originally intended as a cheap alternative to the church organ.  But in the hands of Jimmy Smith the B-3 swung with an irresistible sound.  He got this by playing bass notes on the manual keyboard, utilizing the pedals to accent the notes and thereby creating a sound akin to a “walking” bass. 

This album Bashin’: The Unpredictable Jimmy Smith is from the early ‘60s.  While not generally considered his top work it has long been my favorite.  For this outing Oliver Nelson and his orchestra were brought onboard.  The band consists of really stellar players including Phil Woods on alto, George Duvivier on bass, George Shaughnessy on drums, a young Doc Severinsen on trumpet, and several regulars from the Basie band.  I really get a kick out of listening to these precise band arrangements and then hearing greasy smears of organ breaking in.  It is a bit like hearing a drunk in the choir!  Highlights are the opening Walk On The Wild Side and In A Mellow Tone. 

The influence of Smith grew as soul jazz took root in the late ‘60s and then again when the B-3 was picked up by the psych rock set.  The instrument was put in mothballs during the rise of the synthesizer and disco but came bounding back with the discovery of acid jazz in the ‘90s.  There are literally hundreds of B-3 players but I doubt you can find anyone better than Jimmy Smith.  Check him out!

Try To Make It Real

 

Early on most songs protesting the Vietnam War were either acoustic/folk or acid rock but probably the most effective number came from another quarter altogether.  In 1969, pianist Les McCann and saxophonist Eddie Harris had an improbable hit culled from Swiss Movement, their live recording at the Montreaux Jazz Festival.  This was the incomparable Compared To What. 

As the opener on the album it is a soul-jazz masterpiece that provides an infectious dance beat while delivering a stinging indictment to Richard Nixon’s war machine.  Listening to it today it loses none of its immediacy and could easily be used to describe our current circumstance.  Take this verse for instance: President he’s got his war / Folks don’t know just what it’s for / Nobody gives us a rhyme or reason / Have one doubt, they call it treason.  And, as every other verse, this is answered with the refrain: Tryin’ to make it real—compared to what?  The music’s groove is propelled by McCann’s electric piano with exceptional solos turned in by both Eddie Harris on tenor and Benny Bailey on trumpet.   

Somehow this became one of the best-selling albums in Atlantic Records’ jazz catalog.  Given that there was no obvious outlet for radio airplay for this kind of music I have often wondered how it got to be so popular.  I know I heard of it through word-of-mouth in the little record store I haunted in high school.  So maybe that is how it spread.  And it continues to have life today, most recently as a featured tune in the movie Talk To Me with Don Cheadle.   

You will also enjoy the album’s instrumental tribute to the ‘60s fizzy red wine on Cold Duck Time.  Pick this one up and have a sip!

Drummer Man

 

Max Roach was probably the most influential drummer in the post-World War II jazz scene.  Along with Kenny Clarke he developed the vocabulary for drumming in the bop environment.  He then went on be an instrumental part in the creation of what became known as hard-bop, the style of jazz that continues to dominate today.   

Roach was an astonishing technician.  I once saw him perform in a drummers’ showcase concert at the 1977 Newport Jazz Festival.  After several top gun drummers performed (including Art Blakey, Roy Haynes and Joe Morello) Roach came out for a solo performance with only a snare drum and high-hat.  He then proceeded to burn Carnegie Hall down! 

But even more significantly, Roach was a passionate individual who used his platform as an entertainer to push the civil rights movement forward.  Of his many passionate statements We Insist! Max Roach’s Freedom Now Suite (available at emusic) is the one that stands out for me.  Recorded in the early ‘60s Roach traces black history with emphasis on slavery and racism.  Driva’ Man features an iconic solo by tenor saxophonist Coleman Hawkins that will make the hairs on your neck stand up.  And on Tryptich: Prayer/Protest/Peace the vocals by Abbey Lincoln in duet with Roach are by turns poignant, intense and gut wrenching.  She has probably never turned in a better performance. 

This recording only saw the light of day because Roach found a sympathetic ear in Nat Hentoff, jazz critic and A&R man for Candid Records.  In fact, there was a period after this time when Roach was too controversial to be recorded by any label.  I know there are many who would say that jazz was sidelined or even ruined by the polemics of the ‘60s.  But for my money this is the real stuff!
 

Max Roach died last week.  He was 83.

The Great White Wonder

One outgrowth of my lifelong obsession with collecting music has been to branch out into the world of bootleg recordings.  These are not illicit copies of released music but rather unreleased recordings often lifted from concert soundboards or recorded by audience members.  I stumbled upon a recording of a Grateful Dead concert I attended at the University of Cincinnati in 1970 and was instantly hooked.  So as I survey my basement heap (with Lois grumbling in the background) it seems appropriate to celebrate the first ever rock-era bootleg The Great White Wonder. 

Released in 1969 as a double album package it featured unauthorized recordings of Bob Dylan.  Encased in a plain white double sleeve, the records themselves had plain white labels.  But everyone knew who and what it was.  The release dovetailed with a point in time where many people were into anything Dylan and where an underground distribution system in place to spread…ahem…herbal comfort was running efficiently.  The record became available in independent record shops as an under-the-counter item, often selling for as much as $20.  The record features radio material (some music, some interviews) from the early 60s, the now famous (and released) Basement tapes with The Band, and even a television appearance on the Johnny Cash Show (taped right from the tinny little speaker on a then current TV).  Even though the quality was crude this was the Holy Grail to many of us.  Just the fact that something like this existed outside the normal channels was fascinating! 

In an article in Rolling Stone from September 1969 the author observed that if the bootleggers got away with the distribution of the album then “if John Mayall or anybody opens at the Whisky tonight, there’ll be a live recording of it on the stands by the middle of next week.”  Except for the fact that these recordings are traded for free today he hit the nail right on the head.   

Now where am I going to store all this stuff?

Udu Wudu

 

Progressive rock, also known by its shorthand-cum-epithet Prog, grew out of the tendency of late ‘60s bands to want to show their chops by stretching the 3-minute song format into long-winded jams.  As the 70s rolled out these began to take on a more formal structure, often with sci-fi or mythical overtones.  And the basic hippie garb morphed into capes and codpieces and you-name-it.   Bands like Yes, ELP, King Crimson, Van der Graaf Generator, Genesis and Gentle Giant came to dominate the field.  But there was always a more demented (if you can imagine) underground school of Prog that seemed to come largely from Germany and Eastern Europe.  Magma was one of those bands. 

Here is a band not satisfied with just creating its own mythical, sci-fi storyboards.  They even created a new language to use for singing about alien adventurers.  That is what attracted me to these guys in the first place.  You got to love a group that goes this much overboard!  This album Udu Wudu is the only one of the Magma canon that I have and hard-core progophiles (yes, they do exist) rate it middle of the pack.  But holy moly, this is one wild ride!  The real focal point of the album is the 18-minute De Futura that took up the entire second side of the LP.  It is primarily an instrumental with unintelligible vocalizations (or maybe I have trouble with translation) floating around.  It derives its considerable energy from a darkly dominant bass line that churns and chugs along with every increasing urgency and distortion.  Also the drummer helps drive the bottom forward.  The number is not particularly melodic but uses flourishes of sound color throughout to keep things interesting.   

Of course this kind of music soon came to be everything that punk despised and it largely fell by the wayside.  But listening to really heavy groups like Tool today it is easy to see the doom-laden influence of bands like Magma.  And if one listens to music without trying to pigeonhole styles there is plenty of room for this stuff.  Personally, I can mix Magma and Clash and Sly on the old Ipod with no guilt whatsoever.  And one never knows when another language will come in handy.