Bitches Brew

One of the most famous, if not notorious, jazz releases, Bitches Brew still captivates and resonates despite the muddy moments that serve as the mortar between the solid bricks of brilliance. Recorded in 1969 immediately following the Woodstock Music Festival, Bitches Brew was, at the time, a line that many jazz fans refused to cross. In the years between then and now so many brilliant free compositions have been recorded that by comparison the case could be somehow made that Brew is nearly a hippy anachronism. But there's still nothing like throwing it on the turntable when one hasn't heard it in a few years. It doesn't erupt like some recordings, but builds in intensity like a spell taking effect. The whole album has a liquid consistency that ebbs and flows--the impulse to fast forward at times to another Miles solo should be resisted. Trust me. Repeated listenings are rewarded when the album is listened to as intended. That's its charm and Brew isn't really appreciated unless the listener fully submits to its onslaught. It's maximalism at its finest. Davis, as you must remember, had by the year 1969 already invented two other styles--cool and modal jazz. It would be ridiculous to fault him for the nebulous qualities of this seminal classic. All the sidemen on these classic sides would go on to cement their reputations after this shining moment. Wayne Shorter and Joe Zawinul would later form Weather Report, Chick Corea would later form Return to Forever with a lineup that would later include drummer Lenny White and guitarist John McLaughlin and Billy Cobham would later form Mahavishnu Orchestra. All told Bitches Brew still stands the test of time. It's still a monster, even if it's not quite as scary as it once seemed. Listen to it in one sitting and tell me it doesn't rock.

Nu Yorica!

Soul Jazz Records London released an album ten or so years ago called Nu Yorica! that still percolates like a Cuban street festival and a Seventies movie soundtrack (in a good way) on a perfect summer night. Pick it up or order it if you can find it. It's funky goodness that doesn't let up. Mostly synth and vibe grooves with sax and an incredible conga section. Every so often an electric guitar or two take things in an entirely different direction with some light, nearly psychedelic flavors. Along with Sao Paulo Underground, these are some of my favorite grooves lately.

The Girl from Impanema

I've never been a cheerleader for the idea of unity or simplicity in art. Most of the art I appreciate is inchoate, incomplete, complex, and unfinished. Sometimes, simplicity in music, however, gives a song an ethereal and haunting quality that is unforgettable. Written in 1962, with music by Antonio Carlos Jobim and Portuguese lyrics by Vinicius de Moraes, The Girl from Impanema has the haunting and lyrical quality that is the hallmark of the enduring jazz standard. When this song was performed by Astrud Gilberto, along with João Gilberto and Stan Getz, in 1963 on the Gilberto/Getz album of that name it became an international phenomenon that has been rerecorded and covered by countless artists since. I was talking to my friend Steve Halle last night about the Sao Paulo Underground album Sauna, Um, Dois, Tres and how Brazil has made such an impact on the jazz music scene over the years most notably in the hands of artists like Dizzy Gillespie and Getz. Gillespie's brand of bossa nova and samba always felt more genuine to this listener than Getz's version, although this classic cut is unforgettable. Legend has that the seemingly sanguine and docile Getz was furious at the idea that Gilberto brought his lady into the studio to sing this cut and threw a huge tantrum. Getz notoriously had a temper that didn't fit his saccharine appearance, but when he heard Astrud Gilberto lay down a few takes he was bewitched by her voice and slowly began to realize that he and his buddy Gilberto had a huge coup on their hands. They were right. Like all great jazz songs there's even an interesting backstory. The songwriters had a specific beauty named Heloísa Eneida Menezes Paes Pinto in mind when they wrote this love bomb. As a 15-year-old girl Pinto would saunter pass the cafe where the songwriters would have their morning coffee. At nearly six feet tall, with long dark hair and green eyes, she obviously made some sort of impression on them. This video is pretty silly. It makes me think of White Christmas or something, but the melody is indelible.

Regathering the Storm

At what point does admiration become obsession? Jazz artists used to be known for woodsheddin’. Woodsheddin’ meant disappearing in the woods for months at a time, sometimes to kick a habit, but most often because the creative impulse drove these artists into isolation in order for them to master their art. Sonny Rollins spent nearly a year playing sax beneath the Brooklyn Bridge alone because there was an idea stuck inside him. What came out was eventually released as his album “The Bridge.” Jazz trumpeter Wallace Roney, seen here playing Miles Davis’s trumpet has a tone so clear and cold I get lost in such a kaleidoscope of memories when I hear it. One imagines that Roney spent quite a few hours woodsheddin' to reach that level of brilliance. He’s more of an extrovert on his instrument than Davis was, but only slightly so. His tone is reminiscent of Davis but with a few shades of darkness less. His timing is flawless and he’s able to hit the upper registers on par with the likes of Freddie Hubbard. When I saw him I was transported completely. His solos took me back to a trip to Greece I made a few years ago … I listened to him crank out those solos while watching the sunset on the island of Santorini and nothing could’ve been more sweet. He’s derivative in a completely positive way—if such a thing is possible. I’m no reactionary, but Roney’s melodic game forces the listener to listen even more closely because it’s so very obvious that he’s carrying forth the torch for future generations. Get some respect. That’s why Miles gave him “the horn.” This clip with Tony Williams on drums could almost be viewed as an attempt by Williams to regather the storm that was Miles Davis, but it's so much more than that. The history of jazz is the history of America. Williams in this clip is simply opening the book to another mysterious chapter.

This list of top sax greats is nearly right. Ornette should definitely be in the top ten, however. Ornette’s brand of innovation only comes once or twice with every generation. Stan Getz shouldn’t be on this list even. I’m glad to see Jackie McLean and Gary Bartz included, they’re routinely left off of lists of this type. And Paul Desmond, whose sound was once described as the sound of a very dry martini, is far too high up the hierarchy here. Although he was known for his sweet delivery, he never had enough down-home funk for this listener. Desmond was once awarded a prize for quietness. That seems to me to be the opposite of what a jazz sax player should strive for. If I want lyricism I’d rather get it from Joe Henderson or Cannonball Adderley.

Blues, West End

"West End Blues" was, from what I remember, burned on a solid gold disc by NASA and sent out into space as a represention of the heights of human achievement. Louis Armstrong was the first jazz artist to push the jazz solo into the stratosphere. His solo near the end of "West End Blues" is pure gravy.

Cedar Walton Defends the Faith

This is a review I wrote of seeing Cedar Walton at a venue called Gilly's in Dayton, Ohio.


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Jazz was alive and well at Gilly’s last Sunday night. Legendary jazz pianist Cedar Walton made sure of that by playing two seamless sets that brought the spirit of jazz alive, with an intimate concert that left this listener with the feeling that hope hasn’t entirely left the Gem City. I walked into the club expecting nothing less than jazz nirvana, having attended concerts at this prime venue for jazz on many past occasions. Wallace Roney, Gary Bartz, the late, great, Kenny Kirkland, Joshua Redman, and many others have made me a Gilly’s believer. Club owner Gerry Gillotti has made Gilly’s a jazz oasis.
The question of where jazz is “going” has created much controversy recently. I do not mean the local WYSO controversy. One Gilly's patron described WYSO's new format, which omits jazz, Sunday night as nothing but “pure evil.” WYSO, as most of you already know, decided that jazz, America’s only indigenous musical art form, is no longer marketable. This is a genuine tragedy for the Dayton area. I, for one, stayed up late nights listening in over the years. In fact, WYSO introduced me to quite a few talents I had not known about until they came crashing through my stereo speakers from their sorely missed home on the airwaves of the now infamous Yellow Springs, radio station. I think about the would-be jazz listener out there who can no longer get the "message" of jazz on the radio. Sure, that listener might be able to download jazz or pay a visit to a local record shop and get the same effect. But gone are the days when the "story" of jazz is presented locally and free. The sensibilities of jazz kingpins like John Coltrane, Ornette Coleman, and Miles Davis was benefited by WYSO's knowledgeable, volunteer DJs, who knowingly gave their valuable time to bring real-life liner notes alive via the airwaves. The sad, glaring fact is that American society seems to have lost touch with the pulse of its own living, breathing self, when it seems that the counterfeiters, namely practitioners of so-called "smooth" jazz, have taken over and the real stuff is now so hard to find.

Cedar Walton delivered the real stuff and then some with classic cuts such as "Cedar's Blues," which started things off in a post-bop style that left no room for guessing whether or not the man on the stand was all business. Elements of Bud Powell's style mingled with Walton's own so fluidly that the end result was far from derivative. Walton is a man who has paid his dues and comes from the holy land to spread the word like wildfire to the people. I should mention that the crowd went grooving and uh-huhing right along with Walton as he built a jazz palace with the down-tempo and beautiful "Dear Ruth;" an amazing medley-tribute to Billy Strayhorn that included "Lush Life," "Daydream," and "Raincheck;" and that's just mentioning the standouts. I must admit that my enthusiasm for jazz still leaves me a novice when I compare it with the knowledge I overheard in some cross-table conversation that night.

Sunday night I also learned that Chucho Valdés is coming to town, which is important to anyone who'd like to support the jazz community. He'll appear at the Dayton Art Institute's Renaissance Auditorium on Sunday, April 21. Don't miss him. Chucho Valdés is le jazz hot, where Walton was cool as the Absolut and cranberry juice I was drinking. When Walton's second set kicked in, I must admit I was getting tired and thought to myself that it would be hard for him to sustain that energy level all night. I wasn't wrong. Walton didn't attempt to sustain an energy level because he had nothing to prove. This is the point and the lesson he taught. Real perfection is effortless.

The second set started with "Little Sunflower," segued into "A Child Is Born" and moved into a funky Monk medley that took everything in an entirely different direction. Walton was sculpting a masterpiece out of thin air and I don't think he cared how many people were sitting in.

Whatever bad vibes left over in Dayton, after the recent assault on this, the most original and unique of all musical forms, were driven to dust by Walton's powerful, subtle performance Sunday night. As I walked out to enter the regular world, an old veteran by the door seemed to nod to me conspiratorially, as if to acknowledge that we'd both just had a rare glimpse of something we would never see again.