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.