The Mule

Has anybody read this? Can't say it sounds very appealing. Last week the book was reviewed in the LA Times and this week several angry letters to the editor followed. Kind of amazing a book such as this by the daughter of a very obscure jazz musician would ignite this much of a reaction, let alone take up this much space in the LA Times. Is anybody here familiar with the reviewer, Carolyn See? The review: "The legendary act of survival Low Down: Junk, Jazz and Other Fairy Tales From Childhood, A.J. Albany, Bloomsbury/Tin House: 166 pp., $23.95 By Carolyn See Carolyn See is the author of numerous books, including "Making a Literary Life," "Dreaming: Hard Luck and Good Times in America" and "The Handyman: A Novel." April 13 2003 Never just "Joe Albany," always "The Legendary Joe Albany." Why? Because Joe was reputed to be Charlie Parker's favorite pianist, although some say that they never recorded together. But there does exist an album somewhere, one of the first times Parker turned "Cherokee" into the amazing "Koko," on which Albany turned up for two days out of a five-day session, or one day out of a two-day session, and you hear Albany's tentative intro on several alternate takes, then a minute or two of Bird's saxophone, and then the word, "Cut!" "Joe Albany was a great jazz pianist," his daughter, A.J. Albany, writes. "He was one of the first musicians instrumental in pushing jazz beyond the confines of swing, helping to create what would come to be known as bebop." He was also a full-on junkie and A.J.'s only functioning parent. During the 1960s, she writes in her harrowing memoir, "if he wasn't in jail or rehab, we were together." Their life was like something out of Maxim Gorky's "The Lower Depths," but it is, of course, nonfiction. Horace McCoy explored Hollywood's debauched underbelly in "I Should Have Stayed Home" as did Steve Fisher in his acerbic, pitiless "Giveaway," but those books were novels; mere fiction written by well-fed, affluent, grown men. "Low Down" is the gruesome truth, the memoir of a starving child who barely survived her childhood. Heroin was the drug of choice for musicians in the 1950s, a drug that magnifies the virtue of understatement, that valorizes sensitivity and a musical aesthetic of a zillion complex notes, absolutely effortlessly played. A drug that also turns its user into a zombie for hours or days on end. Heroin turned Chet Baker from a handsome man to a toothless geezer; it certainly contributed to tenor-saxophonist Warne Marsh's untimely death in 1987 as he played "Out of Nowhere" in a San Fernando Valley nightclub, and to the demise of Joe Albany. What may have made for glamorous, cool nightclub evenings was a scourge. A.J.'s mother, addicted to prescription drugs and anything else she could get her hands on, abandoned A.J. when she was 5. The little girl was already sorry and sickly, undeveloped, underfed. She lived sometimes with her paternal grandma but most often with her dad, who simply wasn't cut out to hold down a day job or put three squares on the table. A.J. resorted to eating toothpaste more than once in her forlorn search for calories. No one remembered to bathe her or change her clothes for days or weeks on end. Her dad took her along to club dates, stashed her on stacked coats and bundled her home at 4 in the morning. But at least, with him, she was home. They lived in a series of awful apartments close to Hollywood and Vine, furnished rooms with pull-out sofas and Murphy Beds; their neighbors, a flock of pathetic losers of the kind Nathanael West used in "The Day of the Locust" (but, again, that was only fiction). These people were all too human, too sad, too real: "Perhaps I was a sick and devious nine year old," A.J. writes, "to be so enamored of a twenty-two-year-old morphine-addicted porno-movie dwarf," but that dwarf liked her, and she loved him. Who else was she to love? For much of the time, affable though he was, her father locked himself in the bathroom with a spoon and something to tie off his arm. A zombie. By the time A.J. is 14, her father is off pursuing his career again. She confides in him, and he breaks that confidence, writing to her grandma: "It is my understanding that Amy is no longer a virgin. While she is certainly no academic, she is my daughter, and I suppose I must continue to advise her the best I can." Oh, the infuriatingly bogus morality of the addict! Oh, the betrayal. It's hard to know what to make of "Low Down." On one hand, it's an authentic trip through Hollywood's lower depths. On the other, it examines the conflict between the need for drugs and the neediness of children. In presenting her father's generosity as well as his failings, A.J. Albany uses language that is both astringent and compassionate. Describing a night when her parents were drugged out of their minds, Albany recalls her own helplessness as a tiny child: "I ventured out into the Hollywood courtyard where we lived and started knocking on neighbors' doors for some assistance. Since it was midnight and I was all of five years old and half-naked, one would assume that a friendly face might emerge from behind a blank door -- but that was not the case. It was my first lesson in humanity. Terrified women peeked out from their curtains, shooing me away." "Low Down" is, above all, about the dreadfulness of delusion. "Joe Albany was a great jazz pianist," his loyal daughter writes. He was "legendary." But one afternoon in 1957 or 1958, after hearing those alternative takes on the Charlie Parker album, a friend and I drove two hours to hear Albany play. He was standing out behind the club, incoherent. Later, after it became clear that Marsh wouldn't be showing up, Albany went inside and attempted to play. He was ripped, so ripped he couldn't get his hands up to the keyboard. "Legendary," maybe. Destructive beyond the shadow of a doubt. Deluded, yes. That his daughter survived and wrote this may be the real legend." The letters: "CORRESPONDENCE Jazz, addiction, jams and Joe Albany May 4, 2003 Reading Carolyn See's review of A.J. Albany's "Low Down" ("The Legendary Act of Survival," April 13) left me with the uncomfortable feeling that the uniqueness and "legendary" quality of Joe Albany had been sidestepped. He was certainly no household name in that era. Most of those who knew something of the style of music being played in the late 1940s by Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Parker and Miles Davis, had they been asked to name the pianist who was most solidly in that same league, would probably have said Bud Powell. However, to me, Joe Albany was closer to what particularly Parker and Davis were doing at the time. He did not record much and, as the biography by his daughter suggests, there were other issues interfering. During my teenage years in San Francisco, among my favorite recordings was a set of about four 78 sides that Albany recorded with Lester Young, Red Callender, Chico Hamilton and Irving Ashby on Aladdin Records in L.A. in 1946. He made other recordings and there is to my knowledge at least one solo Joe Albany LP, but these recordings with Lester Young are memorable and I think show what it was about Albany that makes him the complement of Bird and Miles. More than the flash and fire of Bud Powell, Albany had the kind of pigeon-toed elegance that Bird and Miles were striving for in "Buzzy," "Donna-Lee" and "Thriving on a Riff." I have listened to those four Lester Young sides countless times over the years. They had already been well engraved in my consciousness when one night in the early '50s a group of friends of mine came to my house at 3 a.m. — I had been fast asleep — to tell me that Albany was in town, San Francisco, and wanted to "jam." They had been talking big with Joe, but when it came time to play, they were too scared to play with him and came to get me. He and I played for about two hours at Jackson's Nook, a regular place for after-hours jazz sessions in those days. There was no one there but about five of us. Joe and I were the only ones playing, just piano and alto sax. I don't know what Joe thought. He didn't say much, but those two hours or so were for me among the most intellectually stimulating musical experiences of my life. He was already a legend to me, and that session only enhanced it. Robert Garfias Irvine * See's review of "Low Down," A.J. Albany's grisly portrait of her heroin-addicted father, "legendary" jazz pianist Joe Albany, does much to perpetuate the clichéd linkage in the public mind between drugs and the jazz musician and requires clarification: First, Joe Albany, for all his gifts, remained "legendary" throughout his career since he was a minor obscurity who left few recordings behind. Second, See's statement that "heroin was the drug of choice for musicians in the 1950s" overlooks that many seminal jazz artists of that period shunned drugs entirely: Dizzy Gillespie, Oscar Peterson, John Lewis, among others. Some former addicts like Gerry Mulligan and Max Roach successfully kicked the habit early. This linkage of jazz and drugs was long forwarded by a sensationalist media. Whenever the police busted an addict and found a broken harmonica in his bureau drawer, local headlines were certain to trumpet: "Musician arrested in narcotics bust." Having taught jazz studies for many years, I often faced a recurring question among senior citizens: "Why do so many jazz musicians use drugs?" It's time to set the record straight. Grover Sales Belvedere * In discussing A.J. Albany's biography of her father, jazz pianist Joe Albany, See asserts that heroin addiction, besides being the scourge of Albany's life, "certainly contributed to tenor-saxophonist Warne Marsh's untimely death in 1987." That slippery phrase, "certainly contributed to," is unworthy of See. If she had bothered to read my biography of Marsh, she would have known that he died of a heart attack probably brought on by cocaine, not a heroin overdose. See first declared that Marsh was a heroin addict in her memoir, "Dreaming: Hard Luck and Good Times in America." Then researching Marsh's life, I called her and asked what she actually knew about Marsh and heroin. She said that of course she had never seen him shoot up, but her sister had been an addict, she knew the signs, and she had observed Marsh in clubs nodding off and barely able to function. See is aware, I'm sure, that there is a difference between recreational use and addiction. There is no doubt that Marsh used heroin on occasion. A student of his told me that he once paid Marsh with heroin, and they both got high and canceled the lesson. But they snorted the drug. Marsh would never use a needle, and he was never jailed or even arrested for heroin possession. Although he was a daily user of marijuana and regularly took various uppers and downers, including cocaine, there is not a shred of evidence that he was ever addicted to heroin. Marsh cannot be fitted into See's heroin-as-life-destroyer obsession, and her attempt to do so while reviewing a book about Albany, a known heroin addict, is both intellectually shoddy and journalistically inappropriate. It also does a disservice to Marsh, a flawed but deeply serious artist who created some of the most thrilling music in all of jazz. Further, See is discographically incorrect, and inexcusably vague, when she says "there does exist an album somewhere" with "alternate takes" by Charlie Parker with Joe Albany during a studio recording of Parker's "KoKo." Parker and Albany were never in a recording studio together. The studio recording of "KoKo," including, on one release, false starts such as she describes, was made in New York on Nov. 26, 1945, on Savoy, but the pianist on those false starts was Argonne Thornton, a.k.a. Sadim Hakim. Joe Albany was in Los Angeles at the time. Dizzy Gillespie played both trumpet and piano on the master take of "KoKo." The only recordings of Parker and Albany together were live recordings from their gig at the Club Finale in Los Angeles in March 1946. Albany was scheduled to join Parker for the famous Dial Records session later that month that produced "Ornithology," "Yardbird Suite," "Moose the Mooche" and "A Night in Tunisia," but they had a falling out, and the pianist on that date was Dodo Marmarosa. See views herself as an authority on Marsh and Albany because she idolized them as a fan 45 years ago, but she does not respect their music sufficiently to check out her facts in a standard discography. One final note, of interest to admirers of Marsh and Albany, including See: She speaks of driving two hours to hear them in 1957 or 1958, only to find Marsh a no-show and Albany "so ripped he couldn't get his hands up to the keyboard." Given the time-frame and the two-hour drive, the club must have been the Galleon Room in Dana Point, where Marsh and Albany worked in the fall of 1957. An unreleased tape of a whole afternoon of that gig is now in the possession of Peter Jacobson of VSOP Records, who plans to issue it in its entirety. Safford Chamberlain South Pasadena * Carolyn See replies: This extraordinary outpouring of interest shows what a marvelous contribution these musicians did in fact make. It was my luck not to hear Albany on a particular afternoon, but I was lucky enough to see and hear Marsh on many occasions. Safford Chamberlain and I have had our disagreements before. Surely these petty concerns are transcended by the collective legacy that these musicians have left. Furthermore, the role that drugs played in the lives of these artists has been and will be debated for as many years as there are musicians, academicians and discographers. My feeling is: Heroin isn't good for you, but this is a free country and people must do as they choose. As for the missing album, I am sorry Chamberlain is not familiar with it. I don't think that it includes the "definitive" recording of "KoKo" but a series of very short alternative takes, which might be best listened to as an interesting but minor footnote to jazz history. As for the afternoon in question, no music was played, so clearly any recording of it would be quite remarkable. "

Lon, your interview with Cuscuna is indeed credited--twice. In chapter four they quote Cuscuna saying that Alfred Lion had gotten a "piddling offer from Atlantic" to buy Blue Note and in chapter ten there's a long quote from Cuscuna explaining how expensive and difficult is was for Lion to maintain the label's success. Seems obvious to me your excellent interview for "DooBop" was an important part of Richard Cook's research for the book. Congrats!

"We bring you music that can't be heard nowhere else..." Just picked this up on Joel Dorn's Hyena label. First off, it's a digipack instead of those black plastic cases. Cover art--as it's a previously unreleased live performance--is just okay. The music however..... ...is terrific. Sound quality is very good and the performances are pretty awesome. Kirk blows the hell out of McCoy's "Passion Dance" and then shifts gears into a nearly 10-minute beautiful version of "My One and Only Love." While versions of "Bright Moments" and "Old Rugged Cross" seem to be incomplete, the version of "Blacknuss" here is complete and incredible. Kirk begins by explaining to the audience that the tune uses only the black keys of the piano, sings "B, L, A, C, K, N-U-S-S" at a medium tempo and then launches into a rapid fire chant of prominent African-American names and the word "freedom" with pianist Hilton Ruiz playing his heart out. Indeed, Kirk talks throughout the set and his stage patter is great. Indeed, at one point he tells the audience: "For some of the people who was stupid enough not to show up, you tell 'em how dumb (they are)." If you're a Kirk fan heed the above advice and "show up."

Just picked this up as it's finally available in the states. Has anyone read this yet? I realize there might have been a discussion on the "old" board, but I missed it. Looks a little slight from just paging through it...

You're welcome. It's a great article. I must say that I was very surprised to see this on the front page of the entertainment section with a color picture. Amazing placement for a story about an obscure jazz musician.

From today's LA Times. Front page of the "Calendar" section: A jazz mystery unravels Henry Grimes, the Juilliard-trained bassist who quietly walked away decades ago, is slowly reemerging. By Lynell George, Times Staff Writer March 21 2003 It started as a rumor as wild and out-there as all the others over the last 30 years. There'd been many -- some elaborate, others prosaic -- speculating on the whereabouts of revered jazz bassist Henry Grimes. The stories ran up and down the scales: that Grimes had taken up acting; that he'd assumed another identity; that he died in 1984. But this latest one had caught a good tailwind as it was yanked about from coast to coast. Grimes wasn't dead at all. He was right here, in downtown Los Angeles, living in an efficiency hotel on a hardscrabble stretch of Main Street. For three decades he'd been in and out of odd jobs, at times without a permanent address, for a long time without his upright bass. Soon the hard evidence materialized. In the winter issue of Signal to Noise -- The Journal of Improvised & Experimental Music, a photo of Grimes -- same resolute stare, same down-turned mouth, hair dusted gray -- peered out from the pages. The photos were accompanied by the story of one determined fan, Marshall Marrotte, a social worker, from Athens, Ga., who sifted through all manner of legal records to solve the mystery of Henry Grimes. Once one of the most sought-after jazz bassists of the post-bop era, Grimes was as well known for his quiet demeanor as his big sound. Classically trained at Juilliard, he had a sense of time and an intricate bowing technique that set him apart from others on the circuit. In the late '50s and well into the '60s, he played frequent club dates, toured and recorded with marquee names and new-music pioneers alike -- among them Benny Goodman and Sonny Rollins, Albert Ayler and Cecil Taylor. It seemed the ride wouldn't stop. Until after a gig at the Both/And in San Francisco when Grimes stepped off the bandstand and into middle space. In the years since, the story served as a knotty mystery that many have spent more time embroidering than untangling -- until now. "It's all a little overwhelming," Grimes will tell you in a mere rasp of a voice that only underscores the understatement. "Marshall told me that a lot of people thought I was dead. I thought, 'I could really use that plot for a horror film or something like that.' " To witness the reemergence of Henry Grimes is a bit like glimpsing the missing link. "He was just so creative," says music historian Steve Isoardi, editor of the book "Central Avenue Sounds." "He really seemed to complement the new sounds that were coming from people like Ayler. He is really kind of the connection between the bass players of the last, say, 20, 30 years and the ones in the '50s and '60s. He was one of the greatest artists of that era, and to have him just walk away ... " Jazz has often lost its heroes early. Its players are seldom tossed a second chance, which is why this is all the more remarkable. Given the myth and rumor, "it's all been appropriately weird," says drummer Alex Cline, who has been jamming with Grimes over the last few weeks. "It's interesting playing with a ghost. One who is quite solid." Since his "reappearance," there have been requests for lessons, gifts of a bass and CDs of his old recordings. Already he's found a new generation of ears. Even a couple of gigs have floated into view. The first, today and Saturday at the World Stage in Leimert Park, is especially significant because the venue was co-founded by one of his fellow sidemen, the late drummer Billy Higgins. "I've never had this kind of attention," says Grimes, 68, as bewildered by it as he is amused. "But I never stopped playing. Not in my mind." An unlikely comeback gig Reentry, Grimes is finding, isn't as easy as stepping away. On a cloudy, late-winter morning, he stands before an eager group of about 50 high school students and their teachers at the Oakwood School in North Hollywood, his hands sunk deep in his pockets, his new bass leaning against him. It's an unlikely place for a comeback date, but this assembly will be Grimes' first semi-public performance since 1972. Next to him, also with a bass, stands Nick Rosen, a 17-year-old senior who has picked up the baton on this leg of Grimes' journey. After warming up with a few CDs featuring Grimes in his prime, the gathering turns to take in the real thing. Grimes' eyes sweep the room. He appears a bit amused by all the fuss. Rosen trolls for questions -- gently nudging them away from the mystery and toward inquires about the music. Grimes is alternately tentative and whimsical. To the question, "What does it feel like to have worked with all the greats?" he offers, "It kinda interferes with my sleep." He punctuates those one-liners with a teasing, slow-blooming grin. "Henry, should we play one?" Rosen suggests. Self-contained, somewhat bashful, he has the bearing of a shadow. Until he leans into the instrument, into the first few notes. He stands, stock-still, cradling the bass, plucking and bowing alternately -- then simultaneously. His eyes seem focused on that middle space from which he emerged. In minutes, he is drenched in perspiration -- his forehead glossy, his bow an unraveled mess. Rosen's eyes lock into his new mentor's gaze, picking up cues and clues. Rosen had been introduced to Grimes by Isoardi, who's an instructor at Oakwood. New to the acoustic bass, the student was moving out of punk and metal and into the wide open spaces of free jazz, obsessed with Ayler. Grimes, then, was the direct line. Rosen devoured the magazine piece, then left a week's worth of messages at Grimes' hotel, hoping that he was open to taking on a pupil. Their initial meeting, over a meal at the Pantry, turned into a three-hour discussion of music. "He was excited" about the prospect of playing improvisationally, says Rosen. "He told me that he wanted to play free." Since that moment, Rosen has been bent on making that happen, working the phones, assembling the first jam session early last month. Then when poet and World Stage co-founder Kamau Daáood got wind of the plan and offered his venue, Rosen stepped up his efforts, securing a lineup -- guitarist Nels Cline and his brother Alex, Dan Clucas on trumpet and cornet, and Charles Owens and Chris Heenan on woodwinds. All were honored to get the call. "Here was someone who we thought hadn't survived 'the jazz life,' " says Clucas. But he did survive -- because he walked away. "In a lot of ways he's forgotten the person he was. But it's coming back, [and] now there are two people competing inside of him." Places fade but not music Grimes' memory is indeed sticky, faded in places, an old photo album where the snapshot has slipped away, the clear recollection momentarily misplaced or just out of reach. He's that way about years and cities, musicians he's traveled and played with. "It's a strange thing. Like an effect of battle," says Grimes. "Listening to these records I made with all these guys, I couldn't remember the place or how I got there playing. But I remember every note of the music. I mean every note." Born in Philadelphia, Grimes started out on violin. The bass came later. His studies at Juilliard in the 1950s gave him a perk over other musicians, he says over lunch at a cafe a few blocks away from his hotel on a refurbished block of Main. "They liked the way I played. A lot of young guys never had the kind of thing I had." He was fiercely busy and happy to be so. But it was with Arnett Cobb and Willis Jackson that Grimes really learned how to play. "Guys like that, they show you something. These guys would complain, 'I can't hear you! Play harder!' So, you're pulling the strings harder," Grimes remembers. "Then, I used to play with Buddy Rich. He played so loud and hard ... four beats on the bass drum ... it was like trying to survive in the jungle." He moved from straight-ahead gigs to more abstract ensembles with ease. "The music was a feeling. And if you understand that feeling," says Grimes, "it goes right through you." Until it took its toll. While working with Sonny Rollins' band in the 1960s, Grimes recalls, "it just kind of hit me. I don't know where it came from. It was a strange thing. I remember it all accumulating. I started a scuffle with one of the musicians. Wasn't like me at all. And after that I was kind of embarrassed. I had to get out of there." Henry Grimes was having a nervous breakdown. For seven years he was hospitalized, treated for what would now be diagnosed as bipolar disorder. It was also during that period that he lost both his parents in quick succession, then drifted from contact with his sister and twin brother. There were gigs here and there afterward, but the night Grimes walked off that bandstand in San Francisco, he knew it was time to step away. Sometime in the 1970s, he moved to L.A., where there were occasional sightings. Bassist Roberto Miranda caught a glimpse of Grimes at a jam session near Loyola Marymount University. "It was about 30 years ago at someone's house: seven bass players, four or five drummers and thousands of horn players. I ended up standing right next to Henry.... In the middle of all this, Henry stops playing, sets his bass down, walks to the couch [and] immediately falls asleep. I thought to myself, 'Wow.' That was the last time I saw him until a week and a half ago." Shortly after the move, Grimes sold his bass and made ends meet with janitorial jobs and construction. "Physical work," he says, "releases some of the tensions." Even the far-out rumor about his turn at acting was true: "I did take a workshop. I've been writing some poetry too. It's the same place of expression. It's the way I like to do it. Everything coming through me." Until Marrotte called and upended everything, Grimes had become accustomed to his new tempo of life. "I missed playing," he admits, "but I wasn't thinking about it. It wasn't that I didn't want to. It was like a concentration exercise. I would just reinvert the energy. Instead of worrying about 'I don't have a bass,' I just sort of got ahead of it." Gazing into the distance Second set, one Sunday night, Rosen's parents' living room: a modified version of the Henry Grimes Group thunders through its last rehearsal before the World Stage gig. The band travels through tones and colors, ride the waves and angles, Grimes' unreadable, intense gaze set on some distant elsewhere. As the set curls into its close, Heenan suggests one more. "A ballad?" drummer Cline jokes, taking the plugs out of his ears. "I'm all for quieter." "What would you like to do, Henry?" Clucas defers. There's no countdown. No direction. The players watch for the flicker, sail in, then dovetail. Henry leans in. Feet planted firmly. Except for his busy hands, he barely moves an inch. His gaze is set to that middle space, his body covered in sweat. All of it -- again -- coming through him.

So there's a slight overlap between some of the cuts on JAZZ ET CINEMA VOL. 4 and the Solal A BOUT DE SOUFFLE soundtrack I mentioned in the first post. Both LE PROCES (Orson Welles' THE TRIAL) and LES ENNEMIS are also on the A BOUT DE SOUFFLE as extra tracks.

Yes, ALPHAVILLE is available on DVD via The Criterion Collection--no extras on the disc, but it does feature a nicely cleaned-up print of the film. Also available in this soundtrack series is Georges Delerue's magnificent score for Godard's LE MEPRIS (aka CONTEMPT). It's not jazz, but it's great music.

Can't believe no one has yet mentioned the ultimate tenor battles: "The Chase" and "The Steeplechase" between Dexter Gordon and Wardell Gray! AND...."Tenor Madness" between Sonny Rollins and Coltrane!

I agree with Dmitry's assessment--it's a fine swing session but nothing essential. I do, however, have a soft spot for the record because I'm originally from Chicago and the album title and cover art is a hoot. Vito in a trench coat and cap blowing his tenor in the middle of the street (can't tell which street exactly...don't think it's Michigan Ave, but it might be State, Clark, or Randolph). Even shows one of the old green & cream colored CTA buses of my youth.... Speaking of "Chicago" album covers, another fave is the old Argo release THE DANGEROUS DAN EXPRESS by The Three Souls. Has a picture of the trio pulled over to the side of the Dan Ryan expressway standing behind their car. Sonny Cox is blowing his alto, Robert Shy is holding his drum sticks, and organist Ken Price is holding sheet music (guess it would have been silly for him to be sitting behind his B-3...)

I paid $99 for a used copy at a record store here in Los Angeles. I've seen it used since from time to time. Gotta keep your eyes open and your wallet ready...

I think it's supposed to be a theater marquee. Mine, luckily, is still intact. Great set, indeed. Even better because I bought it used...

Thanks. Nice to be back. Things seem calmer in the new venue....for now. I just have to keep reminding myself to stay away from the bar brawls...

Well, I appreciate the tip, Paul. When you say you saw it in Cadence "some years ago" would that be the early 90s? I think that's about the time the cd was released. J, as to it being odd that the film reels could have been lost, I don't find it that unusual. If it was a truly independent film back in the early 60s it wouldn't surprise me that there'd only be one print and the filmmakers might not have been able to afford to strike another one from the negative if they didn't have any kind of distributor. Some good clues here, but this one continues to be a real mystery...

Came across this long OOP cd in the used bins a couple of weeks back and I can't find any information about it other than what appears in the scant liner notes. It's a soundtrack for a very obscure independent film from 1962 called TRACKS IN THE SAND. The musicians are Yusef Lateef, Jimmy Knepper, Richard Williams, Tommy Flanagan, and Max Roach. Most of the cues are very short (some of them 15 seconds), but there a few lengthier cues where the players get to stretch out a little. All in all not uninteresting music. Problem is I can find NOTHING about this movie or the recording session (and I have quite a few film reference books at my disposal). Most frustrating is that the liners contains the intriguing line: "send $12.95 for a deluxe 544 book containing the screenplay and 270 photos from (the film)." Little chance that's still valid..... Anybody know anything about this mysterious session?

Has anyone else discovered the Universal/EmArcy French film soundtrack series? I recently picked up Jimmy Smith improvising to the Pierre Granier-Deferre film LA METAMORPHOSE DES CLOPORTES and Martial Solal's amazing work on Jean-Luc Godard's A BOUT DE SOUFFLE (aka: BREATHLESS). The Smith is very interesting as well because he pretty much wings it. It's the most spontaneous improvising I've ever heard from Smith and he often veers into Larry Young territory on this. These discs are loaded with extra tracks. The Smith disc includes Jimmy's versions of the themes to MISSION IMPOSSIBLE, GOLDFINGER, THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN ARM and others. The Solal is a real gem and includes his work on other films, including Orson Welles' THE TRIAL. The packaging on these is very nice as well. The booklets are downright handsome with high-quality paper and beautiful b&w photo reproduction. Each includes a catalogue of the other titles in the series (28 so far). I am currently on the hunt for MORT D'UN POURRI which features Stan Getz. I found these in the soundtrack section of Tower Records, but have also seen them available via Dusty Groove.