Larry Kart

Love it when someone can tell a joke right. Economy/timing, bingo.

Chuck, I listened to "A1 Tal 2La" several times in the past few days, based on your post. I like "A1 Tal 2La", and find it very interesting and a fine piece of music. However, if this is what brings tears to your eyes, it is an example of the diversity of the human species--which I am all in favor of celebrating. Can't speak for Chuck, but I get a great feeling of delicate, practical, in-the-moment tenderness from the piece/performance -- it's like tracing the contours of someone's face with your fingertips. Specifically, the passage around 4:30 when Roscoe is in the upper register and Malachi is playing harp-like figures; and the one that begins around 7:50 when Roscoe's line begins to descend in pitch and become a bit shadowy in tone -- I'd call that melancholic and farewell-like except there's no mood-painting here in the sense of depiction of emotion from a vantage point. It's all almost unbelievably specific, note to note, and that a rare thing, especially when you don't have the advantage of getting excited or "energetic."

from the marvelous Plas Johnson, the Candoli brothers, and an out of his mind Carl Fontana: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dechpnavTyA http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jBupII3LH_Q&NR=1

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nBTK_qzKbvk...feature=related This is less than a year before Getz's death, but the power of his sound! Also, dig Jack Sheldon and Candoli and digging him.

Probably 2not.

Not with that dancer, not in a million years. Havana, maybe? Or Puerto Rico? BTW, I remember watching Cuban league baseball games broadcast from Havana and picked by a local Chicago station in the year Castro took over. The atmosphere in the stands was something else.

Guess it takes one to know one. Larry, Jim, why is this bigoted jerk still posting? You can only have one poet per family. Bertrand. You are calling this sick, homophobic racist a "poet"? You Must Be is the younger brother of U.S. Poet Laureate Charles Simic (Kay Ryan recently was named to take over the post): http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Simic You Must Be, then, is not the poet of the family.

I wasn't questioning the quote for real, just trying to make a little joke.

He didn't say, "We're gonna get high and listen to some Miles, man"?

When you take in the whole history of the music, the possibilities are mind-boggling (the Morton et al. dates that Chuck mentioned from the '20s, pretty much the entire swath of Ellington small group sides from the '30s), but it might be a good idea to divide things where possible into multi-horn dates where the focus is still more or less on the solos (e.g. "Hub Cap," among the Blue Notes, though Melba Liston's chart on that Randy Weston piece is fine; the Hampton RCA multi-horn things, the Condon Commodores and late '30s Bud Freeman recordings, all those H.R.S. sessions, etc., the Goodman Sextet, the Mulligan Sextet, etc.) and multi-horn dates where the focus is more or less on the writing and/or the overall ensemble statement (the Mortons again, Birth of the Cool, oodles of Mingus, Rod Levitt's things, the list could go on and on -- as could the other list).

Others may disagree, but having been a teen and then a young adult in that era, I found the first few episodes of the show to be ludicrously overdrawn and/or "Let's just make up some shit -- Who the hell will know the difference?" absurd, and stopped watching, though I'm well aware that bizarre entertainment-industry fantasies about times one has direct experience of are what all of us have to look forward to. One potential corrective would be to watch some of the many films of that era that attempted to grapple with aspects of that present at that time. Lord knows, the range is broad -- from solemnly pinched board room dramas like "Executive Suite," to comedies of sentiment like "The Apartment," to dark satires like "Sweet Smell of Success" -- and no one would say that those films themselves were not fables to some extent, but they couldn't help but be anchored in their times in terms of verisimilitude of behavior, decor, etc., etc. to a degree that made "Mad Men" seem (at least to me) ... mad. The simplest thing, and among the most basic (because of what the guys in "Mad Men" do for a living), is the smoking. Of course, people smoked like chimneys then -- I was one of them when I was old enough to get away with it -- but they didn't smoke demonstratively, as everyone I saw on "Mad Men" seemed to do. There was no reason or need to; smoking a whole lot was ordinary then. Geez, you'd think they'd get that right. I'm reminded of the era of the so-called "adult western" -- films that, in their "At last, in this brave new modern-era we can tell the truth about the myths of the Old West" strategies, essentially substituted an even more mythical (though of course grubbier on the surface) "truth" for the old myths -- which at their best had a potent organic coherence, while the new stuff was often merely and thinly "wised up" (I except "The Wild Bunch" from this blanket condemnation). Back to "Mad Men" -- it's not the same social setting or era, but for films of not too distant vintage that IMO convincingly recreate the feel of times prior to the times in which they were made, I think that Scorsese's "Good Fellas" and "Casino" show what can be done. But then I'm among those admirers of Douglas Sirk's "All That Heaven Allows" (potent '50s essences divined and bottled at the time, which is when I first saw it) who despised "Far From Heaven" (2002), Todd Haynes' period recreation of/ variant on "All That Heaven Allows," which tried to turn the tale into an inter-racial romance from one in which the barriers to be crossed are those of class, age, and propriety. Not an impossible task, and certainly not a dishonorable one, but Haynes' methods had some of that implicitly wised-up, "We know better; we're adults now" smugness that spells death for drama.

Re-acquainted myself with "Improvisation 1." Roscoe says of it, "That was a very structured improvisation." Yes, indeed. I can't imagine what this will sound like if one hasn't heard it before. Ardor plus order at a level of intensity that is almost shocking, except that it's also (you might say) happy because it's so coherent. Right afterwards, I thought, "I wish Coltrane could have lived to hear this."

The actual recordings are not accessible to me right now, but I recall that the CBS LP drawn from this material sounded better than the Lonehill. The music can be made out, and at best it's incredible. Here's something I wrote when the LP came out: Live at the Beehive is one of jazz’s delayed explosions. Recorded at a South Side Chicago club on November 7, 1955, the group heard here was co-led by Clifford Brown, the young trumpet master who would die in an auto accident the following year, and Max Roach, the dominant percussionist of the bebop era. Also present were bassist George Morrow, tenorman Sonny Rollins (who would soon leave town as a member of the band), and three Chicagoans--tenorman Nicky Hill, guitarist Leo Blevins, and pianist Billy Wallace. The wide-open jam session that took place that night was captured by Roach on a home tape machine, and until now, the music has been heard only by the people who were at the Beehive and by a few of the drummer’s friends. Deeply wounded by Brown’s death, Roach long found himself unable to contemplate the music that reminded him of his loss, and the mediocre sound quality of the tape seemed to preclude commercial release. But Roach finally gave in to those who told him that the Beehive session had to be heard. And it turns out that the refurbished tape is more than listenable; anyone familiar with these musicians will be able to fill in the missing elements in the aural landscape. Compared with Live at the Beehive, even the best of the Brown-Roach combo’s studio work sounds restrained. Immediately striking is the change one hears in Brown’s playing. In a tragically brief career that ended when he was only twenty-five, Brown became known for his mellow, butter-smooth tone and his ability to construct seemingly endless lyrical lines. And yet, as lovely as it was, his music at times seemed limited by its loveliness, which could became sweet and cute. But the Clifford Brown heard on Live at the Beehive is virtually another man, a savagely adventurous virtuoso who repeatedly rises into the trumpet’s topmost register to create patterns that seem to have been etched in space by a needle-sharp flame. Brown excels on every one of the album’s five tracks, but he surpasses himself on a twenty-minute version of “Cherokee.” The tune, traditionally used to separate the men from the boys, is taken at a lightning tempo, which forces Brown’s lyricism to the point of no return. Eventually, he finds himself stabbing out phrases whose content would be purely rhythmic if it were not for the way his sense of tone and attack makes each note of the design vibrate with melodic meaning. It is Roach who spurs Brown to these dangerous heights, and in the process, the drummer surpasses himself, too. Neither before nor since has he played with such abandon, and often it sounds as though two or three drummers must be at work. This multiple-player effect comes, in part, from the way Roach has tuned his drum kit. Several years before the Beehive session, he began to adjust his instruments to precise pitches. As a result Roach’s playing became filled with tympani-like effects, as though he were trying to make the drums into a melodic voice. During that same period, though, a certain sobriety crept into his work, perhaps because Roach had to exert conscious control over his new resources. But at the Beehive session, all the wraps were off. Roach’s explosive solo on “Cherokee” is the most startling display on the album, but in no way does he slight his role as an accompanist. Brown’s solos are inseparable from Roach’s support, and the drummer creates inventive patterns behind every player at every tempo from the mercurial “Cherokee” on down to the medium groove of “Walkin’.” Although the album includes skillful playing from Blevins and Wallace, the other major point of interest is the contrast between Sonny Rollins and Nicky Hill. Rollins, who was just about to establish himself as the dominant tenorman in jazz, is in generally fine form. But Hill, who precedes Rollins on ‘I’ll Remember April” and follows him on “Walkin’,” more than holds his own. An eccentrically individualistic player who died in 1965, Hill was a master of oblique construction; and his solos are surprisingly prophetic of developments to come. Particularly on “Walkin’,” he ends phrases by extending a note until its harmonic meaning becomes more and more ambiguous, an insistence on the purely linear that foreshadows early Ornette Coleman.

You're saying 'routine' might be a noun and a verb? This is more complicated that I thought ... Yes -- as in "First I play the melody, then I vary it, then I vary the variation."

Got it -- all of it, I think. Hope that jerk doesn't come back.

I'm glad I asked. Just listened again while trying to sort out who's who, and I recommend it as in interim step because it naturally leads to hearing the four parts both individually and as a whole. For instance, in Section One I had a bit of trouble finding Threadgill at first (his part is often near-chalemeau-ish and the calmest), but when I did find him it was like I was hearing a third more of everything than I had before -- e.g. it's now clear that parts of Section One that I thought were all Roscoe actually are Roscoe and Wallace McMillian tightly interweaving. Also, finding Threadgill and then reconnecting with the whole made Section One seem surprisingly unhectic, almost lyrical, which was quite a switch. The music just opens up when you "see" the four players.

Thanks. Will listen again with that in mind. What an incredible performance. Can't imagine the sense of satisfaction that everyone must have felt, though I can just see Roscoe being very take-care-of business afterwards, packing up the parts, saying "Thank you," etc. BTW, Roscoe's musical notation (reproduced in the booklet) is very beautiful/expressive -- the ink strokes seems to wriggle with energy, everything clear but urgent.

Arrived today -- many thanks, Chuck, for doing it in the first place and for doing all this now. Began by playing the saxophone quartet "Nonaah" because I know it well. The gain in clarity is startling, but that prompts a question, which you probably can answer unless there's a reason not to: In the final section, there is almost certainly a fair amount of room for individual embellishment by each player within the bounds of what's given (the details of these embellishments/variations being significantly more audible now). So I'm wondering, who is who from left to right? Assuming that the recording set-up reproduced the seating arrangement as indicted on the title page of the score, it would be Alto III, left; Altos I and II, center; and Alto IV, right. I could take a reasonable guess (Roscoe himself being readily identifiable, I think; he's the most rhythmically abrupt, prominent, lower-register protagonist in section one of the whole work, no?) but would rather know for sure.

I agree, but sadly it's hard to tell on my LP, which never sounded even decent (the pressing no doubt). A RVG remaster would be lovely.

Good points, Duke City -- which means I agree with them. Also agree that "Poor Butterfly" is right up there with "Serenata" -- the latter is the one I think of first because plenty of people have played "Poor Butterfly" but no one else AFAIK has played "Serenata," which also has, like most Anderson, grim associations if you lived through the '50s ("The Typewriter"? "The Syncopated Clock"?)

The problem (if that's the way to put it) is that Cannonball's "overly florid" streak is inseparable (or not easily separable) from his virtues. "Dancing in the Dark" is an example of this (though not perhaps a perfect one); a perfect example IMO would be "Serenata" from "Cannonball Takes Charge." Cannonball digs Leroy Anderson from the inside out; indeed, the genius of this performance is that it imposes no framework of finger-popping hipness or whatever on the Anderson vibe but instead homes in on its Straussian (Johann, not Richard or Leo) blend of musicality, sweetness, and lilting sentiment; Cannonball had that in him, deeply, and if at times things get out of control and one feels like gagging, there it is -- virtually inseparable. Anyone for "Lisbon Antigua"? As for Allen's point about Miles nagging Cannonball about his harmonic blandness and Cannonball taking Miles advice to use more "advanced" chord substitutions, to my mind this led (at least when Cannonball was with Miles) to the most unsuccessful, disjointed (one kind of musical diction butting up against another, to the detriment of both) playing of Cannonball's entire career. "Autumn Leaves" arguably is as fine as any solo Cannonball ever recorded; maybe I'm deaf, but I don't hear a significant chord substitution throughout; the solo, in harmonic terms, almost could have been played by Benny Carter (that's not to say that Carter is harmonically unsophisticated but that he would have shunned the kind of "hip" harmonic babbling that Cannonball gets into on, say, much of the contemporaneous Columbia album "Milestones"). Also, I always thought that it was Coltrane's example that lured Cannonball into what was (for him) a morass.

Harold Danko, who I felt for many years had a lot of Hines in him, turns out to have been a longtime Hines fan and did a trio album of Hines pieces "Hinesight" (Steeplechase) in 2005. The liner notes speak touchingly of a live Hines festival performance in Europe in the 1970s that turned the young Danko (himself playing at the festival with Thad and Mel) from a respectful admirer to a stunned devotee. The album includes many seldom played (even by Hines) works, including his first recorded composition "Congaine" (1923), which as Danko indicates includes a striking pre-echo of Bud Powell.

I'd be curious what anyone with experience in the jazz record business feels about Tapscott's account of what went down at this session, especially the part about actually bringing his rehearsal band to the studio. I don't doubt that there was serious static of some sort somewhere along the line, but I can't imagine an experienced producer like Don Schlitten actually hiring the musicians he did (and a good number of them, too) if he had any thought that a whole other band was going to show up. The possibilities for chaos boggle the mind. BTW, I review "Sonny's Dream" for Down Beat when it came out, gave it ****1/2 out of *****.

There are some topnotch late Hines solo albums on the Australian label Swaggie, including an album of compositions by Dave Dallwitz.

Giuffre, yes, up to a point in time (1959, probably, when he tried to incorporate Rollins almost wholesale, with strange though sometimes interesting results); Holman almost never IMO, though his sound was softer early on than it became.