Ornette Coleman.
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Joey Baron > What
Composed by Joey BaronMy friend Mike’s into Joey Baron and has been trying to get me to listen for 10 years; this set with Arthur Blythe, Bill Frisell, and Ron Carter has finally hit me. And this postmodern soul tag has gotten under his skin. He writes:
“I like the concept. To me the soul part is a beat that makes you want to fuck; the jazz part is a sonic vocabulary hip enough to compensate for the missing singer; and the postmodern part is a willingness to tell a story that welcomes strangeness.”
Like he said.
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Lou Donaldson > Ode to Billie Joe
Composed by Bobbie Gentry“It’s Your Thing” I understand. What else but “Who’s Making Love”? “Say it Loud - I’m Black and I’m Proud” Of course! All perfectly logical Lou covers.
But Ode to Billie Joe?! (And you bet your good gracious butt it’s funky).
What Was That? Week #7
Legends of Soul Jazz #5
Legends of the Saxophone #10
Cover #53
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Johnny Hodges > Castle Rock
Composed by Al SearsI first heard this out of character track on a long (sadly) out-of-print Mosaic box. Suprising? Yes. Happy? Yes.
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Louis Jordan & his Tympany 5 > Caldonia
Composed by Fleecie Moore (or probably Louis Jordan)My hero.
(So much so, I couldn’t figure out which of my ten equal faves should be posted. This one was one of his biggest, most covered hits.)
Donald Harrison Jr.
Solid pulses, continuous cascades of blue; shimmering, threatening a boil before bubbling over ever so slightly for just a second, coming to its senses again. This band starts out putting you in the room for one of those old Blue Note hard bop sessions, Rudy Van Gelder behind the boards, Alfred Lion looking on through a haze; yet this is still a thoroughly contemporary unit. They’ve dealt with the Second Quintet, run through fusion, 70s modernism, 80s revival, and 90s pan-history.
Those suits. Not a bespoke stitch out of place, not a piece removed baking on that stage in the buzzing June heat. Chromaticism, pretty melodic figures, time all shifting every so often but subtly. The pulse is solid.
His mic or his monitor is fucked and he is pissed, jabbing his finger down like a dictator. The band percolates on behind him unfazed. Carefree. Focused on the task at hand.
Crescendoes build, pop; things fall back into place. Chug along.
The piano pushes the drummer, eggs him on; makes his punk/funk breakdown all the more frantic, heavy, cloud-shaking. The kid is only 19, and already a god.
There’s a joyously screeching coda.
Dear sir, it’s a little hot for that red wine, ya think?
I’m not a jazz musician, I’m a musician. But I know I come from jazz.
Paquito D’Rivera makes the first guest turn. Harrison drones along to Paquito’s bubbling until they’re both speaking in tongues — no rhythm section ballast, nothing to hold them down; they dart higher and higher upwards, glide further and further out.
Now it’s smooth jazz r&b flanged; smeared with noise edges and hard soloing. This truly is the Nouveau Swing. The People can understand it, don’t have to think about it, can dance/eat/fuck to it; but it can still transcend. Reach heights never considered; make sounds unheard. Unheard until now.
Paquito and Payton are soaring and scraping, over and under it. Paquito quotes Ellington, It Don’t Mean A Thing; there are patches of recognition. A man erupts behind me. I vaguely make out “Land of a Thousand Dances,” too. No such eruptions.
Bill Summers, he of the original Headhunters, is drumming with fingers and sticks and the heel of his palm in time with a springy, alternately chiming and thwacking guitar. They’re bridging smooth jazz with blaxploitation funk. Then the brainy compositions shift time from underneath you, the punchy group bleat clusters throw you for a loop.
Harrison talks to you with his horn. Talks you through it.
