Category Archives: All jazz and the jazzoid

Jazz and jazzoid stuff. Some from my hot shit LA Weekly days, some pre-that, and some after my sudden, mysterious retirement. Many of the pre and post LA Weekly stuff has wound up in Don Heckman’s International Review of Music.

A Love Supreme in a still, dark room

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(Comments from 2010 on a first draft of a Bricks Picks from 2007)

I just found this. It was written in one long take. I just let the thing gush apparently. My wife Fyl had been out of the hospital about six weeks [she’d nearly died of an infection…had died for a few minutes, but pulled through tho’ with severe amnesia] and right about this time she had a heart operation to install a defibrillator because the doctors (and me) were worried the arrhythmia would drop her stone dead. I’d avoided losing my job, barely surviving a big layoff. I was learning how to handle all the finances, and all the other things I had never done in our 28 year marriage.  I had decided to throw Fyl a big birthday party at the end of the month (and big it was, too, old friends by the dozens  just thrilled she was still around and a pile of gifts; she smiled and laughed and said thank you and had no idea who any of them were.)  And the economy had just caved in and the country was in a complete panic. Basically, all was madness. I was utterly exhausted. I even seem to remember briefly quitting the Weekly in there somewhere (my latest editor was fucking with me. He stopped). Writing is always a bitch for me, about this time it was becoming brutal. I hated it. You can see and feel that all here.  That last paragraph was so typo-ridden (Propler weill be praying fr everybody in ;ll the chuched, kankers will tr to keep pour mpney from diappearring, brokers will f;lutter and pamic. Even presidential candidates sat sc=art stuff.  But try this…pull out “A Love Supreme” in a still darj room. Let ijam. Siy tight, pillows hekp. Herbals too. Get all te way throight, ide it with Johgn C(ltrane. How many revolutions and wars, riys and assisinatiuons and recessuions, and disatr4rs has it withiood) that I could barely read it now and it was me that wrote the fucking thing. The final draft must have been cut by half. But reading this now it’s so evocative. What an amazing, terrible time that was.

 Anyway, I cleaned it up some here, mostly for spelling:

Brick’s Picks # 46

Yeah things are rough with the market down and unemployment up and mortgages defaulting and debates boring and what can a jazz fan do? You still need to hear music—and maybe need it more now than ever—but your 401K just took all the jazz cruise money and left you sporting hoover flags and no place to go.  Fear’s not the only thing scaring us, everything is anymore, and man do we all need a good night out to listen to some solid tuneage and just forget the whole bit for a couple hours. But there’s that image that jazz has picked up the last couple decades…that is it an effete entertainment, something expensive to expensive for you, the guy who had to dash in and out of the liquor store to pick up this Weekly without buying anything. It’s not that there aren’t pricey jazz joints and even pricier concerts—there are plenty—but there are even more places that charge no cover (or maybe just a little one), have no minimums, and won’t completely break you. So let’s pick a few for the weekend.

For early starters this Friday afternoon they’re kicking off the Thelonious Monk centennial (a week late and a decade early, as he was born on Oct. 10, 2017) with a whole herd  of master pianists—Geri Allen, Jean Michel Pilc, Frank Kimbrough, Bill Cunliffe are some—at Ernst and Young Plaza at 7th and Figueroa downtown. It runs from noon to three, so head on down there, buy an apple off some sad broker and dig the wide ranging interpretations. Pretty unique event. Then head over to LACMA where beloved local bassist Putter Smith leads his West Coast through some straight ahead. Also free. There’s bar there, too, and eats. And that’s two events right there that won’t cost you that spare dime and it’s not even night time yet.

Now how about the genuine nightspots….real jazz junkies collect at Charlie O’s in the Valley. It’s this town’s straight ahead epicenter, and the crowd is purist, half of them players themselves, the rest jazzophiles. These people demand the real stuff, three sets worth. There’s usually no cover (except on Big Band Mondays) and there’s no minimum, what else you want? This Friday check out saxman Justo Almario, a Colombian whose impassioned sound is shot through with Trane (much like fellow South American Gato Barbieri used to, though Justo can bop with the best, too.) In fact, the great tenor work continues all weekend here….with the mighty Don Menza on Saturday, his is a big, fat powerful tone, the kind that as they said of Dexter Gordon, seems to fill the whole room. And on Sunday it’s Doug Webb, who delivers with a passionate intensity and nods to Trane and Joe Henderson and Hank Mobley and all the rest of those cats. We dig him. Real jazz in a real jazz freak’s club.

It’s a whole other vibe at the Foundry, on Melrose of all places, where Fridays and Saturdays is about kids going nuts, pushing things. It’s always bassist Matt Cory’s trio, and generally the astonishing imagination and sheer ballsiness of Zach Harmon on the traps…on Friday Gary Fukushima is at the upright and—get this—on Saturday it’s  veterans Larry Goldings with the incredibly sympathetic Bob Sheppard on sax…these guys both have such advanced concepts about the things that can be done with a melody, but it never screams or scares people . The crowd is young (with women at a jazz spot!) and there’s no minimum but you cheap jazz nerds ought to buy a drink and a grilled cheese ferchrissakes. Help keep the happenings happening. And you know…talk to the jazz kids here and you’ll discover a whole scene in this town you never even knew existed….names and places new to anyone older than 30, and killer chops. 

A lot of that scene seems to be popping up at Rocco’s latest spot, the Café Metropol. There is a smallish cover here, but the east are great and beers varied and the room has a kind of intimacy that makes it ideal for, like,  dating…the place won’t scare anyone from the office you talked into going out with you.  Sometimes the music might—Rocco likes a lot of fringier stuff, which is fine for a lot of us, but not for many of those that know us. Saturday’s a great bet, though—Nick Mancini is back, and he can charm his way through the most intense arrangements, and man what a vibes player. Another downtown spot on Fridays and Saturdays is the high ceilinged bar at the Biltmore…all that space up there takes from the volume, but bands seem to dig the room and there’s a pretty varied, friendly crowd.  No cover, no minimum. No eats either. Which just lets you save more money…. Anyway, trumpeter Elliott Caine is there on Friday and he’s been on a post-bop tear lately—the Lee Morgan is still there, but Lee wasn’t all cornbread, and Caine and crew seem to head in that Search For a New Land direction too, if you can dig that. (He’s also at the Lighthouse in Hermosa Beach on Thursday…and such a deal that room is. A great—and historic venue, back to what, the 40’s? the 50’s?)

Then there’s good and reasonable restaurants that happen to have good jazz in there on occasion, and if you are into solid fifties hard bop and straight ahead you are in luck. Out in Sierra Madre the very family friendly Café 322 has the splendid Donavan Muradian Quintet. They have that Jazz Messengers thing down (and check out Donavan’s tom work), from Chuck Manning inventive distinctive tenor work (though his primary source, Joe Henderson, never did the obligatory stint in Blakey’s batalion) to Kye Palmer’s dulcet, gorgeous trumpet sound. Their Live at the 322 from a couple years ago was ridiculously solid (check out “Whisper Not”). Great stuff, great pasta, reasonable fare, no cover and just a quick jaunt up the 210.  No city traffic at all. Now more good eats—American heavy—will accompany that other local outfit that has hard bop thing down: The CJS Quntet. Chuck Johnson’s tenor is martini dry and always on the mark, while Houston Texas’s Smitty Smith just oozes blues and Pops. Great pairing. Kirk Silsbee once compared them to the classic Max Roach-Clifford Brown Sextet (which says something about Smitty’s playing, huh?), and this makes this a great if higher calorie follow up to Friday’s dinner with the DMQ.

Of course head west out of Hollywood and things begin to empty the wallet a lot faster. Like up in Brentwood, if you haven’t got the bread you shouldn’t even think about eating at Vibrato. I mean, look at them waitresses….they don’t waste them pushing hamburgers to bums like us. Nope, they are for the power diners. But don’t let all that hot air fool you (and it’s a LOT…you don’t make it big on that end of town, apparently, by being quiet)…it dissipates into boozy, overfed murmur after a couple sets, and enough jazz fans have slipped in by then to transform the place into a serious jazz gig. The bar might be full of rich people crying into their fruity Belgian imported beer because their portfolios have blown all over Wall Street but there’s no minimum so just grab one of the strong drinks and a seat somewhere and dig Chuck Manning again—-he’s there Saturday, and he stretches more here than in the DMQ, and quite beyond the whole Buhaina thing…and if you’re lucky it’s John Campbell on the piano and man does that cat swing in the classic sense. Sometimes for a minute it’s like Bud Powell (let alone Monk) never happened. Which can be very refreshing sometimes. Go listen for yourself.

Oh yeah, we’ve received word of  some Thursday night jazz craziness that’s erupted without warning at TiGeorges Chicken on Glendale Ave (just south  of Temple) in Echo Park. It’s the Haitian place, but no compas on jazz night…instead we have the Tom McNalley Trio with saxist John Gross. Hot damn. So what there’s no beer. Drink enough of their coffee and you be hightailing up Glendale to leap into the Lake. It’s safer in there. Repomen are scared of geese, you can’t hear the news, and no brokers can jump that far from any of those gleaming towers just down Temple.  We’ll survive this, you know. Just hang in there, and let the music purge the shit at least once a week. Go out for a late night listening to some of our exceptional jazz talent. Hang onto every last note till they turn off the lights and clear everyone out. Let those final progressions, the last traces of that the melody that fade to breath out in a pair of suspended notes, tenor chords that dissipate to air, follow you all the way home, bouncing around inside your head. Let it lullaby you to sleep. And do sleep. Hearing good jazz’ll do you more good than you know, and you can always worry about the end times in the morning. People will be praying for everybody in all the churches, bankers will to to keep your money from disappearing, brokers will flutter and panic. Even presidential candidates sit scared stiff.  But try this…pull out A Love Supreme in a still, dark room. Let it jam. Sit tight, pillows help. Herbals too. Get all the way through, ride it with John Coltrane. How many revolutions and wars and riots and assassinations and recessions and disasters has it withstood?

Osama’s Dead

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(Brick’s Picks, LA Weekly—what appeared in print was radically copy-edited thank god. Not sure which of these I turned in, or maybe I turned in another draft. This was early May, 2011 and I had quit the week before but the paper said I’d be back the following week but my heart wasn’t in it. I just hated writing Brick’s Picks by this point. Eventually split the end of July when yet another editor came aboard and I just didn’t feel like dealing with another editor. I was a prick about it, one of those take this job and shove it things that left the poor bastard  bewildered and sending me the proper rules of pronunciation. Ya wanna stay on my good side you don’t send me the proper rules of pronunciation, especially after I’d already quit….Oh, the line about drinking myself into a coma is a lie.)

So Sunday night we’re writing this column, snickering, feeling pretty good. We flip on the TV and some newscaster’s babbling, just beside himself with excitement. Osama’s dead, Osama’s dead, Osama’s dead. The foreign correspondent agreed. Osama’s dead. The experts chimed in. Osama’s dead. The kids singing the national anthem outside the White House chimed in. Osama’s dead. The people in New York City agreed. Osama was dead, so dead. And we looked at our column, and it was dead. Every single writer and blogger looked at what they were typing and said the same damn thing: Osama’s dead. So every gardening and fishing and bondage and music and political column written Monday morning says Osama’s dead. But just to be different we’ll just stick with what we wrote and hope no one notices.    

But we’ll keep it short. We apologized for skipping last week. The Kings got knocked out of the NHL playoffs, you see, and we drank ourselves into a coma. We’ll get ‘em next season. We mentioned talking with late great L.A. jazz jock Chuck Niles about the L.A. Kings. He said we’ll get ‘em next season. Segued into his funeral. It got quite poignant here. Then back to jazz and drinking whiskey and it almost made sense. Then it went off the deep end about hockey and jazz. It’d take too long to explain now, but basically we like to listen to crazy hard ass jazz while watching hockey.  Crazier the better. The logic got pretty tenuous from then on. We somehow mentioned AC/DC and jazz critics and chasing Mingus with an ax all in one sentence. Claimed we thought of that next to the stage one night at Charlie O’s. We did, actually, but never mind. Then we wrote a bunch of stuff about jazz and fucking shit up, as Donald Trump might put it. Though we didn’t say Trump, just “a leading Republican presidential contender”. It was very topical. That’s what we were snickering at when they told us Osama’s dead. So never mind. Here’s some shows, though. 

Take 2:

So last night we’re typing up this column, snickering, feeling pretty good. Then a bus driver calls. Brick—turn on the TV—they got Obama. He sounded excited. Bus drivers never sound excited. So we flipped on the TV and there, where Donald Trump should have been, some newscaster was babbling, just beside himself with excitement.  Mama done took him to Disneyland. Osama’s dead, Osama’s dead, Osama’s dead. The foreign correspondent agreed. Osama’s dead. The experts chimed in. Osama’s dead. The kids singing the national anthem outside the White House chimed in. Osama’s dead. The people in New York City agreed. Osama was dead, so dead. And we looked at our column, and it was dead. Every single writer and every single blogger looked at what they were typing and said the same damn thing. Osama’s dead. And every single gardening and fishing and bondage and music and political column written this morning says Osama’s dead. Which of course means we can’t. So we’ll just stick with what we wrote and hope no one notices.    

Unfortunately we already wasted space telling you Osama’s dead. So we’ll run through what we wrote. We opened by apologizing for skipping last week. Said the Kings got knocked out of the NHL playoffs and we drank ourselves into a coma. Said we’ll get ‘em next season. Then went on about talking to legendary L.A. jazz deejay with Chuck Niles about the L.A. Kings.  He said we’ll get ‘em next season. The about his funeral. It got quite poignant here. Then we went on about the L.A. Kings and jazz and drinking whiskey and it almost made sense. Then it went off the deep end about hockey and jazz. It’d take too long to explain now, but basically we like to listen to crazy hard ass jazz while listening to hockey.  Crazier the better. The logic got pretty tenuous from then on. We somehow mentioned AC/DC and jazz critics and chasing Mingus with an ax all in one sentence. Claimed we thought of that sipping whiskey next to the stage one night at Charlie O’s. We did actually, but never mind. Then we wrote a bunch of stuff about fucking shit up, as Donald Trump might put it. Though we didn’t say Trump, just “a leading Republican presidential contender”. It was very topical. That’s what we were snickering at when the bus driver called and told us Osama’s dead. So never mind. Here’s some shows, though.

Playboy Jazz Festival

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[from a Brick’s Picks in the LA Weekly]

We had a helluva weekend at the Playboy Jazz Festival. There was some great jazz, and killer funk, and Eddie Palmieri was so freaking great he blew our minds. Jackson Brown even read an awful poem. Finally Buddy Guy had people getting naked everywhere, even some critics we won’t mention. We were humming along and writing this column when a conga line driven mad by the jungle beat went berserk and burst into the press section, scattering reporters and papers and setting laptops on fire. We lost everything. Even our parasol. But someone handed us some rolling papers and we managed to scrawl some quick notes:

Oscar Hernandez & the LA-NY Connection are at Vitello’s on Thursday. Hernandez plays such mean piano with those perfect solos for great Latin jazz, and saxist Justo Almario and bassist Rene Camacho are also in this smoking band. As good a follow up to the Eddie Palmieri set at Playboy as you’ll find this week. Maybe you remember Hernandez winning a pair of Grammy’s for his Spanish Harlem Orchestra (who have a local gig coming up, too—details next week.) And like Eddie Palmieri, Oscar Hernandez is pissed as hell about the Grammy’s deciding there’s no such thing as Latin Jazz. But we talked about that in another article.

The Lighthouse in Hermosa Beach is about as historic as a jazz spot can get in this town. It still cooks on weekends in 11 a.m.-3 p.m. slot, but ya gotta get up sometime. This weekend there’s a pair of drummer led combos reflecting two great LA jazz traditions. On Saturday Donald Dean’s quartet features tenor George Harper and bassist Nedra Wheeler, a musical genealogy that can be traced a couple generations back to Central Avenue, through a lot of Trane feeling, and a looser, bluesier bop. On Sunday it’s the classic west coast jazz sound that once called the Lighthouse home. The drummer is scene veteran Dick Weller, with some nice horns up front—saxist Tom Peterson, trumpeter Clay Jenkins and trombonist Ira Nepus. Lotsa bop too, but with some very tight and well read ensemble skills. It’s summer in Hermosa Beach and the scenery outside is gorgeous, and 11 a.m. is a perfect time for the hair of the dog that bit you the night before. And we were going to wax poetic here but were invited to Hef’s big band orgy backstage.

Later in the press box sipping champagne and nibbling caviar we thought about how Charlie O’s is in the middle of the boring old San Fernando Valley where there’s no scenery at all. We’ve looked. But inside they have killer sax cat Charles Owens on Friday, backed by the John Heard Trio. Owens’ sax playing is a joy. Without aping Trane he nails him, he runs crazy around all the fifties and sixties greats, plays mean blues and some fine originals, too. We could go on about him forever and would have too but got distracted as a smooth jazz set turned into bloody fist fight in the middle of “Feeling So Good”. Cosby tried to break it up and got beaned by a soprano saxophone. Hef finally called in his security girls and things settled down. But just as we were about to tell you about the brilliant pianist Theo Saunders being at Charlie O’s on Thursday, we were knocked unconscious by a beach ball.

After Hef’s personal nurses revived us with smelling salts and feathers we remembered that pianist Josh Nelson is at the Blue Whale on Saturday. Nelson has that kind of  refined graceful style and you could imagine him saying the hell with all this and switching to Chopin permanently without missing a beat. Problem is he just thrives on improvisation (you should see him cut loose on a boozy weekend night at the Foundry), and the blend of that European melodic structure and the jazz-going-nuts stuff and very original compositions does it for us. He has a nice quartet with him—guitarist Larry Koonse, bassist Dave Robaire and drummer Dan Schnelle. A good one. And on Wednesday Wynton Marsalis and the Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra are at the Hollywood Bowl. No one gets naked at Wynton’s gigs, and beach balls are removed by security, but we love his trumpet playing, it’s drop dead gorgeous on ballads, hot as hell when the band is cooking. Best of all saxman Joe Lovano is featured. Very highly recommended.  And two great jazz nights at the Café 322 in Sierra Madre this week, with the always recommended saxist Javier Vergara on Wednesday and trumpeter Elliott Caine’s quintet on Thursday. Caine always rocks this joint. Both nights will be solid jazz at a great venue. No cover.

OK, that’s it. We did have a whole bunch more picks written down as usual, we swear, but we took them to the Playboy Jazz Festival and someone ate them. Or smoked them. Or rubbed them all over their body. Something. Jazz fans are scary sometimes.

Bob Sheppard at Hollywood and Highland

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(2012)
 
Hey y’all….if ya wanna hear a great saxophonist, I mean a seriously great saxophonist up there with all the seriously great saxophonists, then check out Bob Sheppard at Hollywood and Highland tonight (that is, Tuesday, July 24). It’s a free gig, 7-9 pm, in that trippy interior courtyard with the Intolerance elephants overhead and tourists everywhere, shuffling and staring and wearing stupid tee shirts they picked up on the Boulevard. It’s utter madness outside, demented superheroes and people who will never wash their hands again after touching John Wayne’s bootprints and once we saw a police chase at 5 mph, a hundred police cars with lights flashing proceeding ever so slowly down Hollywood Boulevard and the lady running out of gas right there in front of the Chinese Theatre and tourists rushing into the street to touch her car and as she emerged cops pleaded through bullhorns for the people to stay clear of the vehicle, the suspect might be armed, but it was Day of the Locust, baby, nothing could stop grandma from getting that photo. The suspect emerged, unarmed, exhausted, and laid down on the pavement. Superman rushed into the street to pose in front of the scene. Metropolis was safe from evil again.  A Michael Jackson impersonator moonwalked past. Spiderman watched, then slunk into the shot.
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Inside the courtyard just steps away all was bliss. I can’t remember exactly who was playing (might have been the Clayton Brothers) but the music swinging, the wine good, the vibe perfect. The music is almost always swinging, the wine good, the vibe perfect. Or at least fun. Bob Sheppard is one of my favorite sax players in this town, and when he launches into a solo the melody goes places I can’t follow because it’s so over my head but I love every second of it, I just wait till he comes flying back into the head and you can hear the tune again. That is the art of improvisation, man, a very swinging improvisation. He always has the best players, too, heavy cats, dudes on his level.  Basically, there’ll be two sets worth of state of the art jazz, and he may or may not make it easier for the folks to dig, who knows, but it ought to be the real thing, pure and unadulterated and uncompromising. We’ll see if he takes it outside for the folks. Maybe he’ll take it outside for the folks outside, wander out to the Boulevard blowing those crazy scales for Spiderman and the Michael Jackson guys. I’d pay to see that. But wouldn’t have to because it’s free.
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I wonder what ever happened to that car chase lady. It was the most pathetic car chase I ever saw. I mean you could have pushed that car faster, all its tires punctured, and gas running out right there where just a couple weeks before giant inflatable robots stood for some movie premiere. I remember we came out onto Hollywood Blvd after a one of these Tuesday night gigs  and saw them, looming. Then around the corner there was another giant inflatable robot in reserve, just in case. Just in case what I’ll never know.
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Anyway, we’ll be there tonite. You don’t see Bob Sheppard’s kinda jazz that often anymore, at least not outdoors in front of God and everybody. It’s mostly singers doing standards nowadays. That’s what people want, singers doing standards. It’s comforting. Me, I like an edge sometimes. Well, most of the time. Anyway, if you ain’t doing nothing head over to Hollywood and Highland tonite. Hell, it’s free. Parking is three bucks, cheap. A ten spot will get you two glasses of wine and a mess of cheese and crackers and fruit, or just sneak in some hooch and save the bread. The night will be gorgeous and you can hang and listen and talk and check out the ladies, so I’m told.
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And say hi to Spiderman.  Actually, don’t. You’ll have to give him money.

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Mike Melvoin

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(from the International Review of Music, 2012)

I got a few wonderful emails from Mike Melvoin over the years. Beautiful things.  He wrote just as he talked, which is my favorite kind of writing, and then talked a lot like he played. Jazz players write the coolest emails sometimes, just perfect little written things, honest and funny and down to the bone true.  Anyway, this was the last one I got from Mike Melvoin. He was responding to my first Keeping It Real post. As usual, I was incapable of saying something intelligent in return. I get so flustered when a jazz master writes anything back, I don’t know what to say and I don’t think I said anything in reply to Mike except maybe a thanks. I had no idea he was so sick. You can’t tell from what he wrote here.  It’s from Jan 20th, just a month before he died.

Here’s what Mike wrote:

Dead on, Brick!

I pass along a couple of defining ideas to the occasional student I meet.

First: “The only thing more important than having a good time is having good time.”

And the former is dependent on the latter. The core purpose of our music hasn’t changed since we were hired to grease up Saturday night. If we achieved that, the music had a healthy fan base. If we put some other purpose in front, the fan base was sure to desert us as you are so right in observing. Those of us players who fire the blood pulse with the historic language of the blues put asses in seats. Not just geriatric or academic ones but across the board asses who come to us to feel good. 

And second: “There are no points for being admired, only for being believed.” 

I don’t do this to be thought of as a good player. I do this to get those who hear me to feel as good as I do.  Jazz well played is a physical music first and foremost.  Thank you for the much needed reminder.

Hoping your Saturday night is delicious and our music helped make it so.

Best,

Mike Melvoin

That last line says it all.  No wonder everyone’s missing him.  Very sorry to see him go.

I have trouble thinking in lists

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(2009 ten best list for All About Jazz. Never wrote another.)

Man, I have trouble thinking in lists, by best ofs, certainly in tens! Oh well. Here goes…these are things that came out this past year (2009).  I like a lot today, but my opinions shift all the time…..

Jacob Fred Jazz Odyssey One Day In Brooklyn (Kinnara)

Lanny Morgan Sextet 6 (ACM)

David Murray & the Gwo Ka Masters The Devil Tried To Kill Me (Justin Time)

Alex Cline Continuation (Cryptogramophone)

Art Pepper The Art History Project: Unreleased Art Volume IV (Widow’s Taste)

John Beasley Positootly! (Resonance)

Branford Marsalis Quartet Metamorphosen (Marsalis Music)

Josh Nelson Let It Go (Native Language)

Miguel Zenon Esta Plena (Marsalis Music)

Reptet Agendacide 7″ single (Monktail)

Fuck, I could tossed in a half dozen more easy.

Sorry but I don’t really get any reissues or boxsets, one or two  a year maybe, not on the right lists I suppose. And I am so horribly bad about keeping up with the jazz press I never have a clue what’s out. I subscribed to Downbeat for a year and all twelve issues are sitting on my desk, their ages shiny and unmarred by my prying eyes. I’ll flip through them one of these days.

Anyway, hope that list passes muster.

I’m not stoned anymore

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Interview with your’s truly, 2010. It was at LACMA, apparently a Bobby Bradford gig.

Stack of records from the Goodwill

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(Brick’s Picks, LA Weekly, 2008)

And then there’s that stack of records from the Goodwill. Apparently granddad died, and his beloved album collection wound up in the collection box. Hundreds of pristine swing records, a buck each…a good half of which now lie in stacks here by the stereo. Oh the wife was thrilled…. But listening to all this Basie and Duke and Lunceford and Goodman and Artie Shaw and Woody Herman (three Herd’s worth) we’re just struck (well I am, the wife has fled to the other half of the house) by the driving swing. This stuff simply rocked. It’s no wonder kids went nuts. Be bop, that didn’t rock. It went berserk, but it didn’t do that primal rocking thing, it didn’t swing. And Trane can ascend you to jazz nirvana (A Love Supreme does it everytime) but it doesn’t rock. You can’t dance to it. You go into any jazz club in town and there’s nothing to dance to. There’s no get down groove. There are exceptions—John Heard can get people out of their seats when he digs deep into some Eddie Harris, but that’s John Heard. And the Gerald Wilson Orchestra drives people nuts…but then Gerald Wilson is an old swing Cat (started with Lunceford, in fact.) And of course there’s all the Latin jazzers…but that is a gloriously different thing entirely. But jazz, our beloved life affirming local jazz cats, the ones we’re forever going on and on about…they’re not about grooving at all. Not like body grooving. Think of poetry, beautiful, skilled and often fulfilling stuff, but Jesus, who reads it? Other poets mostly, plus some English majors, artists, and a few other oddities. But for most of us, it’s just not fun to read. And for most people, jazz in all its post swing glory, is just not much fun to listen to. Unlike Seun Kuti, or Malian music, or a stack of old swing LP‘s. But for the jazz musicians and music majors and artists and assorted other oddities, the people who come back from Goodwill with boxes of records, who understand in our own strange way just why this pure jazz is so damn good, here’s  a few picks for a slow holiday week….

Ten Best lists

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(ranting email, 2007)

Ya know, personally I hate these ten best lists. I never know whet the fuck is the best. And I’m not on any major label lists so I don’t get any of the Verve or Blue Note or Prestige or Disney jazz reissues anyway. So i just try and find cool stuff I got this year that says 2007 and pick ten of them and write them in a list and send it in. Those All About Jazz people make me nervous anyway [they do not….]. I mean I like their paper and all (well, I did when my eyes could read 4 point type), but all these jazz expert guys are so goddamned serious and detailed and fanatical and opinionated. They start talking and I get lost completely. And once Greg Burk told me that someone asked that I go to a jazz journalist (excuse me, Jazz Journalist) awards thing. Holy fucking shit I was bored. I’d been all day at the Central Ave Festival listening to all this righteous music and hanging with cool, fun people and getting burned to a fucking skin cinder and suddenly I’m at this event with shitty food, no booze (Coronas?!?!?), a very boring band and all these dull, pale people. For christ fucking sake. None of them were even stoned. None of them probably get stoned. None of them probably ever had been stoned. If they smoked dope maybe they’s lossen up a little. Nope….instead they’re home with their box sets and reissues and carefully cataloged vinyl collections and record cleaner kits and turgid jazz liner notes and turgider jazz history volumes by some elmer phd with all their Amoeba bags neatly folded and tucked for future use. And they never hit the local clubs becuase I never see their sorry asses out anywhere but there they are bitching about how there’s no good jazz anymore….

Two things about Thelonious Monk and inspired by Dr. Seuss.

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(One night in the year 2000 I was listening to Theolonious Monk and reading Dr. Seuss….)

Misterioso

Smoke up and curled and
furled ‘round the piano man
chording, sorting, courting a melody.
By a bare bulbed light a sax man glistened,
listened,
blows low, something slow, out of flow.
I said so.
Man at the bar says “No no no—
Just listen!
He’s not missin’ the rhythm!
He’s with ‘em.  Always was, ‘cus
the music is there in the air…”

I disagreed.
Oh c’mon—there’s sound all around,
And noise…

“And notes and chords and music, man—
It’s like math or philosophy, doncha see?”

Oh man he’s swacked…
but I asked
you mean all abstract?

“No no jack!
The sounds are real,
a sound you can feel…”
Then he reeled and faded.
I waited.

Drank scotch.  Watched.

Piano man hummed loud as he played.  Weird cat.
I liked his hat.

We left it at that.

My friend came to.
“Bartender, another for me here and my brother”.
I asked for one for the piano playing cat.
“He likes his hat”
Bartender eyes:  wise guys.
“Thanks.”
We drank.

I walked up the drink.
Piano man nodded,
playing shards of melody from tunes long forgotten.
Some Tin Pan Alley, a nuclear blues.
The sax somehow came in on cue
Leaving me in the dark—
(or was it the booze?)
He looked up.
I said
I like your hat.
He said “Thank you”,
and that was that.

When suddenly the music fell into place,
filling out space,
a melody parsed is a melody whole
and it all became so misterioso….

Just like the drunk had said.

Blue Monk

Blue Monk
and I’m drunk–
What you gonna do?
Lissen to that piano,
man,
the guy in the hat,
he’ll dance,
he’s in a trance…
That’s blue blue blue
Monk to you.
And I’m drunk, too.
Blow man blow, blow that ax.
Bass man’s walking, talking
to the drummer
who chatters back
on the ride.
Hey Bartender! Another!
and something on the side.
Lissen to that piano man,
that arpeggio–
hey where’d you go?
I’m talking to you!
That’s Blue Monk up there!
And I’m drunk, too.

(12-12-00)

(That was the last time I mixed Thelonious Monk, Theodore Geisel and Thurlow Weed.)