4 During a freewheeling half-hour interview that serves as a bonus feature on this DVD, Miles Davis is asked a number of questions regarding the controversy that has often surrounded his music. Somewhat dubious of the interviewer’s intent, Davis defensively dismisses it as a concern only of critics (white critics in particular). His explanation: “I bought a bottle of Campbell’s soup and I jazzed it up a little bit; that’s what they say in the U.S.A.” That head-scratcher is, in a way, emblematic of the music that comprises the main segment of the program, a live performance recorded in Germany in 1987: As oblique as it is, it sort of makes sense. The concert—most of the material taken from the albums <I>You’re Under Arrest</I> and <I>Tutu</I>—exhibits all of the dichotomies that marked late-period Miles, a time when Davis and his bands might, within the same show, produce exhilarating, highly charged funk jams, dark and mysterious blues and syrupy sweet, empty-calorie schmaltz. Ironically, it’s the latter category, personified here by Davis’ take on the Cyndi Lauper hit “Time After Time,” that most pleases the German audience, despite its near-total dearth of sparks. By that time, the octet has already whipped through a scorching introductory medley of “One Phone Call,” “Street Scenes” and “That’s What Happened,” a pastoral “New Blues,” a brooding “Tutu” and a saccharine cover of the Michael Jackson vehicle “Human Nature.” But one gets the impression that the reason “Time After Time” receives the most enthusiastic ovation is because it’s the first time during the show that Davis has soloed at any appreciable length—and soloed in an accessible manner. The audience is finally getting what it paid for. Characteristically aloof, hunched over with trumpet bell at his knees, Davis, the perpetual mystery man, spends most of the gig with his back turned to the audience. He leaves the heavy lifting to a young Kenny Garrett on sax and flute, the rhythm section (bassist Darryl Jones cooks) and, especially, Joseph “Foley” McCreary, who plays a modified four-string bass that allows him to fill the role of lead guitarist and shred with the best of ’em. Not until the final tune, the regal ballad “Portia,” does Miles truly acknowledge his audience, walking over to the lip of the stage and delivering his meatiest solos of the show. They’ve all risen from their seats by then, and although he hasn’t uttered a word to them all night, and would never acknowledge the adoration verbally, it’s not hard to see that, under his shades, Davis is basking. true 10422 2009-10-03T13:31:54-04:00 false 25116 175 true 22 2009-10-01T00:00:00-04:00

During a freewheeling half-hour interview that serves as a bonus feature on this DVD, Miles Davis is asked a number of questions regarding the controversy that has often surrounded his music. Somewhat dubious of the interviewer’s intent, Davis defensively dismisses it as a concern only of critics (white critics in particular). His explanation: “I bought a bottle of Campbell’s soup and I jazzed it up a little bit; that’s what they say in the U.S.A.” That head-scratcher is, in a way, emblematic of the music that comprises the main segment of the program, a live performance recorded in Germany in 1987: As oblique as it is, it sort of makes sense. The concert—most of the material taken from the albums You’re Under Arrest and Tutu —exhibits all of the dichotomies that marked late-period Miles, a time when Davis and his bands might, within the same show, produce exhilarating, highly charged funk jams, dark and mysterious blues and syrupy sweet, empty-calorie schmaltz. Ironically, it’s the latter category, personified here by Davis’ take on the Cyndi Lauper hit “Time After Time,” that most pleases the German audience, despite its near-total dearth of sparks. By that time, the octet has already whipped through a scorching introductory medley of “One Phone Call,” “Street Scenes” and “That’s What Happened,” a pastoral “New Blues,” a brooding “Tutu” and a saccharine cover of the Michael Jackson vehicle “Human Nature.” But one gets the impression that the reason “Time After Time” receives the most enthusiastic ovation is because it’s the first time during the...

2009-10-12T11:06:26-04:00

4 While peers and critics have no qualms about equating her with Ella, Sarah and Billie, Anita O’Day’s passing in 2006 at age 87 was met with relatively little fanfare by the mainstream media, which is all the more reason to savor this engrossing documentary. O’Day’s gifts as a vocalist were unassailable. Preferring the word “stylist” to “singer,” she was a master of expression, timing and phrasing whose improvisational skills matched any of the instrumentalists with whom she was allied. In myriad performance clips, stretching back to the ’40s and threaded throughout the program, O’Day continually dazzles. Her 1958 Newport reading of “Sweet Georgia Brown” may be the definitive take on that chestnut, and she didn’t just front Gene Krupa and Roy Eldridge at the start of her career—she outshone them. But O’Day’s musical aptitude was always overshadowed by her considerable personal troubles, and directors Robbie Cavolina and Ian McCrudden neither whitewash nor overplay the soap-opera-esque trajectory of her life, as she survived jail time and abortion, failed marriages, alcohol abuse and a two-decade, widely reported heroin addiction instigated and enabled by her longtime drummer John Poole. O’Day, in interview segments conducted both during her prime and late in life, is matter-of-fact about those experiences, recounting them in a feisty, boisterous tone. “That’s the way it went down,” she says at one point, and there’s no sense of regret when she says it. Through all of the tumult she was never a quitter, and her durability and resilience are remarkable. Accordingly, the obligatory commentary by critics and associates—from Will Friedwald to Annie Ross to Gerald Wilson—is nearly all upbeat and supportive. While no one condones her behavior, there’s a general consensus that O’Day turned her problems into strengths. Unlike, say, Billie Holiday, there’s no indication that O’Day’s addiction debilitated her; even at her most strung-out, O’Day’s chops were seemingly unaffected. And the fact that—having long ago left the drugs and other craziness behind—she was still performing (albeit with diminished vocal capabilities) until shortly before her death is a testament to her iron will. A second DVD includes uninterrupted performance clips and interview outtakes, and a deluxe edition comes with a hardcover book stuffed with photocopies of hundreds of original reviews and articles from O’Day’s prime years. It’s well worth the additional cost. true 10422 2009-10-03T13:41:30-04:00 true 25117 175 true 22 2009-10-01T00:00:00-04:00

While peers and critics have no qualms about equating her with Ella, Sarah and Billie, Anita O’Day’s passing in 2006 at age 87 was met with relatively little fanfare by the mainstream media, which is all the more reason to savor this engrossing documentary. O’Day’s gifts as a vocalist were unassailable. Preferring the word “stylist” to “singer,” she was a master of expression, timing and phrasing whose improvisational skills matched any of the instrumentalists with whom she was allied. In myriad performance clips, stretching back to the ’40s and threaded throughout the program, O’Day continually dazzles. Her 1958 Newport reading of “Sweet Georgia Brown” may be the definitive take on that chestnut, and she didn’t just front Gene Krupa and Roy Eldridge at the start of her career—she outshone them. But O’Day’s musical aptitude was always overshadowed by her considerable personal troubles, and directors Robbie Cavolina and Ian McCrudden neither whitewash nor overplay the soap-opera-esque trajectory of her life, as she survived jail time and abortion, failed marriages, alcohol abuse and a two-decade, widely reported heroin addiction instigated and enabled by her longtime drummer John Poole. O’Day, in interview segments conducted both during her prime and late in life, is matter-of-fact about those experiences, recounting them in a feisty, boisterous tone. “That’s the way it went down,” she says at one point, and there’s no sense of regret when she says it. Through all of the tumult she was never a quitter, and her durability and resilience are remarkable. Accordingly, the obligatory commentary by critics and...

2009-10-22T09:06:57-04:00

4 Freddie Hubbard was just coming out of his Columbia Records period when he taped these two half-hour sessions for the Ad Lib TV show in either 1980 or ’81 (the notes say the former, the credits say the latter). His last recordings for that label had been deservedly the most maligned of the trumpeter’s career, leaning toward fake funk and overarranged fluff. But Hubbard blows seriously at these gigs—as he frequently did in a live setting, no matter what his latest LP sounded like. And blow he does. While the incendiary invention of Hubbard’s Blue Note work of the ’60s has been tempered, there are more than a few moments here when his soloing is inspired and his leadership unquestionable. Hub comes out grooving on the opening “UK Forty,” and goes out burning on the even more furious “UK Forty-One,” his jittery, fast-fingered runs practically forcing a gasp. On the ballads, particularly “Love Connection” and the midtempo “One of a Kind,” Hub is sweet and soulful, spilling out a flood of birdlike trills. Shifting to a higher register mid-song he ups the ante, goading his bandmates. Keyboardist Billy Childs unexpectedly exits the melody and turns toward something vaguely Asian yet oddly fitting, while drummer Steve Houghton’s short solo is full of power and assurance. The band is worthy of commendation. The superb Childs, still in his early 20s, is enough of a major contributor that he probably should have received co-billing; his inventive solos and thoughtfully constructed accompaniment put muscle behind Hubbard’s leads. Larry Klein (soon to become Mr. Joni Mitchell) would go on to become one of the most prolific bassists on the jazz and rock scene, and here he shows why: He’s always in the pocket and knows when and how to move things forward unobtrusively. On “First Light,” the title track of one of Hubbard’s more durable ’70s albums for CTI, the entire quintet syncs up masterfully, Hubbard practically breaking into dance as Childs, on Rhodes, slashes through a series of bold chords and the rhythm section riffs along freely. Whatever he thought of his own recent output, Hubbard was clearly enjoying himself here. true 10422 2009-10-03T13:44:33-04:00 false 25118 175 true 22 2009-10-01T00:00:00-04:00

Video of late trumpeter from 1981 showcases his remarkable chops and musicality.

2009-10-12T11:05:23-04:00

4 By 1968 the big bands were supposedly dead, but someone forgot to tell that to Count Basie, whose orchestra, still going strong, hadn’t altered much of anything since its heyday. Although most of the key members of the classic lineups had either passed on or moved on (notable exception: guitarist Freddie Green, wrapping up his third decade with Basie), this complete set from Berlin and a briefer segment from Stockholm may offer the most comprehensive visual record available of Basie working an audience. As bandleader and pianist, Basie’s skills had not dissipated. Relaxed, gracious and exuding class, Basie alternately peels out commanding, bluesy solos then cedes to his musicians, among them tenor saxophonist Eddie “Lockjaw” Davis, filling the chair once held by Lester Young. Trumpet newcomer Oscar Brashear is another dynamo, and a young Marlena Shaw turns “Muddy Water Blues” into a soul showstopper and navigates the tempo changes of “On a Clear Day” like a seasoned diva. Another new arrival, drummer Harold Jones, swings like a wildman, pulling out the stops on Sam Nestico’s “The Magic Flea.” While the band’s performance is laudable, the video and audio quality of the black-and-white recording falls somewhere between lo-fi and lower-fi. Grainy and out-of-focus, it resembles a kinescope of a long-lost episode of a ’50s TV program. Also, the five-song Stockholm portion of the program, taped only three days after the Berlin gig, comes off as filler, offering only one number, Neal Hefti’s “Splanky,” not included in the German show. Nonetheless, as a historical document, and for the opportunity to witness a full-length Count Basie concert, the disc is worth a look. true 10422 2009-04-20T14:57:25-04:00 false 24678 174 true 110 2009-05-01T00:00:00-04:00

By 1968 the big bands were supposedly dead, but someone forgot to tell that to Count Basie, whose orchestra, still going strong, hadn’t altered much of anything since its heyday. Although most of the key members of the classic lineups had either passed on or moved on (notable exception: guitarist Freddie Green, wrapping up his third decade with Basie), this complete set from Berlin and a briefer segment from Stockholm may offer the most comprehensive visual record available of Basie working an audience. As bandleader and pianist, Basie’s skills had not dissipated. Relaxed, gracious and exuding class, Basie alternately peels out commanding, bluesy solos then cedes to his musicians, among them tenor saxophonist Eddie “Lockjaw” Davis, filling the chair once held by Lester Young. Trumpet newcomer Oscar Brashear is another dynamo, and a young Marlena Shaw turns “Muddy Water Blues” into a soul showstopper and navigates the tempo changes of “On a Clear Day” like a seasoned diva. Another new arrival, drummer Harold Jones, swings like a wildman, pulling out the stops on Sam Nestico’s “The Magic Flea.” While the band’s performance is laudable, the video and audio quality of the black-and-white recording falls somewhere between lo-fi and lower-fi. Grainy and out-of-focus, it resembles a kinescope of a long-lost episode of a ’50s TV program. Also, the five-song Stockholm portion of the program, taped only three days after the Berlin gig, comes off as filler, offering only one number, Neal Hefti’s “Splanky,” not included in the German show. Nonetheless, as a historical document, and for the...

2009-04-23T11:41:19-04:00

4 By most accounts, Coleman Hawkins was no longer an innovator by the 1960s. Although he is often credited with having virtually invented jazz saxophone in the ’20s during his tenure with Fletcher Henderson, Hawkins had since been eclipsed by the likes of Parker, Coltrane and that other Coleman, Ornette. But that doesn’t mean the man couldn’t still blow, and this collection of in-concert and live-in-studio sessions filmed during Hawkins’ final decade—he died in 1969, at age 64—makes for some thrilling musical and visual moments. Of course it didn’t hurt that Hawkins still attracted high-caliber collaborators. In the opening segment, a 1964 London concert, Hawkins and his band, including Harry “Sweets” Edison on trumpet and Jo Jones on drums, tear into Wardell Gray’s “Stoned” with abandon. Pianist Sir Charles Thompson and bassist Jimmy Woode soon leave the main theme behind for an outside venture that Hawk not only understands but kicks into a higher gear. “Caravan” is fired up but not flashy, and the ballads “September Song” and “Willow Weep for Me” showcase Hawkins’ and Edison’s savvy with bluesy moods. But it’s the second segment, filmed at the Royal Jazz Festival in London in ’66, that firmly establishes Hawkins’ enduring vitality. Despite a grainy picture and somewhat hissy sound—all of the films are in black and white, some offering crisper audio than others—Hawkins, altoist Benny Carter, pianist Teddy Wilson, a young Bob Cranshaw on bass and the unstoppable Louie Bellson on drums are explosive. “Disorder at the Border” is given over largely to the recently deceased Bellson, who displays in about 10 dazzling, unbroken minutes why he was one of the most celebrated skin-pounders ever. Other segments, filmed in Paris and Brussels (what appears to be a rehearsal), feature the likes of Oscar Peterson and the underrated guitarist Mickey Baker, but the absolute highlight is the 25-minute 1961 After Hours film, an insider’s peek at what’s supposed to be—but obviously isn’t—an impromptu jam in a subterranean New York club. Playing to a few stray doormen, a scantily clad cigarette girl and themselves, Hawkins, trumpeter Roy Eldridge, bassist Milt Hinton, drummer Cozy Cole and others who “just happened” to drop by, tear it up as DJ William B. Williams explains to the viewer what’s going on. The setup itself is jive, but the music is anything but. true 10422 2009-04-20T15:09:30-04:00 false 24679 174 true 110 2009-05-01T00:00:00-04:00

Late in his career, the Hawk still tore it up

2009-05-01T10:11:23-04:00

4 Casual fans of bop vocalist Mark Murphy who bring home this DVD without closely examining the list of performances are likely to be left wanting more—a lot more. Featuring two nearly 30-year-old episodes of the TV show Ad Lib, Murphy’s Mood isn’t quite what it appears to be at first glance. The cover jacket’s fine print alludes to special guest performances by trumpeters Pete and Conte Candoli, but the late siblings are represented by six performances on this hour-long disc, each arrangement enhanced by a seasoned West Coast rhythm section, while Murphy appears on just four tracks, adroitly accompanied by keyboardist Bill Mays, bassist Monty Budwig and drummer Chiz Harris. Of course, Murphy completists will take what they can get, even if it’s a brief series of performances that allow the vocalist a chance to pay harmonically tricky tribute to his heroes—Charlie Parker, King Pleasure and Sonny Stitt, among others—or to display his seductive way with a ballad. Murphy’s warmly expressive rendering of “Again” is particularly enjoyable, a romantic interlude programmed here in between vibrant takes on “Parker’s Mood” and “Farmer’s Market.” (While there are moments during the uptempo tunes when Murphy glances at a lyric sheet, the performances are nevertheless stamped by his signature harmonic agility and invention.) Hosted by the late pianist and arranger Phil Moore, these episodes showcase the Candoli brothers in a variety of quintet settings, with Ross Tompkins on piano and Joe Diorio on guitar. The most soulful performance by far, thanks in large part to Diorio’s blues shadings, is “Willow Weep for Me,” but it’s also a delight to hear the siblings trading crisp solos on the mid-tempo “Echo” or blazing in tandem on “Blue ’n’ Boogie,” with Tompkins and Diorio in hot pursuit. Audio and video have been digitally remastered, and a Murphy biography scroll is included as a bonus feature. true 110 2009-04-20T15:11:33-04:00 false 24681 174 true 110 2009-05-01T00:00:00-04:00

Casual fans of bop vocalist Mark Murphy who bring home this DVD without closely examining the list of performances are likely to be left wanting more—a lot more. Featuring two nearly 30-year-old episodes of the TV show Ad Lib, Murphy’s Mood isn’t quite what it appears to be at first glance. The cover jacket’s fine print alludes to special guest performances by trumpeters Pete and Conte Candoli, but the late siblings are represented by six performances on this hour-long disc, each arrangement enhanced by a seasoned West Coast rhythm section, while Murphy appears on just four tracks, adroitly accompanied by keyboardist Bill Mays, bassist Monty Budwig and drummer Chiz Harris. Of course, Murphy completists will take what they can get, even if it’s a brief series of performances that allow the vocalist a chance to pay harmonically tricky tribute to his heroes—Charlie Parker, King Pleasure and Sonny Stitt, among others—or to display his seductive way with a ballad. Murphy’s warmly expressive rendering of “Again” is particularly enjoyable, a romantic interlude programmed here in between vibrant takes on “Parker’s Mood” and “Farmer’s Market.” (While there are moments during the uptempo tunes when Murphy glances at a lyric sheet, the performances are nevertheless stamped by his signature harmonic agility and invention.) Hosted by the late pianist and arranger Phil Moore, these episodes showcase the Candoli brothers in a variety of quintet settings, with Ross Tompkins on piano and Joe Diorio on guitar. The most soulful performance by far, thanks in large part to Diorio’s blues shadings, is “Willow...

460 2009-09-16T12:57:08-04:00

4 Robert Mugge’s 1986 film Saxophone Colossus was widely hailed upon its release as essential viewing, not just for fans of jazz but for anyone even remotely interested in the creative process. The newest DVD incarnation, complete with Mugge’s recollections of the joys and challenges encountered during production, reaffirms the film’s many virtues. Here, after all, is a documentary that, in addition to capturing Rollins in prime form, wielding his tenor in ways that have elicited hosannas from fans and critics alike for decades on end, examines the saxophonist’s methodical approach to performing and improvising. Practice alone may take some musicians to Carnegie Hall, but as Rollins tells Mugge at one point, meditation and visualization are a big part of his pre-concert regimen. Here we also see, during an outdoors concert filmed at the Opus 40 quarry garden in upstate New York, various aspects of Rollins’ persona onstage: the full-throated improviser who seems incapable of physically exhausting himself or depleting the wealth of his ideas; the gifted dramatist, skillfully balancing emotional tension and release; the unabashed entertainer, whimsically stringing together the familiar melodies that pop into his head. (This is also the storied concert in which Rollins jumps off a six-foot stage ledge, only to end up on his back with a broken heel. The misadventure, however, doesn’t prevent him from quickly resuming the performance, albeit in a supine position.) The quintet concert footage is effectively juxtaposed with an ambitious, large-scale production: the world premiere of Rollins’ “Concerto For Tenor Saxophone and Orchestra,” performed in Tokyo by Rollins and the Yomiuri Nippon Symphony Orchestra. While it’s not as memorable as the small combo performances of “G-Man” and “Don’t Stop The Carnival,” the orchestral segment sheds light on Rollins’ diverse interests in composing and collaborating. Interspersed are vintage concert footage and chats with critics Gary Giddins, Ira Gitler and Francis Davis, who dutifully (and glowingly) opine, each providing insights and context, as does Rollins’ late wife and manager, Lucille. The final word belongs to Mugge, who gratefully dedicates the new release of this remarkable film in Lucille’s memory. true 110 2009-04-20T15:17:02-04:00 false 24683 174 true 110 2009-05-01T00:00:00-04:00

Bob Mugge's critically-acclaimed portrait of Sonny Rollins released on DVD.

43845 2009-09-16T13:10:59-04:00

4 Stuff was a group of session musicians with jazz chops who united under the less-is-more banner of the groove. The result was, in effect, one of the all-time great R&B cover acts through the 1970s. Stuff’s shifting personnel had solidified by the time it played the Montreux Jazz Festival in 1976. On the resulting live DVD and CD, guitarists Cornell Dupree and Eric Gale, keyboardist Richard Tee, bassist Gordon Edwards and drummer Steve Gadd won over a jazz audience by playing instrumental versions of hits by Stevie Wonder, Billy Preston and Earth, Wind & Fire. The separate DVD and CD versions have a nearly identical running order of songs, yet each has separate strengths and weaknesses. The CD doesn’t offer out-of-focus camera shots, or pan to the guitarist who isn’t soloing by mistake. But the DVD doesn’t feature a creative cover of the Isley Brothers’ “It’s Your Thing,” or disguise the malfunctioning microphone used by guest vocalist Odetta on Edwin Hawkins’ “Oh Happy Day.” Yet amid the misses are mostly hits, literally and figuratively. Wonder’s “Signed, Sealed, Delivered I’m Yours” features Dupree mimicking his vocals on guitar while Gale displays his stellar rhythm technique. After the guitarists trade roles, Gadd takes an unaccompanied break, and expertly shows how a drummer can solo within a rhythmic groove rather than freeform. Gale and Tee both died prematurely in the 1990s, but the keyboardist’s solos on Earth, Wind & Fire’s “That’s the Way of the World” and Preston’s “You Are So Beautiful” (a major hit for Joe Cocker) provide fitting remembrances of his gifts. Gale’s funky “How Long Will It Last” is one of the few originals in the set, and showcases his outstanding tone and tasteful soloing, aided the banner rhythm section work of Gadd and Edwards. Another Wonder gem, “Boogie On Reggae Woman,” segues into a second unaccompanied showcase for Gadd, who again shows why he’s one of the most-recorded musicians in history. Everyone in Stuff, in fact, may be on at least one recording in your collection. true 10419 2009-04-20T15:18:28-04:00 false 24684 174 true 110 2009-05-01T00:00:00-04:00

A vintage performance that both hits and misses

2009-05-08T10:45:56-04:00

4 Two skinny, Italian-American guys from New Jersey, both equipped with extraordinary pipes. One, from Hoboken, emerges as the most celebrated singer of the 20th century. The other, from Nutley, builds as long a career, performing alongside the likes of Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Parker, Charles Mingus and Peggy Lee, yet remains in relative obscurity. Why did Sinatra soar while Jackie Paris stalled? The Paris portion of the question has long fascinated Raymond De Felitta. The Oscar-nominated filmmaker discovered Paris nearly two decades ago when an L.A. jazz station played Paris’ perhaps definitive interpretation of “Skylark” from the 1954 Brunswick album of the same name. It wasn’t, however, until March 2004 that De Felitta found Paris, thanks to a New Yorker listing for what would turn out to be his final club performance, at Jazz Standard. Paris, age 77, passed away just three months later. During those intervening weeks, De Felitta lived in Paris’ pockets, capturing every chapter of his poignant story, from his rapid rise (in 1953 Paris was named best new male singer in a DownBeat poll) and subsequent slide from label to label (Paris’ career output totals less than a dozen albums, all near-impossible to find) to his too-late, too-brief, too-isolated renaissance. Interweaving interviews with relatives (including Paris’ second wife, equally underappreciated vocalist Anne-Marie Moss), friends and luminary fans (James Moody, Dr. Billy Taylor, George Wein and Mark Murphy among them), De Felitta poses hypotheses for Paris’ failure that range from far-fetched (mob connections gone wrong) to utterly reasonable (Paris’ youthful arrogance and fiery temper). The result is a fascinating chronicle of an extraordinary talent kept perennially under the proverbial bushel. true 204 2009-04-20T15:19:34-04:00 false 24685 174 true 110 2009-05-01T00:00:00-04:00

Two skinny, Italian-American guys from New Jersey, both equipped with extraordinary pipes. One, from Hoboken, emerges as the most celebrated singer of the 20th century. The other, from Nutley, builds as long a career, performing alongside the likes of Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Parker, Charles Mingus and Peggy Lee, yet remains in relative obscurity. Why did Sinatra soar while Jackie Paris stalled? The Paris portion of the question has long fascinated Raymond De Felitta. The Oscar-nominated filmmaker discovered Paris nearly two decades ago when an L.A. jazz station played Paris’ perhaps definitive interpretation of “Skylark” from the 1954 Brunswick album of the same name. It wasn’t, however, until March 2004 that De Felitta found Paris, thanks to a New Yorker listing for what would turn out to be his final club performance, at Jazz Standard. Paris, age 77, passed away just three months later. During those intervening weeks, De Felitta lived in Paris’ pockets, capturing every chapter of his poignant story, from his rapid rise (in 1953 Paris was named best new male singer in a DownBeat poll) and subsequent slide from label to label (Paris’ career output totals less than a dozen albums, all near-impossible to find) to his too-late, too-brief, too-isolated renaissance. Interweaving interviews with relatives (including Paris’ second wife, equally underappreciated vocalist Anne-Marie Moss), friends and luminary fans (James Moody, Dr. Billy Taylor, George Wein and Mark Murphy among them), De Felitta poses hypotheses for Paris’ failure that range from far-fetched (mob connections gone wrong) to utterly reasonable (Paris’ youthful arrogance and fiery temper)....

2009-04-23T11:39:52-04:00

4 The initial eyebrow-raising that greeted the announcement of Wynton Marsalis and Willie Nelson’s 2007 live collaboration quickly gave way to a forehead-slapping “Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?” Jazz and country, despite their obvious differences, share a root in the blues, one that’s been explored many times since Satchmo blew alongside Jimmie “The Singing Brakeman” Rodgers on a take of “Blue Yodel #9” back in 1930, and the two nights Marsalis and Nelson spent together at Jazz at Lincoln Center’s Allen Room in retrospect seem natural. Both musicians owe an incalculable debt to the rudiments of the blues, and the hunch that their pairing would work resulted in one of last year’s surprise hit albums, Two Men With the Blues. The inevitable DVD followup reprises all of the album’s 10 tracks, adds three more (“Don’t Get Around Much Anymore,” “Sweet Georgia Brown” and a rousing finale of “Down by the Riverside”), and jumbles the sequence for reasons unstated. The visuals confirm what the audio already made clear: Wynton Marsalis probably never had this much fun onstage before, and Willie Nelson is, well, what Willie Nelson always is. For once Marsalis isn’t so much concerned about preserving the legacy of jazz as he is with just digging the party—and when Willie Nelson is at your party, it’s going to be one to remember. Interspersed with backstage interview footage—the two mainstays praising one another, elucidating the commonalities of their chosen genres, etc. (not surprisingly, Marsalis does more actual elucidating than Nelson)—the hour-and-a-quarter program stays lively and engaging. Unfortunately, too often it’s too lively: Director Danny Clinch is edit-obsessed throughout, zipping from player to player so feverishly that almost no musician gets more than a few seconds of screen time during any given segment, even when soloing. And the copious intercutting of traffic footage of Manhattan is also wholly unnecessary—we get it, the gig, laidback though it was, was in New York; how many times must we see speeded-up buses to grasp that? Headache-inducing visual style aside, however, Live From Jazz at Lincoln Center, NYC is a welcomed document of a welcomed event. false 10422 2009-04-01T14:24:38-04:00 false 24519 138 true 110 2009-04-08T00:00:00-04:00 2009-04-08T00:00:00-04:00

Two seemingly disparate artists find common ground in the blues

2009-04-09T18:20:48-04:00

4 The Crusaders haven’t been a commercial (or, arguably, artistic) force in a quarter-century, and only two original members, keyboardist Joe Sample and saxophonist Wilton Felder, were still onboard at the time of this 2003 gig. But little about the group had changed since its ’70s heyday, and that seemed just fine with the Montreux audience. Touring behind their then-recent album Rural Renewal, the Crusaders still walked a fine and satisfying line between the smooth-jazz and light funk that catapulted them into the mainstream once they abbreviated their name from Jazz Crusaders. Sample and Felder are fine musicians, no denying that. Although there is a decided lack of edge to their playing, it’s robust and they run a tight ship: the lineup for this show, which included Ray Parker Jr. (of “Ghostbusters” fame) on guitar, Stephan Baxter on trombone, Kendrick Scott on drums and Freddie Washington on bass, finds a non-challenging groove early and stays with it. On “Creepin’,” a ballad from Rural Renewal, Sample’s Fender Rhodes work is gutsy and bluesy and both Felder and Baxter turn in strong, meaty solos. “Put It Where You Want It,” a mid-tempo Stax-like R&B jam, is the first of the night that kicks up any dust: Felder is wailing, but Parker, on his first real showcase solo, only demonstrates that he’s no innovator. The program doesn’t truly pick up steam until midway through, when vocalist Randy Crawford joins in. Crawford sang on the band’s biggest hit, 1979’s “Street Life,” and she handles it masterfully here, bringing a true soul to the proceedings that was only hinted at before. Easily scaling from low to high notes without strain or bombast, she’s a class act. Her first song with the group, B.B. King’s “The Thrill Is Gone,” is a highlight of the set, and she sings “Soul Shadows” in a subdued, sensual voice. Only her take on John Lennon’s “Imagine” fails to gain any traction. And why the cameras, otherwise utilized to great effect to spotlight the individual musicians’ abilities, repeatedly return to a pair of robotic toy dogs traversing the stage is anyone’s guess. The set ends with Parker delivering “Ghostbusters,” which comes off as the gratuitous pander that it is—the audience responds to “Who you gonna call?” with “Crusaders!”—but by then the Crusaders have already proven to Montreux that they’ve still got what it takes. true 10422 2009-03-27T16:46:15-04:00 false 24490 138 true 110 2009-04-01T00:00:00-04:00

The Crusaders haven’t been a commercial (or, arguably, artistic) force in a quarter-century, and only two original members, keyboardist Joe Sample and saxophonist Wilton Felder, were still onboard at the time of this 2003 gig. But little about the group had changed since its ’70s heyday, and that seemed just fine with the Montreux audience. Touring behind their then-recent album Rural Renewal, the Crusaders still walked a fine and satisfying line between the smooth-jazz and light funk that catapulted them into the mainstream once they abbreviated their name from Jazz Crusaders. Sample and Felder are fine musicians, no denying that. Although there is a decided lack of edge to their playing, it’s robust and they run a tight ship: the lineup for this show, which included Ray Parker Jr. (of “Ghostbusters” fame) on guitar, Stephan Baxter on trombone, Kendrick Scott on drums and Freddie Washington on bass, finds a non-challenging groove early and stays with it. On “Creepin’,” a ballad from Rural Renewal, Sample’s Fender Rhodes work is gutsy and bluesy and both Felder and Baxter turn in strong, meaty solos. “Put It Where You Want It,” a mid-tempo Stax-like R&B jam, is the first of the night that kicks up any dust: Felder is wailing, but Parker, on his first real showcase solo, only demonstrates that he’s no innovator. The program doesn’t truly pick up steam until midway through, when vocalist Randy Crawford joins in. Crawford sang on the band’s biggest hit, 1979’s “Street Life,” and she handles it masterfully here, bringing a true soul...

2009-04-16T16:10:17-04:00

4 Through 18 years with the creative organ trio Medeski, Martin & Wood, drummer Billy Martin has developed an amoebic style, and name recognition that goes beyond most percussionists. The Houston Community College Department of Fine Arts realized this, commissioning Martin to perform a solo concert at its Heinen Theater on March 26, 2008. The show features the former New York City Brazilian percussionist’s unique approach to the drum set, hand drums and chamber music pieces encompassing gongs, bells and various other toys. On the opening “Six Grandfathers,” Martin switches between pairs of mallets to create different tones on three concert bass drums and three gongs. The piece honors Sioux Indian spiritual leader Black Elk (1863-1950). Martin then picks up agogo bells to introduce “The Daybreak Star Herb of Understanding,” which also features other metallic objects, including a frying pan. He offers a lesson in limb independence by performing the intro to “Whirlwind Chaser” with his feet on the drum set while his hands play the agogo bells, eventually turning the piece into a full-on drum solo that would impress Buddy Rich. Martin rarely repeats a feel or theme, performing “Killing the Drought” on the marimba-like wooden balaphone and “Duck Pond” through shaken caxixi and seed pods, plus birdcalls. Late highlights include the Afro-Cuban “Burundi” (played with mallets on congas, bongos and cowbells), “Guavas Feeding Birds” on an array of metal objects, and Martin’s bonus commentary on his instruments and master classes at the college. The one-hour performance may appeal mainly to the percussive and MMW-minded, showing elements of the drummer that go beyond that trio’s shows. But the project’s single shot focuses on one of the few percussionists who could’ve pulled this off with one try and no editing. true 10419 2009-03-27T16:49:20-04:00 false 24491 138 true 110 2009-04-01T00:00:00-04:00

Medeski, Martin & Wood's drummer upfront

2009-04-16T16:10:17-04:00

4 As a historical document, this collection of two half-hour Ad Lib TV programs, dating from 1980 and ’82 and featuring the young Dianne Reeves, is a keeper. Out of the gate Reeves was fully formed, instantly captivating and in control of every nuance. Attired and coiffed elegantly but modestly, she barely moves a muscle when she sings, other than those controlling her eyes, which augment the lyrical content so expressively, and her lips, which emit a sound ever so stunning. Soulful and confident, Reeves appears somewhat tentative on the small studio stage at first, but she overcomes by projecting in a manner that is anything but. She already bears the strength and maturity of the older Reeves, although it’s apparent she is still feeling her way. During the first segment, in which Reeves is backed by pianist Billy Childs and his group A Fine Madness, the vocalist sails through a quartet of tunes highlighted by the ballad “Answer Me” and the Motown-ish “Welcome to My Love,” which gives her a chance to unloose a bit of grit. The band’s Reeves-less showcase “The Homes,” though, is little more than period lite-funk that mainly serves to interrupt the mood. The second show, the earlier of the two, is actually the more impressive. With Snooky Young on flugelhorn, Reeves tears into a boppish “Lady Be Good” that establishes immediately that, as the host, pianist/bandleader Phil Moore, states, Reeves was already “a new talent causing not only ripples but waves.” Her singing on the ballad “Everything Must Change,” and especially the show tune “On a Clear Day,” is virtually flawless. The latter, kicking off as a ballad, shifts into swing territory midway, Reeves unleashing her multi-octave bending, twisting and stretching effortlessly—her tasteful command of the now-dreaded melisma technique ought to be required listening for today’s would-be divas who think a note should never end. As a bonus, a vintage B&W clip of the Count Basie Band featuring Helen Humes, performing “I Cried for You,” is aired toward the end of the program. It’s a very cool clip, but when it gives way to Reeves’ show-closing “St. Louis Blues,” a tour-de-force performance featuring Young, it’s left in the dust. One minus: The audio quality of the DVD leaves something to be desired. The quieter passages and spoken sections are too often marred by audible hiss and electronic noise—any modern audio editing program could easily have fixed it, but fortunately it never threatens to dampen the enjoyment of the performances. true 10422 2009-04-01T14:26:38-04:00 false 24520 138 true 110 2009-04-01T00:00:00-04:00

As a historical document, this collection of two half-hour Ad Lib TV programs, dating from 1980 and ’82 and featuring the young Dianne Reeves, is a keeper. Out of the gate Reeves was fully formed, instantly captivating and in control of every nuance. Attired and coiffed elegantly but modestly, she barely moves a muscle when she sings, other than those controlling her eyes, which augment the lyrical content so expressively, and her lips, which emit a sound ever so stunning. Soulful and confident, Reeves appears somewhat tentative on the small studio stage at first, but she overcomes by projecting in a manner that is anything but. She already bears the strength and maturity of the older Reeves, although it’s apparent she is still feeling her way. During the first segment, in which Reeves is backed by pianist Billy Childs and his group A Fine Madness, the vocalist sails through a quartet of tunes highlighted by the ballad “Answer Me” and the Motown-ish “Welcome to My Love,” which gives her a chance to unloose a bit of grit. The band’s Reeves-less showcase “The Homes,” though, is little more than period lite-funk that mainly serves to interrupt the mood. The second show, the earlier of the two, is actually the more impressive. With Snooky Young on flugelhorn, Reeves tears into a boppish “Lady Be Good” that establishes immediately that, as the host, pianist/bandleader Phil Moore, states, Reeves was already “a new talent causing not only ripples but waves.” Her singing on the ballad “Everything Must Change,” and especially...

2009-04-30T15:33:13-04:00

4 From the 1950s through the 1980s, saxophonist Wayne Shorter played with some of the greatest bands in jazz, including Art Blakey’s Jazz Messengers, the Miles Davis Quintet and Weather Report. Shorter also started his solo recording career during the 1950s, but didn’t primarily become a solo artist until Weather Report’s 1985 coda. Yet as his new Live at Montreux DVD shows, some of the saxophonist’s subsequent touring units (and there are three on display here, counting the bonus tracks) merited comparison with those supergroups. Shorter opens the set on tenor with “On the Milky Way Express,” from his Grammy-winning 1996 album High Life. The band of keyboardist James Beard, guitarist David Gilmore, bassist Alphonso Johnson and drummer Rodney Holmes contributes to a dramatic intro buildup, and Shorter’s old Weather Report bandmate Johnson delivers a melodic solo. A showy 1991 bonus version of the same tune, with the lineup of keyboardist Herbie Hancock, bassist Stanley Clarke and drummer Omar Hakim, provides contrast near disc’s end. Other tracks showcase the primary band’s interaction, and go far beyond their contemporary recorded versions. “At the Fair,” with Shorter on soprano, features a soaring solo by Gilmore and creative accents on the entire drum kit by Holmes. Both musicians also stand out on the frenetic “Over Shadow Hill Way,” from Shorter’s 1988 album Joy Ryder. Another gem is “Children of the Night,” with a muscular mid-tempo funk arrangement that bears little resemblance to the version Shorter played with Blakey. The final bonus cuts, “Pinocchio” and “Pee Wee/Theme,” feature Shorter reuniting with the other members of Davis’ great 1960s quintet (Hancock, bassist Ron Carter, drummer Tony Williams). Captured the year after Davis’ death, and featuring trumpeter Wallace Roney, the acoustic tracks provide fitting and fascinating closure. true 10419 2009-04-01T14:28:44-04:00 false 24521 138 true 110 2009-04-01T00:00:00-04:00

On par with his Miles and Weather Report days

2009-10-03T12:36:09-04:00

4 Guitarist Mike Stern knows how to creatively blend jazz subtleties with rock bombast better than most musicians. At age 22, he got early lessons with Blood, Sweat & Tears, and he pushed the fusion envelope further in the bands of Miles Davis and Jaco Pastorius. Stern then started his solo recording career in the mid-1980s with a succession of incredible lineups. On his latest DVD, New Morning: The Paris Concert, he delivers a stunning one-night performance with tenor saxophonist Bob Franceschini, bassist Tom Kennedy and drummer Dave Weckl. The 21-minute opener, “Tumble Home,” sets a blistering pace. Stern plays a staggered rhythmic intro straight out of the James Brown songbook, and Weckl switches from drumsticks to brushes for the beginning of the guitarist’s simmer-to-boil solo. All four musicians take turns in the spotlight, with the vastly-underrated Kennedy earning top honors (not to mention contributing a percolating bassline). The subsequent “K.T.” is also from Stern’s 2006 release Who Let the Cats Out?, and likewise outmuscles its audio counterpart thanks to Weckl’s polyrhythmic solo over the end vamp. Franceschini’s best playing comes on ballads like “Wishing Well,” on which Kennedy practically functions as a second guitarist with his high-register countermelody. The bassist pulls a similar trick on the second half of “Chatter,” one of the DVD’s epic pieces thanks to Stern’s intro and more vamp soloing expertise by Weckl. Another highlight is “What Might Have Been,” on which the drummer (playing with his hands) and Stern play a cat-and-mouse intro duet. Kennedy brings the piece home with another mesmerizing melodic statement after the guitarist’s moody, unaccompanied middle solo. A bonus Stern interview, about his bandmates and influences, shows the verbal side of the relatively unsung guitar hero. true 10419 2009-04-01T14:30:28-04:00 false 24522 138 true 110 2009-04-01T00:00:00-04:00

A stunning performance from the guitarist

2009-04-16T16:09:13-04:00

4 With their dramatically drooped heads and shoulders, the members of Bill Evans’ 1964 trio look like an early, pre-electric shoegazer band in a Swedish broadcast that’s practically jazz-noir, a typical stylistic touch in the ongoing Jazz Icons series. This third volume matches its predecessors as an imagistic bonanza of mostly black-and-white European footage, executed with a filmmakers’ panache. From the opening show on disc one, a Sonny Rollins corker from Denmark in 1965, it’s evident that real planning went into these shoots, as if the producers had worked out storyboards for when to focus on a ride cymbal as a beat was about to change, or when to cut to a pair of pursed lips as a solo was set to commence. The Evans material, which covers five performances over 11 years, would make for one psychologically probing and challenging live album if you were to part the music from the images, but it’s the images—and often those that arise from small gestures—that influence how we hear this music. A visibly weary, and perhaps weary with rage, Nina Simone all of a sudden becomes positively apoplectic during a sequence from Holland in 1965, as she kicks into the second half of Bob Dylan’s “The Ballad of Hollis Brown,” stammering and inveighing as though she were the opening act for the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. It’s harrowing and almost impossible to look away from, as is the bawdy “Go Limp” two songs later, a cheeky parlor number that has Simone cracking up, just when you thought there was no way this woman could muster any laughter. A heartening turnabout. Lionel Hampton evinces a similar joy with “The High and Mighty” from a 1958 Belgium show, hovering over his vibes with wide eyes and trembling hands, scarcely able to control his excitement over which note to sound first. It’s a crowd-pleasing set, very much a showman’s performance, with some Vaudeville theatrics and brassy jump blues. The Cannonball Adderley disc proceeds in the same fashion, only with an emphasis on modal R&B rather than mid-century swing. The rhythm section for both 1963 shows is a groove machine, with Joe Zawinul on piano creating massive chord clusters that sound as though they’ve emanated from an organ, reverberating in accordance with Louis Hayes’ drum riffs and Sam Jones’ surprisingly light, guitar-like bass patterns. The crowd goes mad for the man of the hour, who turns out not to be Adderley—or his brother, Nat, on cornet—but rather Yusef Lateef. The leader clearly enjoys watching his multi-instrument star cool down the crowd with his flute solos, only to gather up his tenor sax once more and beat the devil out of “Work Song.” At their best, the Icons films command empathy. The images are so absorbing, the shots so adroitly framed, that one practically feels compelled to pass through the screen and pull up a chair on the apron of the stage. For instance, as Rahsaan Roland Kirk comes closer to the camera during a Belgium ’63 set, three horns hanging from his neck, one starts to think of musculature, of the physical aspect of Kirk’s performance art—the strain, and how that strain produced a music that is athletic in its rapid movements from one key to another and balletic, nimble, despite those physical exertions. And Kirk was just made for the freeform fashions of hippie-era television, as a five-track sequence from Norway in ’67 attests, with the Great Enigma outfitted as a post-Beat, sleek-suited Surrealist. The ’67 Kirk footage is mostly in long shot, so we get a view of the entire band and a sense of how each player moves about in space: tapping out beats on the floor, imparting directions and intentions through looks and nods. Conversely, the Sonny Rollins performances have a more subjective camera style; we see Rollins, of course, dominating the frame, but from its sides. That is, we watch what Rollins watches, hearing the music as he sees it. The ’65 Denmark show features the set’s best music—if you recorded it to CD, you’d have a classic live album on your hands—and it’s gripping to see how absorbed Rollins is in what drummer Alan Dawson is doing. Come solo time, Rollins takes some of Dawson’s own ideas and adapts them to his horn, creating a dialogue that takes place in installments. For anyone less enthused by theory, the Oscar Peterson portion of the box is wonderful company on a Sunday morning as you’re making coffee or passing in and out of your living room, an aural and video backdrop that puts few demands on its audience save a love of the sort of jazz that gladdens the spirit after the mind has moved on from the likes of Bill Evans’ ruminations. true 319 2009-02-16T13:07:55-05:00 false 21240 136 true 110 2009-01-01T00:00:00-05:00

With their dramatically drooped heads and shoulders, the members of Bill Evans’ 1964 trio look like an early, pre-electric shoegazer band in a Swedish broadcast that’s practically jazz-noir, a typical stylistic touch in the ongoing Jazz Icons series. This third volume matches its predecessors as an imagistic bonanza of mostly black-and-white European footage, executed with a filmmakers’ panache. From the opening show on disc one, a Sonny Rollins corker from Denmark in 1965, it’s evident that real planning went into these shoots, as if the producers had worked out storyboards for when to focus on a ride cymbal as a beat was about to change, or when to cut to a pair of pursed lips as a solo was set to commence. The Evans material, which covers five performances over 11 years, would make for one psychologically probing and challenging live album if you were to part the music from the images, but it’s the images—and often those that arise from small gestures—that influence how we hear this music. A visibly weary, and perhaps weary with rage, Nina Simone all of a sudden becomes positively apoplectic during a sequence from Holland in 1965, as she kicks into the second half of Bob Dylan’s “The Ballad of Hollis Brown,” stammering and inveighing as though she were the opening act for the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. It’s harrowing and almost impossible to look away from, as is the bawdy “Go Limp” two songs later, a cheeky parlor number that has Simone cracking up, just when you thought...

2009-03-02T00:28:20-05:00