Bobby Hutcherson in 1968: Total Eclipse

By Carl Glatzel, Editor

Recorded in July of 1968, Total Eclipse offers a lean and progressive sound. Although featuring a top-flight quintet, much like Patterns from March of the same year, its minimal aesthetic is evident. One could attribute the spare soundscape to the pianist on the date, Chick Corea. Less prone to embellishments than his Patterns counterpart, Corea embodies a wholly modern approach to piano. A contemporary of Herbie Hancock, the two share a similar tact on keyboard when comping behind soloists as well as a later fascination with fusion and electronics. Corea’s contribution can be felt throughout this 1968 session.

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Total Eclipse, 1968

The album springs to life with an upbeat track entitled “Herzog”. With Hutcherson’s main collaborator, Harold Land, firmly planted in the tenor seat a theme is established and Corea takes the lead with a brisk-paced solo. Hutcherson punctuates throughout until he takes a solo which matches Corea’s in speed and invention. Joe Chambers and Reggie Johnson shore up any loose ends while keeping perfect time on drums and double bass respectively. Harold Land then takes over for Hutcherson and wails on his outing. A perfect foil for Corea, Land is also uniquely modern in his approach to tenor. At times he plays with outside leanings but never moves above middle register — a straight arrow for tenor in 1968.

A perfect foil for Corea, Land is also uniquely modern in his approach to tenor.

Up next is the title track, “Total Eclipse”, which slows down the quintet’s pace to a contemplative mood. The slower time signature offers Land more space to explore which comes as a benefit to the listener. Here is where Land excels and shines with a signature solo — breezy, earthy and tasteful. Corea also takes advantage of the space and comps beautifully behind Land, punctuating his lines yet staying out of the tenor giant’s gait. Clocking in at just shy of 9 minutes, “Total Eclipse” has enough space for every lead voice and Hutcherson moves forward with a gentlemanly approach to his solo. Much more concise than Land’s, Hutcherson bows out quickly to allow Corea more time to feel his way around. And just like Land, Corea shines in this hushed environment. With the bottom-end firmly planted by Johnson and Chambers, Corea is granted access to investigate the terrain with an abstract solo.

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Harold Land, tenor saxophone. Photograph by Francis Wolff © Mosaic Images.

“Matrix”, the following track and penned by Corea, picks things up again and pushes Land out in front with a rough and tumble solo. We hear Land approaching the top of his register which adds to the intensity of the track. While Chambers bubbles and churns underneath, Hutcherson takes an extended solo displaying his quick dexterity on the unwieldy instrument. After a somewhat free outing Hutcherson allows Corea to venture in and take the reins. After a short burst of energy on the keyboard, the quintet returns to the theme and closes it out.

A seeming roller coaster of emotions, the session takes another turn down a melancholy avenue with the following track, “Same Shame”. At nearly 9-1/2 minutes, this track unfolds slowly allowing each member ample time in the spotlight. After Hutcherson’s mid-tempo solo, Land slows things down at the beginning of his outing but Corea and Chamber’s edgy comping styles push the tenor player to more agitated activity. Corea again takes full advantage of the allotted space and lays down a brilliant solo. The languid lines of the theme fold back in on itself and ends the dreamy track.

The real standout of this session anchors the album in truly modern panache, the final track, “Pompeian”, features a sweet and sour approach — a compositional style used on sessions past by Hutcherson’s former session leader, Jackie McLean.

The real standout of this session anchors the album in truly modern panache, the final track, “Pompeian”, features a sweet and sour approach — a compositional style used on sessions past by Hutcherson’s former session leader, Jackie McLean. A straight-forward theme carried throughout the composition is repeated by the quintet which is then dissected by abstract interludes used as a means to jointly solo. Land is at home on flute which flutters throughout the stormy turbulence. Chambers finds himself in familiar territory which harkens back a few years to albums like 1965’s Components. Either an apparition of Hutcherson’s former days in the avant-garde or a foreshadowing of things to come — it’s hard to say. Whatever it is it’s amazing and it totally engulfs the listener. One does not have long to wait for what comes next in this auditory game of cat and mouse. “Pompeian” is a somewhat unorthodox end to what some say is a transitional album — one is at a loss for what exactly may come next in Hutcherson’s outstanding catalog.

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Bobby Hutcherson in 1968: Patterns

By Carl Glatzel, Editor

An artist whose musical prowess can still be felt in today’s youth-centric jazz scene, Bobby Hutcherson cut his teeth in the service of such legends as Eric Dolphy, Archie Shepp and Jackie McLean. His choice of instruments, the vibraphone, may have kept him out of the limelight — earning him favorable reviews but never achieving super stardom on the international scene. Hutcherson’s notoriety had as much to do with his recordings as sideman as his sessions as leader. When Hutcherson did take helm of a session modern jazz listeners were sure to enjoy the transcendent mix of cerebral compositions and angular interplay. His playing was different from his contemporaries on the instrument, more lyrical and mellower perhaps — at least in the post-avant-garde years. In the early to mid-60s, however, one could hear his percussive accents beaten out blacksmith-style.

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Patterns, 1968

The late-60s witnessed the emergence of another side of Hutcherson, still brimming with creativity, although, without the blunt-nosed abandon of his younger days. He also maintained the company of forward-thinking musicians, all of whom were virtuosos in their own right. An outstanding recording exemplifying this matured approach is Patterns from 1968 on the Blue Note Records label. It begins on a mysterious note with the track “Effi” — Stanley Cowell’s composition dedicated to his wife. With the feel of traversing through a dark, dense forest, “Effi” captivates the listener and moves him to another place altogether. James Spaulding’s flute solo weaves a fine tapestry — one with all the filigree to be expected, yet, all the while holding the listener in a somber state of mind. “Effi”, and more specifically Spaulding and Hutcherson’s interplay, reminds one of all the beauty in this world in spite of its dark corners.

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Joe Chambers, drums. Photograph by Francis Wolff © Mosaic Images.

“A Time to Go”, composed by Spaulding as a tribute to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., is perhaps the most melancholy track Hutcherson ever cut as a leader, with the possible exception of “Bouquet” from his 1966 outing on Happenings, also on Blue Note. More a vehicle for Spaulding’s extended flute solo, “A Time To Go” offers up reflection, heavy with emotion. Spaulding’s high notes are tightly crisp and his buoyant ideas are kept modern and succinct, never overtly saccharine.

On Patterns, Spaulding dishes out some of his best, and sadly underrated, alto work alongside Hutcherson’s bright vibes.

In stark contrast, the title track brings with it a sense of lilting intensity. On Patterns, Spaulding dishes out some of his best, and sadly underrated, alto work alongside Hutcherson’s bright vibes. Both race toward their respective ends in quick and sure-footed solos. Heated interplay is key to this track and its non-stop action doesn’t disappoint.

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Stanley Cowell, piano

Irina, which pulls a drowsy cover over this session, resonates with the same sense of loss found in “A Time To Go”. Stanley Cowell’s delicate solo work on piano is pushed to the forefront. It’s a classic Hutcherson ballad, much in the same vein as “When You Are Near” on Happenings or “Summer Nights” on Stick Up! — both from 1966.

On the last track, Nocturnal, drummer/composer Joe Chambers makes use of Reggie Workman on double bass as pure foundation. Workman, a jazz veteran at this point, lays down a deep groove on which Hutcherson and Spaulding effortlessly skate across — pushing and pulling the composition in many directions. Spaulding’s alto emerges out of Hutcherson’s driving solo and soars upward and out, breaking through the cacophony laid down by the outside-minded Chambers on the kit. “Nocturnal” proves to be focused and wild all at once, a brilliant piece of jazz and an ideal end to a truly unique and personal listening experience.

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Bill Evans: The Tokyo Concert

By Carl Glatzel, Editor

Today we celebrate the birth of Bill Evans. A fitting album of his to enjoy, and one of my personal favorites, is one that marks somewhat of a rebirth for Evans on the jazz scene, “The Tokyo Concert“. This prodigious album was recorded January 20, 1973 at Yubin Chokin Hall in Tokyo. Bill Evans’ second great trio is in tow with Eddie Gomez on double bass and Marty Morell on drums. Critically acclaimed, this concert was described by Evans’ producer, Helen Keane, as a perfect one.

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Bill Evans Trio with Herb Geller at the NDR Jazz Workshop, 1972. The NDR Jazz Workshop was a concert series established 1958 by public German broadcaster Norddeutscher Rundfunk.

The rebirth comes in the form of Evans’ personal appearance and material. He was described by Kiyoshi Koyama, a noted Japanese jazz critic, as wearing a tailored black tuxedo with a bright pink dress shirt. Evans was known to only wear dark colors, never drawing attention to himself. His change in outward appearance seems to coordinate with his new association with the Fantasy label, a relationship that would prove fruitful.

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For a better understanding of the man behind the music, I recommend reading “Bill Evans: How My Heart Sings,” a biography by Peter Pettinger on Yale University Press.

Aside from his appearance he brought new material to the stage that night—”Mornin’ Glory,” “Up with the Lark,” Yesterday I Heard the Rain,” “When Autumn Comes,” “T.T.T.T.,” and “Hullo Bolinas” were all new additions. Along with Evans’ staples like “Gloria’s Step” and “My Romance” this album is really well rounded with typically introspective ballads, swinging burners and extended solos.

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Bill Evans Trio, 1974 (From left: Eddie Gomez, Bill Evans, Marty Morell)

Packed with lilting, joyous songs like Bobbie Gentry’s “Mornin’ Glory” and Jerome Kern’s “Up With the Lark” it’s hard not to sit through repeat listenings. The trio operates in unison and lives up to their storied past throughout this outing. A very unique composition to note is “T.T.T.T. (Twelve Tone Tune Two)” which describes the work in that it consists of 12 measures utilizing the 12-tone scale. It was quite a feat to get through this demanding track in one take—especially for Eddie Gomez’s role on double bass.

So, if you’re a Bill Evans novice, a longtime fan of his first trio or just haven’t had the pleasure of listening to this gem—do so, it would be a great tribute to a jazz giant and gentleman.

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Monk: Civil Rights and Unearthed Delights

By Carl Glatzel, Editor

Slightly inaccessible and highly quirky, Thelonious Sphere Monk holds a special place in my jazz collection. He was of the ilk who went by a single moniker, Monk. He was cool beyond cool—a true individualist and jazz ambassador all at once. Monk didn’t just think outside the box; he ripped it up and threw it away. There was no doubt he was a musical genius and because of it a genius magnet, attracting vanguard collaborators the likes of Sonny Rollins, John Coltrane and Gerry Mulligan.

Monk didn’t just think outside the box; he ripped it up and threw it away.

Monk was one of the first jazz artists I started collecting and it was his brief stint on Blue Note Records that reeled me in. Don’t get me wrong, I adore his sessions on Prestige with Sonny Rollins and especially his time on Columbia, but listening to the two-part “Genius of Modern Music” sessions one can gain early-career insight and a glimpse into the mind of a prodigy. Also, these recordings showcase early performances of some of Monk’s most enduring jazz compositions, including “Ruby, My Dear”, “In Walked Bud”, “‘Round Midnight”, “Well, You Needn’t” and “Straight, No Chaser”, all of which are considered jazz standards.

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Hipsters unite! Impulse! offers this historic release on CD or as a handsome 180 gram vinyl set. There was a good deal of design and research that went into this package and it shows with the attention to detail one would expect from Impulse! Records. Includes two booklets and a poster.

Monk played differently and thought differently and that’s what makes him so endearing to listen to and collect. So, when I heard about a July 31 release on Impulse! of an unissued 1968 live performance I was beside myself. And what a venue—a high school auditorium! The music, at least the one track I’ve been able to preview, is excellent and is to be expected. Monk’s established 60s quartet is in tow, including Charlie Rouse on tenor sax, Larry Gales on bass, and Ben Riley on drums. The interplay is that of a seasoned group—relaxed, angular and swinging, not unlike that of Monk’s contemporary releases on Columbia Records.

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Monk and fellow jazz giant, Dizzy Gillespie, cutting up. Circa 1960s. Photo by Jim Marshall.

The audio fidelity is surprisingly strong and clear given the recording was engineered by a high school janitor. Which leads me to the amazing story behind this historic recording. Danny Scher, a Jewish 16-year-old jazz fan, wanted to book Monk for a benefit performance at his high school auditorium in Palo Alto, California, a predominantly white town 40 minutes outside of San Francisco. The year was 1968, a time not unlike our own, with riots over racism and social inequality. The Vietnam War had no end in sight and Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy had just been assassinated—the country was still in mourning and being torn apart at the seams. And in the midst of this torrent of cultural upheaval an olive branch was extended and accepted. The Monk Quartet agreed to play and Scher got to work promoting the concert which would take him into neighboring East Palo Alto, a predominantly African-American community. Scher hung posters next to advertisements promoting a referendum on changing the town name to Nairobi. Notwithstanding the surrounding racial tension, the Monk performance brought the two towns together. The concert, including a 14-minute version of “Blue Monk”, was serendipitously recorded by the janitor who offered his services if he also promised to tune the school piano. And thanks to that still unidentified jazz fan, in addition to the work of Danny Scher, Monk’s estate and Impulse! Records, we’re able to partake in this historic concert 52 years later.

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Fire Music: Jazz and Civil Rights

“… you must listen to me on my own terms. I will not let you misconstrue me. That era is over. If my music doesn’t suffice, I will write you a poem, a play. I will say to you in every instance: ‘Strike the ghetto! Let my people go!'” — Archie Shepp (taken from liner notes to The Magic of Juju, 1967)

By Carl Glatzel, Editor

Archie Shepp has long been a familiar artist in my collection. Before I knew him for his politically-charged poetry, plays and activism I knew him for his stirring brand of music on the Impulse! record label. He came into his own in the early-60s on various recordings on the Savoy and Delmark labels with forward-thinking jazz notables; Cecil Taylor, Don Cherry, John Tchicai and Bill Dixon. His record contract at Impulse! in the mid-60s began a new era of self-discovery in support of the burgeoning New Thing movement, a school of jazz based on the inventions of mid-century, avant-garde musicians. His ten-year relationship with Impulse! would prove fruitful for both label and the socio-political climate of a very tumultuous decade.

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Fire Music (1965) isn’t Shepp’s first recording for Impulse!, but it’s the first to showcase his unique talent as a composer, performer and poet, independent of John Coltrane. The album, as a whole, can be interpreted as part and parcel to the soundtrack of the Black Power movement of the era.

“There was a poem I did to Medgar Evers and to Malcom. It’s the same poem. I call it ‘To Medgar’… and sometimes I call it ‘To Malcom’, I may change it from Malcolm to somebody else—the next person they murder. It’s to Medgar. It’s to my people. That’s all.” —Archie Shepp (taken from liner notes to Live in San Francisco, 1966)

Shepp’s spoken-word poetry, referenced above, has always been a major draw for his albums and a good reason for repeated listenings. “Malcolm, Malcolm, Semper Malcolm” on <a href="http://Fire Music (1965), “Skag” on New Thing at Newport (1965) and “The Wedding” on Live in San Francisco (1966) are testaments to his writing ability, wit and political insightfulness.

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Attica Blues (1972) was a watershed album for Shepp. Large ensembles and complex arrangements are centered around the title piece based on a deadly 1971 confrontation between rioting prisoners and police at Attica Correctional Facility in New York. In an effort to end the standoff, police gunned down 39 inmates and hostages and wounded several others.

To be sure, Archie Shepp was not the only performing artist of the 60s to address civil rights issues—far from it. But, to these ears, he was one jazz musician to consistently deliver an intelligent, entertaining and varied offering in different mediums over a span of several decades. And his message, even though he tackled different aspects of inequality such as drug addiction or violence, was always raw and honest. This approach may be less desirable in today’s homogenized circles, especially with major record labels, but it’s an approach that pushes the envelope and opens peoples’ minds—at times with a push rather than with a nudge.

As for Shepp’s instrumentals, he owed much to John Coltrane’s legacy at the onset of his career. A firebrand, especially to those new to the New Thing sound, Shepp was both volatile and versatile and proved it on just about everything he recorded for Impulse! From hard-edged avant-garde blowing sessions to bluesy funk to big band ensembles reminiscent of Charlie Mingus, it’s safe to say one wouldn’t get bored with his recording output. A couple favorites of mine are The Way Ahead (1969) and Kwanza (1969), both featuring Grachan Moncur III, trombonist, composer and longtime collaborator. Both albums offer infectious post-bop blues, angry blowing and genre-bending arrangements—all the while remaining firmly rooted in Black tradition with nods to both Africa and Ellington.

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The Way Ahead (1969) is another eclectic offering from Shepp and company, showcasing avant-garde music bathed in Afrocentric blues, gospel and swing. This album also signals Shepp’s first time use of a piano in his ensemble, creating a more conventional configuration for an unconventional sound.

“It is my opinion that music born of the emotions will always seek to serve the highest level of legitimate ‘popular’ taste; and it is precisely that music which lasts, simply because it communicates something to people.” —Archie Shepp (taken from liner notes to Mama Too Tight, 1966)

With so many critically-acclaimed recordings, including many non-Impulse! sessions and concerts, Archie Shepp has secured his spot in jazz history and Black culture. During these difficult times it’s beneficial to look back at past accomplishments in the name of civil rights—there is a treasure to be unearthed for the uninitiated, full of anger, deservedly so, but also full of hope. And for those who are familiar with these recordings—don’t forget about them and let them languish. Don’t forget about the artists, the open-minded record executives and their supporters, the fans and most importantly the victims. And don’t forget the message and the rage that stoked these fires.

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Jazz Collecting: Artists & Labels

By Carl Glatzel, Editor

After suffering the impacts of the pandemic, namely unemployment and quarantine, I, like many others, have afforded myself some time. And time is definitely something one can use more of when collecting jazz. So, with this extra time at home I’ve been able to take stock of my personal collection. To be fair, it’s not one of those vast collections where you need a separate listening room or zip code to appreciate. It’s relatively modest but stocked with artists and labels that I believe merit repeated listening.

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Like many other collectors, my entrée into Hard Bop was Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers on Blue Note Records. My first jazz album purchase was “At the Cafe Bohemia – Volume One”. I have to confess, not knowing much about the genre at the time and being a designer, I chose it simply for its typographic cover—a decision I never regretted. Thank you, John Hermansader.

As for the actual recordings, I’m one of those collectors who, for the most part, sticks to certain labels for the bulk of his collection. ECM and Blue Note Records are great examples of this approach. Rule of thumb, if you find one or two artists you really enjoy on one label there’s a good chance you’ll find more—appreciation through chance discovery. Although with certain artists, Bill Evans for example, labels matter less. If you follow an artist throughout his or her career you’ll find that oftentimes they skip around—usually pursuing the best contract or more creative freedom.

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A true visionary in every sense of the word, Miles Davis trailblazed the far reaches of jazz. His second great quintet, including Wayne Shorter, Herbie Hancock, Ron Carter and Tony Williams, represents the quintessential modern jazz group in my book—conceptual, explorative and intelligent.

As with Bill Evans, you’ll find a fanbase that rallies around a particular period in the recording career of an artist. Take the distinguished career of Miles Davis, there are diehard fans of Miles’ first great quintet and their associated record label, Prestige. Others may gravitate toward Miles’ second great quintet on Columbia Records or his later electric outings on the same label. John Coltrane is another artist who produced many divided camps. He had a successful early solo career on Prestige and Blue Note, then moved to Atlantic with his first great quartet in the early-60s, and then Impulse! Records in the mid-60s which found him exploring more avant-garde avenues with personnel that would prove to be in flux.

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The often imitated Bill Evans has made his way back into my collection for over twenty years. One can easily hear echoes of Evans in the works of many contemporary artists. His years on the Riverside label with his first trio are still one of my favorite periods of his—romantic, subtle and introspective. If you’re not already familiar with Evans, try spinning a couple of his critically-acclaimed albums, “Portrait in Jazz” (1960) and “Sunday at the Village Vanguard” (1961).

If you’re a completist, like myself, you’ll collect from every recording period of a favorite artist—oftentimes picking and choosing particular albums based on year recorded, personnel or audio fidelity. Bill Evans, one of my perennial favorites, definitely falls into the multi-period, multi-label category. His first trio on the Riverside label, featuring Scott LaFaro on bass and Paul Motian on drums, defined the gold standard for jazz trios. A deft and cohesive unit famous for anticipating each others’ actions. After the untimely death of bassist, Scott LaFaro (one of my personal jazz heroes), Bill Evans began to move around with solo and trio stints on Verve, Blue Note, Fantasy and Warner. There are hardcore first trio fans who only swear by the early Riverside recordings as a measure of Bill Evans’ improvisational genius. As for myself, I can appreciate all his outings, be it solo, trio or third stream. If you find an artist who really hits a chord you’ll follow him or her anywhere.

If you’re a completist, like myself, you’ll collect from every recording period of a favorite artist—oftentimes picking and choosing particular albums based on year recorded, personnel or audio fidelity.

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Keith Jarrett, a virtuoso pianist with an uncanny ability to improvise lengthy solo concerts, gained his global following on the ECM label. Although he led groundbreaking groups, including his long-lived trio, he became best known for his solo output. His massive “Sun Bear Concerts” 1978 box set, showcasing over six-and-a-half hours of very personal music, is an achievement hard to be matched by any performing artist, past or present.

By following an artist from one label to another one can also experience the creative growth an artist achieves. Some Coltrane fans lament his move to Impulse! Records as it would eventually showcase his interest in spiritualism and the avant-garde which, regrettably, shed some of his followers who were only interested in his modal music. Another artist who would truly come into his own because of his association with a particular label is Keith Jarrett. His early career as sideman to jazz masters Art Blakey, Charles Lloyd and Miles Davis on various labels would eventually jettison him to a famed solo career starting at Atlantic Records in the late-60s. But it wasn’t till his move to ECM in 1971, for an astonishing 49-year partnership, where he would flourish and rise to international fame with unprecedented live solo recordings such as Solo Concerts: Bremen and Lausanne (1973), The Köln Concert (1975), The Sun Bear Concerts (1976/78), and Concerts: Bregenz/München (1982).

So, be it artist-centric or label-centric, starting and maintaining a jazz collection will always prove fruitful, especially if the listener devotes time to enjoy the fruits.

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The Herb Alpert Movie

By David Barras, Guest Contributor

My parents bought Herb Alpert’s Going Places! when it was released, so it was always around the house during my childhood. I remember my fascination with the cover. The colorful, biplane with a “TJB Express” sign, the innocent sexuality of a maid reclining on the wing and Alpert grinning broadly, with his white scarf flowing behind him create a ridiculous picture. Today, it might be easy to simply dismiss this photo as sexist. But if you consider the absurdity of the premise and Alpert’s wide grin that lets you in on the joke, you can help but laugh, in spite of your more sophisticated, enlightened attitudes.

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Going Places!, 1965

For years, Herb Alpert was a bit of a guilty pleasure of mine because I always considered “Tijuana Taxi” and “Spanish Flea” to be novelty songs. In recent years, though, I’ve listened more closely and now appreciate the musicianship of the band, the arrangements of the songs and the way Alpert makes the songs he covers his own. Unfortunately, even though I’m trying to judge Alpert’s music only on its artistic merits, my love of the culture of the 1960s keeps getting me sidetracked. I have to ask myself — why was there never a movie produced staring Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass? I remember watching Elvis’ movies on TV on Saturday afternoons, and wonder why the same formula was never applied to Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass? He had some chart success. He had leading man looks. One could even argue his music was the soundtrack for the period with it’s presence on television programs and commercials.

It would have gone something like this. Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass in Going Places!

Herb Alpert and the band play themselves. An actor plays their manager, a greedy, nervous fellow who, while out to protect the goose that laid the golden egg, still cares about “his boys”. This character is easily flustered as the band faces the trials ahead and provides excellent comic relief. Herb Alpert plays himself as a confident, tough and capable leader of the band who, though he takes his music seriously, still has a sense of humor and plays by his own rules, much to the chagrin of his manager.

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What Now My Love, 1966

The movie opens at a party where it’s being announced that Alpert and the band will be playing a benefit concert for a children’s charity. A young bratty millionaire is in attendance who becomes jealous of the attention the band is receiving. After he has a confrontation with Alpert at the party, the young millionaire bets Alpert that he and his band can’t cross Mexico north to south and back again in time to play the charity event the next week. A condition of the bet is that they must be self-sufficient without assistance from anyone back in the states. If they win, the millionaire donates $50,000 to the charity. If they lose, the band must perform a Lawrence Welk style show, potentially ruining their careers. Alpert, seeing this as a matter of pride and an opportunity to present the charity with a boon, accepts the challenge.

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Whipped Cream & Other Delights, 1965

Unbeknownst to them, the young millionaire is following them, attempting sabotage at every opportunity. He’s successful as soon as they enter Mexico, making the band’s tricked-out tour bus crash and injure their driver Speed, who used to be on the demolition derby circuit. All seems lost until they spot a noisy, run-down tour bus driven by Bill Dana in character as Jose Jimenez. The band pools the last of their cash to hire his services. Unfortunately, they still need cash for food, gas and lodging for a week long trip. According to the terms of the bet, they can’t wire home for cash, so they have no alternative but to play every cantina and night club in which their manager can book them.

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The Beat Of The Brass, 1968

This is where the movie really takes off with many opportunities for comedy and music; a rehearsal session on the bus, an impromptu song for a group of kids playing around a fountain in a town square and, of course, a sunset walk on the beach with a “señorita” while Alpert sings “This Guy’s in Love with You”. He promises to return to her town one day, and we’re left wondering and hoping.

Following the formula Hal Wallis established for Elvis, the climax is a fight where Alpert must prove himself worthy of leading man status. The band is one day away from the concert and well within driving range. Unfortunately, their bus’ water pump, fuel pump and suspension were all blown during a speedy escape from a gang of motorcycle banditos who misunderstood a band member’s intentions towards their leader’s sister.

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Herb Alpert’s Ninth, 1967

To pay for the repairs, they must play one final gig in Tijuana. After the performance, though, the cantina owner, a big, ugly piece of work, refuses to pay. Alpert stands up to him, saying “Either The Brass and I get our money, or you and I are going to have a problem.” The owner throws a punch which Alpert easily dodges, “El Garbanzo” starts playing and the whole bar starts fighting. Alpert takes on the tough leading man role as the band fights the owner’s goons with various comedic shenanigans. The bartender ducks behind the bar and takes advantage of the situation by reaching up from his hiding place, grabbing bottles of liquor so he can get some free drinks. Completely by accident, he grabs bottles just as they are about to be hit by flying chairs or glasses. After beating the owner to submission, Alpert collects the band’s pay and they’re able to pay for the repairs to the bus.

“Either The Brass and I get our money, or you and I are going to have a problem.”

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Spanish Flea, 45rpm single, 1966

There’s one final hitch at the border crossing when a nearsighted border patrol officer (a brilliant cameo by Don Knotts) doubts the band’s US citizenship. While the manager argues with the officer, the band takes out their instruments and begins playing “Spanish Flea”. The officer is beside himself with joy, exclaiming that he’s their biggest fan. He lets them pass, nodding his head and saying “What a swell bunch of fellas” as the bus drives across the border.

The band takes to the stage just under the deadline and performs “A Taste of Honey” to an enthusiastic crowd. The millionaire is pulling his hair out during the performance, but is kept from escaping by the manager. After the concert, the millionaire’s father arrives and it is revealed that the kid has no money of his own. The father, a fan of the band, honors the bet and his son is forced to pay off the debt by working as the band’s roadie. Bill Dana (Jose Jimenez) is now the band’s permanent driver since their old driver decides it would be safer to return to the demolition derby circuit. Tijuana Taxi plays over the closing credits as we see the rich kid trying to load the band’s equipment on the bus, tripping and dropping cases.

a_taste_of_honey_single
A Taste Of Honey, 45rpm single, 1965

I could easily convince myself that I had seen this movie on TV on a Saturday afternoon in the 1970s when it was too rainy to play outside. I can see the old bus careening down a dirt road to “Mexican Road Race” or the band playing “Bittersweet Samba” at an upscale night club in Mexico City. If you close your eyes and listen closely, you can see the imagery inherent in these songs. I know there are trumpeters with greater technical ability, but when I listen to Alpert, his playing sounds deliberate, like he’s making conscious choices to create visual imagery and emotion.

Maybe it’s best this movie was never filmed. In a way, it never needed to be. No doubt the original print would be faded and in need of restoration. The advantage to Alpert’s music, though, is that today, its vibrant Technicolor images are as pristine as they were when he recorded them over 40 years ago. Anything else might be a distraction.

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Reid Miles: 500 Album Covers can’t be wrong

By Carl Glatzel, Editor

 

The man with a thousand layouts up his sleeve, Reid Miles has been a major influence on my personal design aesthetic throughout my career. His style exudes modernism with the occasional nod to the Bauhaus and International Style—God was always in the details.

Miles began working at Blue Note Records in the late-50s where he would go on to design almost 500 record sleeves. He typically worked on tight deadlines, oftentimes restricted to a 2-color palette and limited typefaces. He would at times hand-cut his own letterforms to realize some of his concepts, some of which are still emulated to this day. Layouts would range from economical and austere to complex and detailed with the occasional visual pun.

Layouts would range from economical and austere to complex and detailed with the occasional visual pun.

Among Miles’ collaborators, Blue Note co-founder, Francis Wolff, was his most prolific. Wolff doubled as staff photographer on hundreds of album covers—offering jazz enthusiasts intimate artist portraiture taken during and throughout recording sessions.

The early-60s witnessed the multi-faceted Miles adding photography to his list of duties, which would soon usher in a dramatic career change in the mid-60s and ultimately his departure from Blue Note. His photographic style proved to be just as modern and forward thinking as his layouts—displaying an interest in experimental techniques and the avant-garde.

The handful of album covers chosen to illustrate this post typifies Miles’ recognizable design and playful photography.

 
 
breaking_point_album_cover
Breaking Point, 1964
steppin_out_album_cover
Steppin’ Out, 1963
DukePearson_LP:BlueNote
Wahoo, 1964
some_other_stuff_album_cover
Some Other Stuff, 1964
maiden_voyage_album_cover
Maiden Voyage, 1965
out_to_lunch_album_cover
Out To Lunch, 1964
free_form_album_cover
Free Form, 1961
 
 

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Advertising Jazz

By Carl Glatzel, Editor

Sharing these amazing Guimarães Jazz Festival posters with you while in quarantine is a small blessing. We can now look fondly back at the pre-pandemic performing arts scene—how good we had it!

It was 2009 in Guimarães, Portugal and design studio Martino & Jaña created a memorable poster campaign that really hit the mark with regard to integrating typography and artist illustration. The result was a visually stimulating brand that demanded attention on busy, urban streets. The designers did a masterful job flowing and wrapping sinuous text around jazz artists in the heat of improvisation all the while keeping legibility, information hierarchy and festival promotion a priority.

guimaraes_jazz_2009
One of many well-crafted 2009 Guimarães Jazz Festival posters.

On the eve of the first virtual International Jazz Day, it’s comforting to look back at a more liberated time when festival attendance didn’t evoke so much consternation. With any luck we’ll be back to those carefree days sooner than later.

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Herbie Hancock and the Shock of the New

By Carl Glatzel, Editor

After the release of his 1970 Warner album, Mwandishi, Herbie Hancock was well on his way to introducing electronics to his brand of jazz. His top-flight team of improvisers made it that much easier to make the transition to fusion. Although naysayers were wrapped around Hancock’s funky hard bop from his Blue Note years, there was an audience to be had with this new free-form, electric jazz.

mwandishi_album_cover
Mwandishi, 1970

Miles Davis had already taken off with his 1969 Columbia release, Bitches Brew, plus a handful of live recordings which featured an even edgier take on his dark vision. Hancock’s work, by comparison, did not display the raw bravado of Davis’, its strength, rather, lied with its creator’s love affair with technology and the possibilities it could bring to his music.

Hancock’s work, by comparison, did not display the raw bravado of Davis’, its strength, rather, lied with its creator’s love affair with technology and the possibilities it could bring to his music.

This love affair becomes all the more evident in Hancock’s next Warner release, 1971’s Crossings. He pulls out all the stops here, adding an additional voice in Dr. Patrick Gleeson on Moog synthesizer. Here, Hancock crosses over to an avant-garde realm only visited briefly, and acoustically, on his already long resume. With banks of synthesizers, Hancock plugs in and creates a world wholly his own.

crossings_album_cover
Crossings, 1971

Although the Davis influences are impossible to deny, it’s Hancock’s own genius in multilayered arrangements that forges each piece into something unique. With track titles like “Quasar” and “Water Torture” it’s obvious this isn’t the laid back hard bop of years past — the future is now. The opener, “Sleeping Giant”, is just that — a giant. It’s a near 25-minute roller coaster of a suite incorporating Hancock’s new electronic instrumentation. Changing tempos, frenetic drumming, and the blips and chirps from synths soon show the way to a new approach that will eventually be more fully embraced on Hancock’s next release.

Experimentation abounds, much of Sextant sounds as if it was created live in a science lab setting.

Hancock’s debut on Columbia Records is an album that some may consider menacing to say the least. 1972’s Sextant is a full-on fusion album, quite literally equal parts man and machine. Experimentation abounds, much of Sextant sounds as if it was created live in a science lab setting. I like to call this sub-genre of music Sci-fi Jazz. Much of the album sounds like a funky, and oftentimes frightening, soundtrack to a science fiction journey. The opener, “Rain Dance”, sets the spacey mood with a flurry of electronic effects which carry throughout the piece and register as electronic water drops. Perhaps giving credence to the surrealistic album cover as a sort of alien dance ritual.

sextant_album_cover
Sextant, 1972

The second of the three tracks is “Hidden Shadows” and is indeed dark. And for all the percussion, synths and alien effects there is still the signature Hancock sound that musters familiarity right off. The keyboard chordings, the solos and the group harmonies — all transplanted from Hancock’s former life at Blue Note. There is a theme that continues to reign in the blowing and keyboard wizardry to keep “Hidden Shadows” as the most conservative and least likely to scare off the uninitiated.

The crowning achievement on this album is the final piece, “Hornets”. Abstract and nearly inaccessible, it begs further inspection. The redundant use of kazoo instills the frenzy of the track’s namesake. There are Fender Rhodes passages with free blowing over top in this 20-minute piece that sound reminiscent of Davis’ live outings from the same period. There was something undeniably in the water back then. Sometimes, I wish that certain something would make a return posthaste.

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