By Steve Holtje
My 50th birthday was March 29, which has me feeling retrospective. I could just make lists of favorite albums, but that would mostly cluster around my formative years (lots of '70s and '80s stuff). Going a year at a time produced a more nuanced and less obvious set of albums. Thanks for indulging me, it's the best birthday present.
1961
Bill Evans: Sunday at the Village Vanguard (Riverside) Of course, in 1961 I wasn't actually listening to this album. In fact, it took me a long time to get into Bill Evans outside of his work with Miles Davis. My adverse reaction came from all his bad piano-lounge imitators biasing me against his style. Eventually I got past that and then all the poetic intensity of his playing made sense to me.
1962
Thelonious Monk Quartet: Monk's Dream (Columbia) Monk's first album for Columbia wasn't my introduction to his music (I first heard a Milestone two-fer combining his Five Spot recordings for Riverside), but it was probably how many a jazz fan was introduced to his unique style thanks to the publicity and distribution machinery of a major label. The quartet lineup then was with tenor saxophonist Charlie Rouse, bassist John Ore, and drummer Frankie Dunlop, who along with the never-changing leader did full justice to a good selection of his classic compositions, plus two solo piano tracks.
1963
Johnny Hartman: I Just Dropped By to Say Hello (Impulse!) When my interest in jazz singers grew, Hartman became “the man" for me, his smooth baritone voice and impeccable phrasing the epitome of jazz suaveness. Not a bad backing band either: Hank Jones, Illinois Jacquet, Kenny Burrell, Jim Hall, Milt Hinton, Elvin Jones. Too many people know Hartman only from his singing on three Coltrane tracks; here's a good place to start learning the full story.
1964
Joe Henderson: Inner Urge (Blue Note) When I was able, as a working music critic, to start seeking out interviews with my heroes, the albums that they were currently promoting often had little to do with why I wanted to talk to them. Oh, whatever Verve album Joe had out at the time was a fine listen, because he never made a bad or even indifferent record, but it was the tightly coiled intensity of this album with 2/3 of Coltrane's rhythm section (pianist McCoy Tyner, drummer Elvin Jones) plus bassist Bob Cranshaw, yet revealing an alternative tenor approach to Trane's, that had inspired my worship.
1965
John Coltrane: A Love Supreme (Impulse!) A classic that I was first exposed to—as with so much, both musical and otherwise—in college, when my ears and mind were wide open and receptive and, more importantly, plenty of like-minded friends and I were sharing our knowledge with each other. I cannot imagine hearing the modal urgency of this album and not being an instant convert.
1966
Miles Davis: Miles Smiles (Columbia) One of the amazing things about Miles's quintet with Wayne Shorter (sax), Herbie Hancock (piano), Ron Carter (bass), and Tony Williams (drums) is how they make complex and convoluted music sound simple and appealing. At times it was as though they were deconstructing bebop before our eyes/ears, making the musical equivalent of non-Euclidean geometry; Herbie's harmonies are quietly daring; Tony's polyrhythms are dazzling. Yet there's something viscerally compelling about it that makes it less forbidding than it should have seemed. And this album was their masterpiece—and the point at which Wayne Shorter clearly established himself as one of the greats not just as a player, but as a composer as well. And the boss sounds pretty hot himself.
1967
Gary Burton: A Genuine Tong Funeral (RCA Victor) I don't remember anymore why I took this album out of the college library and taped it. Perhaps I came across it while looking for some Carla Bley; she wrote the music, which is aptly subtitled Dark Opera without Words (she's also the conductor of the band, ten players including herself on piano and organ). Its exotic and mysterious tones immediately captivated me, the glinting colors of the arrangements—most notably Burton's own vibraphone—making the droning dirges sparkle with quiet excitement and lending the more upbeat sections an ironic wit worthy of Kurt Weill.
1968
Herbie Hancock: Speak Like a Child (Blue Note) While I chose this Herbie album because it filled a year where there were no more obvious choices, I knew I'd have some Hancock on here somewhere one way or another. While his piano style is certainly both distinctive and influential, it's his composing that's his greatest legacy, and by this point, having worked as a leader and with Miles Davis's quintet, he was ready to deliver one of his best batches of tunes.
1969
Andrew Hill: Passing Ships (Blue Note) Though recorded in November 1969, this would not be released until 2003. Nonetheless, it is one of the highlights of pianist/composer Andrew Hill's impressive discography. After years of recording Hill's small groups, Blue Note finally financed a nonet. The musicians involved remembered it years later, and Michael Cuscuna presided over its resurrection in a limited edition. It's well worth tracking down, with some of Hill's most evocative writing, and masterful arranging that takes full advantage of an excellent band: trumpeters Woody Shaw and Dizzy Reece, trombonist Julian Priester, Bob Northern on French horn, Howard Johnson doubling on tuba and bass clarinet, the amazing (and amazingly underrated) Joe Farrell on soprano and alto sax, alto flute, bass clarinet and English horn, and a killer rhythm section of Hill (piano), bassist Ron Carter, and a very young Lenny White on drums.
1970
Miles Davis: Bitches Brew (Columbia) This was the first Miles Davis album I heard, and I was so not ready for it. I found it at the Salvation Army store when I was in high school. I'd heard of it, it was cheap, I played it once and had no idea what was going on. In my college years, my ears having been opened to hearing music of greater density, I revisited it and was finally able to parse it, at least somewhat. It continues to offer new vistas every time I play it. There's so much to love and admire, but what always strikes me as the “secret weapon" is Bennie Maupin's chiaroscuro bass clarinet.
1971
Rahsaan Roland Kirk: Blacknuss (Atlantic) This was a little more my speed when I was in high school. I first heard some of it on a Long Island rock radio station ("The Old Rugged Cross" in particular), back when freeform radio was less concerned with genre boundaries. It was funky, it was jazzy, it was gospelly, and it exuded charisma. I might at this point slightly prefer Volunteered Slavery or Bright Moments, but this was my introduction to Rahsaan and will always have special meaning to me.
1972
Julius Hemphill: Coon Bidness (Freedom) In 1980, a writer named Len Lyons had a book entitled The 101 Best Jazz Albums: A History of Jazz on Records published by William Morrow & Co. A few years later, looking to more systematically expand my jazz collection/knowledge, I got it and not only read it cover to cover but began using it like a checklist. And not just the 101 albums of the title, either; after each chapter covering an era or style with its albums on the 101-length list, there was also a section of additional recommendations. I was going through those and checking them off too. One of the things I noticed was that LPs on the Arista-distributed label Freedom regularly blew my mind. And after all the players and bands in the “Free Jazz" chapter, there came “MISCELLANEOUS," wherein this album (which has also been issued alternatively titled Reflections) was listed. Taking up all of side two is “The Hard Blues," which is THE JAM. If there is one thing on this list that most people haven't heard but MUST HEAR, and which I hasten to add will appeal to a broad spectrum of listeners thanks to its deep grounding in, yes, the blues, THIS IS IT. (Sorry for shouting.)
1973
Sun Ra Arkestra: Pathways to Unknown Worlds (Evidence [originally Saturn/Impulse!]) I bought this as a cheap cut-out and was stunned by the fiery power of Marshall Allen's screaming alto sax and the way Eloe Omoe (AKA Leroy Taylor) burbles and screams with unfettered energy on bass clarinet at the beginning of “Extension Out" for three-and-a-half minutes over a polyrhythmic bed laid down by multiple drummers. Pathways quickly became one of the LPs I played for friends to hip them to something special. Eventually I would experience Sun Ra and his Arkestra in concert multiple times and be at his last recording session (Billy Bang's A Tribute to Stuff Smith on Soul Note, for which label I was working at the time (1992)). The Magic City, earlier in Sun Ra's career and thus more historically important in the history of free improvisation, gets more press (rather a relative situation when the topic is free jazz), but it's not as powerful as this aptly titled album.
1974
Cecil Taylor: Silent Tongues (Freedom) Another Freedom LP, this one firmly among Lyons's 101 rather than an afterthought. For a pianist, even one so limited as myself, this solo improvisation, recorded live at the Montreux Jazz Festival, provides a revelatory vision of a new approach to piano. Nor is it just the percussive pounding that detractors would have us think; there's real lyricism, made all the more moving by contrast within the context of his style, which is perhaps as related to the European atonal avant-garde as to jazz (though I disagree with the critic Stanley Crouch and his cohort when they say that Taylor's music is not jazz). The lines he sculpt exude physicality, a strong sense of movement (he said he was influenced by modern dance); they are not random, having their own inner logic and deep beauty.
1975
Keith Jarrett: The Köln Concert (ECM) This was the point at which I started picking up jazz albums not as historical items, but as relatively recent releases (within a year or two or three of issue, at least). A big thank-you to whoever at the Bay Shore Public Library was purchasing cool stuff like this for the collection. I took it home, drove my mom crazy playing it on the living room stereo (for her, jazz stopped after swing), and then drove her even crazier trying my own hand at rhapsodic solo piano improvisation. If you want to understand tension and release in music, this is Exhibit A.
1976
Ornette Coleman: Dancing in Your Head (A&M) I understood at some point in my college self-education about jazz that Ornette's '60s quartet was Very Important Stuff. But this was more current; this was what was being debated/touted in music magazines and Village Voice columns. This was (more or less) the Ornette band that I could see in action, multiple times, and whose members' (especially guitarist Bern Nix, bassist Jamaaladeen Tacuma, and drummer Ronald Shannon Jackson) own projects I sought out. I related to it not as jazz history, but as jazz as it was happening in the present.
1977
Weather Report: Heavy Weather (Columbia) “Birdland," the most popular tune on this album led by veterans of Miles Davis's band, was played even on rock stations, and covered by ambitions college fusion bands. Desperate to give it a shot myself, I plugged my electric piano into my stereo system and managed a pretty good imitation of Joe Zawinul's opening bass synth notes—until my poor little speakers couldn't take the strain and blew out. No matter: the idea of tuneful fusion that was about more than playing lots of notes really fast—and that featured keyboards rather than guitar!—was inspiring.
1978
Pat Metheny Group: s/t (ECM) Even more tuneful fusion, played even more frequently on rock stations. (Oh WLIR, how I miss your halcyon '70s era.) But while some snobs looked down on Metheny (and even more his keyboardist, Lyle Mays), I could not so easily dismiss such catchiness. And generally in the decades since, Pat has (except for a few albums overly Brazilian-influenced) always skirted smooth-jazz banalities. There's a bright cheeriness here that is beyond category.
1979
Betty Carter: The Audience with Betty Carter (Verve [orig. Bet-Car]) There were earlier Betty Carter albums I bought and loved; all of her '70s releases on her own Bet-Car label are brilliant. But if there's one track that can be used to convert people into Carter fans by showing how much more than a “jazz singer" she is—how much she wields her voice like an instrumentalist—it is the 25-minute up-tempo excursion on “Sounds (Movin' On)" that kicks off this double album. Accompanied by the superb trio of pianist John Hicks, bassist Curtis Lundy, and drummer Kenny Washington, she seems more like a horn fronting a quartet than like a singer, not just when she's scatting (and she's one of the greatest scat singers ever!) but even when singing the words and melodies of her original compositions. There's an ecstasy here that's more like speaking in tongues than mere songs. And she can sing standards like nobody else as well.
1980
World Saxophone Quartet: Revue (Black Saint) Around this time the WSQ took jazz by storm. The idea of a band consisting entirely of four horn players (Hamiet Bluiett, Julius Hemphill, Oliver Lake, and David Murray), with no rhythm section, was so audacious it seemed it couldn't possibly work, it must be a gimmick, and yet not only did it keep working for many albums, it reached the point that when they did work with drums, the drums seemed like an unnecessary intrusion—a gimmick. Funny how things work out. Anyway, this (their fourth, I think) was the first WSQ album I bought, based on a rave review in The Village Voice, and before the multi-facted title track had finished playing, I was hooked. The sheer gravitational pull and funkiness of Bluiett's bass lines on baritone saxophone was enough by itself to convert me; equally amazing were the luscious textures of their chordal passages, and the way the upper horns (not just saxophones; everybody doubled on something else, a clarinet or flute of some range or other, ensuring plenty of variety of timbre) twittered as they wove around each other, a joyous explosion like birdsong that held within it the intensity of cacophony even within tonality—though yes, they could get quite “free" when appropriate. The following decade, it was my privilege to work for Black Saint in the brief period when that Italian label opened a New York office.
1981
David Murray Octet: Home (Black Saint) Working for Black Saint (or, more precisely, for Sphere Marketing, which distributed the sister labels Black Saint and Soul Note, other Italian labels manufactured by the company that owned BS/SN, and Japanese labels owned or related to the DIW store/label) exposed me to just how amazingly prolific WSQ tenor saxophonist/bass clarinetist David Murray was. In the 19 years from 1978 (Black Saint's first Murray LP) through 1996 (my last year at Sphere), he recorded 17 albums for Black Saint, 25 for DIW—and at least another 11 for other labels, probably more, but I have 11. He made five albums for DIW just in January '88! Of that outpouring of 53 albums, only four weren't good. The ones for octet tend to be particularly good, with this one (including fellow saxophone pioneer Henry Threadgill) a prime example.
1982
Ronald Shannon Jackson & the Decoding Society: Mandance (Antilles/Island) Frankly, I like Jackson's Decoding Society even more than Ornette's Prime Time. And on this album, he seemed (in my young and naïve mind) poised to take over the world. The compositions with their intertwining lines, organic dissonances, and amazing polyrhythms seemed like the jazz complement to the post-punk/no wave bands thriving in NYC at the same time. Part of me is still amazed, almost three decades later, that Jackson didn't break through.
1983
James “Blood" Ulmer: Odyssey (Columbia) Ulmer made his reputation playing with Ornette Coleman, but almost crossed over to a rock audience in the early '80s with his fierce guitar playing, winning over even more of the post-punk/no wave crowd than Jackson (he even had an album on the ultimate post-punk label, Rough Trade). Then he pulled back a little with this trio with violinist Charles Burnham and drummer Warren Benbow, lessening the ferocity but deepening the blues roots. It's acquired such a legendary aura over the years since that even major label Columbia felt obliged to reissue it on CD, the only one of his three albums for them that got that well-deserved honor (a European label briefly issued Black Rock on CD, well worth tracking down; Free Lancing is still vinyl-only, so buy a turntable).
1984
Gil Evans & the Monday Night Orchestra: Live at Sweet Basil, vols. 1 & 2 (Evidence [orig. King (Japan)]) One of the traditions of the NYC jazz scene is that on Mondays, the slow night when many clubs don't have major bookings, the top musicians gather around some legendary focal point to form a big band (big bands traditionally not considered money-making ventures by the clubs) and play more for love of the experience than for money (if any). For a while in the '80s, that focal point was legendary arranger Gil Evans. But these were not the precise arrangements of his '50s work with Miles Davis; these were loose, jamming affairs with Evans on (mostly electric) piano and an ever-morphing lineup that, this time out, had Hiram Bullock on guitar, Pete Levin on synthesizer, Mark Egan on electric bass, Adam Nussbaum on kit and Mino Cinelu on small percussion laying down fat beats, and some of the city's top horn players, notably trumpeters Lew Soloff and Hannibal Marvin Peterson and tenor saxophonist George Adams. But Evans's imaginative ears for texture still clearly guided them, most spectacularly on the arrangement of Hendrix's “Voodoo Chile" where Howard Johnson (who appears on several albums on this list) gives the famous riff a wild and wooly ride on tuba. These two albums overflow with joy.
1985
Cassandra Wilson: Point of View (JMT) This album, Wilson's first as leader, is not only on this list on its own merits, it also stands in for several other favorite artists I couldn't squeeze in on their own: alto saxophonist Steve Coleman, veteran trombonist Grachan Moncur III, and guitarist Jean-Paul Bourelly, all contributing here as both players and composers. Aside from the older Moncur, they were the brash leaders of the so-called M-BASE scene, which created a distinctive new kind of fusion with herky-jerky rhythms and melodies. Coleman's prototypical World Expansion and Bourelly's funky Jungle Cowboy are equally excellent.
1986
Last Exit: The Noise of Trouble (Enemy) Last Exit was a noise-jazz all-star quartet of guitarist Sonny Sharrock, German saxophonist Peter Brötzmann, bassist Bill Laswell, and drummer Ronald Shannon Jackson. The sheer raw power and improvisatory furor they could generate was overwhelming; all but one of their albums was recorded in concert. This one, built from a pair of gigs in Tokyo, Japan, includes guests Akira Sakata (alto sax, clarinet) and Herbie Hancock (piano), and is slightly less dense and unremitting than some of their earlier releases, because it often features Sharrock's bluesy compositions instead of pure free improv. One of the greatest live albums in any genre, ever, an ear-blistering effort loved not only by free jazz aficionados but also by adventurous hardcore punk fans.
1987
John Stubblefield: Countin' on the Blues (Enja) Most of the albums on this list are by famous people. Yes, some of them are only famous to jazz fans, but to this point, the only leader whose name might draw a blank with the average jazz fan would be Ronald Shannon Jackson. But jazz players can be great without being widely thought of as great. Tenor/soprano saxophonist John Stubblefield is perhaps best known as a sideman, having played on albums by everyone from Miles Davis, McCoy Tyner, and Sam Rivers to Anthony Braxton, Lester Bowie, and Nat Adderley; in his last decade, he was prominent in the Mingus Big Band tribute group that played Monday nights, both as soloist and arranger. He only released six albums as a leader, mostly on European labels. But he had his fans; famous aficionados who valued his contributions enough to visit him in the hospital as he was dying of prostate cancer included Bill Cosby and former President Bill Clinton. And when he did have sessions or club gigs (no matter how small the club) as a leader, you can bet he made the most of them. There were several albums recorded in 1987 that I was strongly tempted to include here, especially two excellent Bill Frisell projects, his ECM album Lookout for Hope and his trio with bassist Melvin Gibbs and Shannon Jackson Power Tools' Strange Meeting (Antilles). And yet, I love this obscure Stubblefield album (with Hamiet Bluiett, pianist Mulgrew Miller, bassist Charnett Moffett, and drummer Victor Lewis) every bit as much, and so will you if you enjoy soulful modal jazz. I also treasure his two other Enja albums, Bushman Song and (especially) Morning Song, and his Soul Note album Confessin'.
1988
Don Pullen: New Beginnings (Blue Note) Though he recorded more prolifically as a leader, Pullen's career could have been roughly the same as Stubblefield's (straddling the mainstream/avant cusp and esteemed in both camps, Mingus connection, mostly on European labels including Black Saint/Soul Note, respected sideman)—except Pullen won the major-label lottery and got to spend the last decade of his career on Blue Note. I mean no denigration of Pullen by that, of course; he'd totally earned the opportunity. The point is that in the '80s a label such as Blue Note only had so many slots available for players of that ilk, and someone (presumably producer Michael Cuscuna) happened to give Pullen that call. And Pullen, to his credit, grabbed that chance with both hands and took full advantage (don't think he would've lasted that decade if he hadn't). Of his eight Blue Note albums, this is one of the best, partly because he's teamed with the superb rhythm section of bassist Gary Peacock and drummer Tony Williams, partly because in the trio format Pullen's piano fireworks (lots of tone clusters and glissandi, but in a broadly appealing tonal context) have plenty of room to shine, and especially because of a particularly catchy bunch of original compositions.
1989
Naked City: s/t (Nonesuch) This quintet of saxophonist John Zorn, guitarist Bill Frisell, Fred Frith (here mostly on bass), keyboardist Wayne Horvitz, and drummer Joey Baron (here and elsewhere with Yamatsuka Eye of Japan's noise-punk band Boredoms contributing a few screaming vocals) exists outside of genre boundaries. Among the 26 tracks there are bursts of noise, a majestically shimmering take on Georges Delerue's great theme for Contempt, arrangements of soundtrack themes by Ennio Morricone, Henry Mancini, Johnny Mandel, Jerry Goldsmith (Chinatown), and John Barry (James Bond theme), surf-rock, warped jazz (Ornette Coleman's “Lonely Woman" crossed with the theme from Peter Gunn), something like jazz speed metal, and style-hopping ditties that jump from country to hardcore to honky-tonk to more hardcore, from New Orleans to lounge to funk to jump blues and back. And more, much more. It's one wild ride.
1990
Dianne Reeves: I Remember (Blue Note) The product of multiple 1988 and '90 sessions with a variety of accompanists; I put it in 1990 because my favorite tracks—a very groovy “Afro Blue," a pensive reading of Stephen Sondheim's “I Remember Sky" with beautiful piano from Billy Childs, and a dramatic “Love for Sale" —come from the two '90 sessions. Besides Childs, Bobby Hutcherson, Greg Osby, Donald Brown, Mulgrew Miller, Charnett Moffett, Marvin “Smitty" Smith, Kevin Eubanks, Terri Lyne Carrington, and more are used, making this one very hip jazz vocal album, but that would mean nothing if Reeves weren't so hip herself, endowed with a great voice, and talented enough to decorate her singing with exquisite inflection and phrasing. She alternated jazz albums like this with high-class R&B albums, equally comfortable in either.
1991
David S. Ware Quartet: Flight of i (DIW/Columbia, 12/10-11/91) Here was a new sound to blow my mind. Ware (mentored by Sonny Rollins early on) united two strands of free jazz: the powerfully full-toned tenor sax blower, and the intellectual craftsman. The combination proved oddly accessible. The opening track, “Aquarian Sound," sports an irresistible modal groove driven by bassist William Parker's ostinato and drummer Mark Edwards's gently propulsive polyrhythms. There are two familiar standards, “There Will Never Be Another You" and “Yesterdays." The amazing title track finds Ware sustaining a circular-breathing solo of fierce intensity over pianist Matthew Shipp's Scriabinesque, bell-like harmonies. The epic “Infi-Rhythms #1" sports an almost minimalist theme that nonetheless inspires many shifting textures. Ware and the next man on this list quickly became my go-to saxophonists on New York's then-thriving downtown scene.
1992
Charles Gayle: Repent (Knitting Factory) Thanks to Steve Dalachinsky for hipping me a year earlier to Gayle, a tenor sax force of nature. Then the Knitting Factory gave him a regular Monday night gig, and it became, for a small circle of free jazz fanatics, the place to be. This album was the first released result of that residency, conveying the sheer sonic power and unfettered freedom better than his previous albums, all studio affairs. If Gayle's young rhythm section couldn't keep up with him, well, that was easy to overlook. (It was an interesting time in NYC: the artist I saw nearly as frequently as Gayle, because he also had a regular residency at a club, was 87-year-old trumpeter Doc Cheatham, who also put out an album recorded in '92, The 87 Years of Doc Cheatham (Columbia).)
1993
Joe Morris: Symbolic Gesture (Soul Note) Morris is the most original jazz guitarist of the past two decades. He doesn't chord, just plays serpentine, horn-like lines and the occasional cluster. He manages to swing while routinely deploying unusual meters and phrase lengths (even when his pieces are 4/4, they don't sound like it). And he led one of the most telepathically cohesive trios (with bassist Nate McBride and drummer Curt Newton) of the era. Without ever imitating Ornette Coleman, he and they often recall the askew lines and turn-on-a-dime ensemble of Ornette's classic quartet. This was Morris's first album on a label other than his own Riti Records, and felt like a giant step forward both musically (though his first two albums were already superb) and reputationally. He's never looked back, never been satisfied with his work, never stopped questing for new sounds.
1994 Thomas Chapin Trio: Menagerie Dreams (Knitting Factory) Not my favorite Chapin album (that's his unintended swan song, Sky Piece, recorded a year and a half before he died of leukemia at age 40), but the first one that I loved, and a better reminder of his incredible energy. It also shows his instrumental versatility (alto, mezzo-soprano, and baritone saxophones plus flute) and his long-time partnership with bassist Mario Pavone and drummer Michael Sarin. Thomas, we miss you.
1995
Yusef Lateef & Adam Rudolph: The World at Peace: Music for 12 Musicians (YAL & Meta) This two-CD set was a joint release by the leaders' own labels. A massive major work packed with innovative compositional processes, it's not just the highlight of Lateef's quite productive '90s output, it's one of the finest albums of his more than six-decade career, and a landmark in drummer Adam Rudolph's superbly creative work as well. Lateef, always versatile, is heard here on tenor sax, flute, shenai, bamboo flutes, and voice (a mere fraction of his instrumental arsenal). The band is a mix of Lateef's longtime associates, such as the also-versatile hornmen Ralph Jones and Charles Moore, and Rudolph's Los Angeles cohorts; their cohesiveness in a concert setting is a marvel.
1996
Richie Beirach: The Snow Leopard (Evidence) My favorite Beirach album is his solo Antarctica (Evidence), but I had the privilege of writing the liner notes for The Snow Leopard, which got me the greater privilege of hanging out at his apartment for an afternoon. I soaked up his listening suggestions like a sponge, not least his advice to seek out classical composer Federico Mompou's own recordings of his solo piano music. Most of the times I've been turned on to music, I probably would've found my way to it through another route eventually, but maybe not Mompou, and certainly not as soon nor as thoroughly. Thanks again Richie. And thanks for your own great music as well, of which The Snow Leopard is one my top five faves.
1997
Shirley Horn: I Remember Miles (Verve) Horn was one of the great ballad singers, understated yet seductive, never merely coy, always deeply expressive of the words, and a superb self-accompanist on piano. And her tribute to Miles was deeply felt: they were friends and mutual admirers; he had her open for him, and adopted some of her standard repertoire for his album Seven Steps to Heaven. Those songs, several favorites from Porgy and Bess, and other Miles-associated songs were, as the CD jacket rightly put it, reclaimed here, none with more audacious imagination than “My Man's Gone Now," based not on his '50s version but on his radically extended fusion version from the '80s. It wouldn't be a '90s Verve album without a plethora of “special guests," but only Toots Thielemans annoys (harmonica on “Summertime"? Could it get more obviously corny?), and trumpeter Roy Hargrove evokes memories of Miles without being slavishly imitative about it. All of Horn's albums are wonderfully intimate affairs, but this one's extra special.
1998 Ron Sunshine & Full Swing: Straight Up (Daddy-O/Royalty) And sometimes I love an album not only for its inherent musicality, but also because the musician's a friend. Not somebody I've met through the business and become friendly with, but someone I knew when he or she was starting out. Ron Sunshine started as a harmonica sideman who would occasionally sing a song, working in blues and then swing; when the swing revival of the late '90s hit, he was perfectly positioned to take advantage of it, and he's still making a full-time living as a musician. How'd I meet Ron? I was working as a guard at his girlfriend's dormitory and he'd come downstairs in the morning and always hear me listening to my tape player, and we ended up talking. That's how music lovers are.
1999
Steven Bernstein: Diaspora Soul (Tzadik) Trumpeter Steven Bernstein's another long-time friend, since college. More than anything except perhaps his incredible work ethic, what's made him the musician he is today is the sheer breadth of his music: he will play any style if he has something to say in it. So his music mixes 1920s jazz with free jazz, James Bond soundtrack themes, pop songs, klezmer, blues, Balkan music, New Orleans R&B, and more. Hybrid vigor!
2000
Wesla Whitfield: Let's Get Lost: The Songs of Jimmy McHugh (HighNote) One more friend, but not so much Wesla, though we're friendly, as her husband and pianist Mike Greensill, who I met on a now-defunct message board where jazz fans argued about issues big and small and gave their opinions about what they were listening to. Well, not only is Mike a fine pianist who with Wesla has a knack for creating excellent album programs, he's also a baseball fan and beer connoisseur. That's a winning trifecta if you ask me. And Wesla inhabits the border between jazz and cabaret, delivering lyrics (and monolog interludes) with wit and erudition and the sort of low-key emotion that hits all the harder for its restraint. Their devotion to The Great American Songbook has yielded many wonderful albums, few greater than this one.
2001
Martial Solal: NY1: Live at the Village Vanguard (Blue Note) First off, Martial Solal is one of the greatest pianists alive, though the U.S.-centric jazz world only notices that in fits and spurts because he's based in France. His trio here, with bassist François Moutin and drummer Bill Stewart, is superb. But this album was recorded in NYC a week after 9/11. You think that didn't ratchet up the stakes a little? After that tragic event, a little musical catharsis was called for, and he delivered.
2002
Mal Waldron: One More Time (Sketch/Harmonia Mundi) There were three other Mal Waldron/Steve Lacy collaborations I considered for this list (the duos Live at Dreher Paris, vols. 1-2 (hatOLOGY, '81) and Communique (Soul Note, '94—I was privileged to write its liner notes) and the quintet Hard Talk (Enja, '74)), but I went with one made as Waldron stared death in the face and, musically speaking, didn't flinch. Though Lacy is not nearly as prominent here as on their other work together: there are two solo piano tracks, bassist Jean-Jacques Avenel duets with Waldron on four (including a dually credited free improvisation), and Lacy joins them on “You" and “Soul Eyes." The solo pieces find Waldron looked over the edge of the abyss, their stark beauty unnerving but uplifting. In contrast, the tracks with Lacy are loving, even nostalgic; “Soul Eyes" is one of Waldron's oldest and most famous pieces. Waldron's liner note (in its entirety) states, “Measured against eternity, our life span is very short, so I am extremely happy to have this record as a high point of mine." It truly is a high point.
2003
Dave Burrell Full-Blown Trio: Expansion (High Two) Burrell's another jazz lifer whose profile has never been as big as his talents or the admiration his fellow players have for him. Like the older Jaki Byard, Burrell is a pianist whose style covers all of jazz history, and who can pivot between atonality and stuff Fats Waller might've found hokey. Teamed with William Parker and Andrew Cyrille for something of a dream trio, he leans more towards his avant side, though with a lighter touch than many piano avant-gardists. That said, the literal centerpiece of the album is a solo stride version of Irving Berlin's “They Say It's Wonderful," more than a bit reminiscent of some of Thelonious Monk's solo old-time excursions in its dry wit and ironically squared-off rhythms. At the time, it was just his second album in an 11-year period, and a most welcome comeback.
2004
Billy Bang: Vietnam Reflections (Justin Time) On the spectrum of avant-identified jazz violinists, Bang's on the bluesier end, his playing rarely as abstractly knotty as his teacher Leroy Jenkins's. He's made many fine albums; what made this one stand out was his use of several traditional Vietnamese songs, complete with two Vietnamese musicians. As an Army veteran of the Vietnam War, he'd started working out his feelings about the experience on his previous album; here he moved past the nightmares and worked for cultural reconciliation. But even without those striking tracks, this would be a toughly tender modal jazz album featuring a sterling supporting cast of trumpeter Ted Daniel, drummer Michael Carvin, percussionist Ron Brown, conductor Butch Morris (all fellow Vietnam vets), alto saxophonist/flutist James Spaulding, flutist Henry Threadgill, pianist John Hicks, and bassist Curtis Lundy. But Bang's still the focal point with his gritty fiddling and tensile compositions.
2005
Ran Blake: All That Is Tied (Tompkins Square) A pianist who created a highly personal style outside of the popular Herbie Hancock/Oscar Peterson/McCoy Tyner/Bill Evans templates, influenced by Thelonious Monk but not imitative, Blake is one of the supreme solo pianists of our time. “Unique" is an overused term, but Blake fully merits it: nobody else plays piano like him. He had long concentrated on solo playing, but over the previous decade had ramped up his collaborations. Going it alone again on this album, his playing had a bit more bite than usual but was still full of quietly concentrated beauty, film-noir shadows, and a vein of quirkily expressed soul.
2006 McCoy Tyner Quartet: s/t (Half Note) There have been many years along this list that could have been filled with a Tyner album. He's so consistent—he's only ever made two albums I didn't like, out of dozens—that I had the luxury of slotting him in where it was convenient. And this IS an excellent album, with Joe Lovano at the top of his game as the lone horn (as usual he plays best on other people's gigs). With bassist Christian McBride and drummer Jeff “Tain" Watts (on his best behavior) rounding out the band, this date is by turns fiery and magisterial in its improvisational brilliance and motivic power, with Tyner still at the top of his game.
2007
William Parker: Double Sunrise over Neptune (AUM Fidelity) Bassist William Parker—whoops, excuse me, I believe that it's part of the jazz reviewer's code to refer to him as “ubiquitous bassist William Parker." But, while it's true he's already been mentioned on several records on this list, and true that there was a time when it seemed he was playing in someone's band every night, he was in that much demand because of how his creative wellspring flowed so freely, and that helped make him a perfect band leader as well, and a superb writer for the many ensembles he's led. This performance at the 2007 Vision Festival (founded by Parker and his wife, dancer Patricia Nicholson Parker) is an even greater achievement than his already high norm, however, helped by an all-star band with Rob Brown, Barnes, Bill Cole, Sabir Mateen, Dave Sewelson, Jason Hwang, Mazz Swift, Jessica Pavone, Shiau-Shu Yu, Joe Morris, Brahim Frigbane, Sangeeta Bandyopadhyay, Shayna Dulberger, Gerald Cleaver, and Hamid Drake. Bursting with emotional breadth and humble ambition, this is one of the great free jazz albums.
2008
Anthony Braxton/William Parker/Milford Graves: Beyond Quantum (Tzadik) One of the most imaginative alto saxophonists of the avant-garde, Braxton records prolifically, but too often in contexts that don't particularly suit him (on piano, or on standards), and often with younger accompanists who aren't his equals. So this was a welcome all-star outing in a firmly avant and altoistic setting. It's also refreshing to hear him moving unfettered in free improvisation; his complex compositions are fascinating, but cut loose in the moment, he has an energy and momentum that he sometimes loses touch with. Thanks to producer Bill Laswell and label owner John Zorn for enabling this invigorating session.
2009
David S. Ware: Saturnian (solo saxophones, volume 1) (AUM Fidelity) This was Ware's return concert after a kidney transplant. It was not just a triumph of spirit—under the circumstances, is their a more audacious comeback possible than a solo saxophone concert?—but of unshakeable musicality and improvisatory creativity in the one musical format in which there truly is no net. I was there. It was a special evening.
2010
Matthew Shipp: Art of the Improviser (Thirsty Ear Blue Series) Shipp has been heard from here as an integral part of the David S. Ware Quartet, but his work as a leader and as a solo act has been equally fruitful over the past quarter century. I'm especially partial to his trio albums By the Law of Music (Hat Art, '97) and The Multiplication Table (Hatology, '98, liner notes by yours truly) and the solo outings Symbol Systems (No More, '95) and One (Thirsty Ear Blue Series, 2005). This new two-CD set, recorded at concerts, has a solo disc and a trio disc and provides the most up-to-date documentation of his ever-evolving style, notably the suite-like way he frames his solo improvisations amid compositions and the occasional standard. The quicksilver shifting of textures makes it seem like a particularly interactive sort of listening experience.
My 50th birthday was March 29, which has me feeling retrospective. I could just make lists of favorite albums, but that would mostly cluster around my formative years (lots of '70s and '80s stuff). Going a year at a time produced a more nuanced and less obvious set of albums. Thanks for indulging me, it's the best birthday present.
1961
Bill Evans: Sunday at the Village Vanguard (Riverside) Of course, in 1961 I wasn't actually listening to this album. In fact, it took me a long time to get into Bill Evans outside of his work with Miles Davis. My adverse reaction came from all his bad piano-lounge imitators biasing me against his style. Eventually I got past that and then all the poetic intensity of his playing made sense to me.
1962
Thelonious Monk Quartet: Monk's Dream (Columbia) Monk's first album for Columbia wasn't my introduction to his music (I first heard a Milestone two-fer combining his Five Spot recordings for Riverside), but it was probably how many a jazz fan was introduced to his unique style thanks to the publicity and distribution machinery of a major label. The quartet lineup then was with tenor saxophonist Charlie Rouse, bassist John Ore, and drummer Frankie Dunlop, who along with the never-changing leader did full justice to a good selection of his classic compositions, plus two solo piano tracks.
1963
Johnny Hartman: I Just Dropped By to Say Hello (Impulse!) When my interest in jazz singers grew, Hartman became “the man" for me, his smooth baritone voice and impeccable phrasing the epitome of jazz suaveness. Not a bad backing band either: Hank Jones, Illinois Jacquet, Kenny Burrell, Jim Hall, Milt Hinton, Elvin Jones. Too many people know Hartman only from his singing on three Coltrane tracks; here's a good place to start learning the full story.
1964
Joe Henderson: Inner Urge (Blue Note) When I was able, as a working music critic, to start seeking out interviews with my heroes, the albums that they were currently promoting often had little to do with why I wanted to talk to them. Oh, whatever Verve album Joe had out at the time was a fine listen, because he never made a bad or even indifferent record, but it was the tightly coiled intensity of this album with 2/3 of Coltrane's rhythm section (pianist McCoy Tyner, drummer Elvin Jones) plus bassist Bob Cranshaw, yet revealing an alternative tenor approach to Trane's, that had inspired my worship.
1965
John Coltrane: A Love Supreme (Impulse!) A classic that I was first exposed to—as with so much, both musical and otherwise—in college, when my ears and mind were wide open and receptive and, more importantly, plenty of like-minded friends and I were sharing our knowledge with each other. I cannot imagine hearing the modal urgency of this album and not being an instant convert.
1966
Miles Davis: Miles Smiles (Columbia) One of the amazing things about Miles's quintet with Wayne Shorter (sax), Herbie Hancock (piano), Ron Carter (bass), and Tony Williams (drums) is how they make complex and convoluted music sound simple and appealing. At times it was as though they were deconstructing bebop before our eyes/ears, making the musical equivalent of non-Euclidean geometry; Herbie's harmonies are quietly daring; Tony's polyrhythms are dazzling. Yet there's something viscerally compelling about it that makes it less forbidding than it should have seemed. And this album was their masterpiece—and the point at which Wayne Shorter clearly established himself as one of the greats not just as a player, but as a composer as well. And the boss sounds pretty hot himself.
1967
Gary Burton: A Genuine Tong Funeral (RCA Victor) I don't remember anymore why I took this album out of the college library and taped it. Perhaps I came across it while looking for some Carla Bley; she wrote the music, which is aptly subtitled Dark Opera without Words (she's also the conductor of the band, ten players including herself on piano and organ). Its exotic and mysterious tones immediately captivated me, the glinting colors of the arrangements—most notably Burton's own vibraphone—making the droning dirges sparkle with quiet excitement and lending the more upbeat sections an ironic wit worthy of Kurt Weill.
1968
Herbie Hancock: Speak Like a Child (Blue Note) While I chose this Herbie album because it filled a year where there were no more obvious choices, I knew I'd have some Hancock on here somewhere one way or another. While his piano style is certainly both distinctive and influential, it's his composing that's his greatest legacy, and by this point, having worked as a leader and with Miles Davis's quintet, he was ready to deliver one of his best batches of tunes.
1969
Andrew Hill: Passing Ships (Blue Note) Though recorded in November 1969, this would not be released until 2003. Nonetheless, it is one of the highlights of pianist/composer Andrew Hill's impressive discography. After years of recording Hill's small groups, Blue Note finally financed a nonet. The musicians involved remembered it years later, and Michael Cuscuna presided over its resurrection in a limited edition. It's well worth tracking down, with some of Hill's most evocative writing, and masterful arranging that takes full advantage of an excellent band: trumpeters Woody Shaw and Dizzy Reece, trombonist Julian Priester, Bob Northern on French horn, Howard Johnson doubling on tuba and bass clarinet, the amazing (and amazingly underrated) Joe Farrell on soprano and alto sax, alto flute, bass clarinet and English horn, and a killer rhythm section of Hill (piano), bassist Ron Carter, and a very young Lenny White on drums.
1970
Miles Davis: Bitches Brew (Columbia) This was the first Miles Davis album I heard, and I was so not ready for it. I found it at the Salvation Army store when I was in high school. I'd heard of it, it was cheap, I played it once and had no idea what was going on. In my college years, my ears having been opened to hearing music of greater density, I revisited it and was finally able to parse it, at least somewhat. It continues to offer new vistas every time I play it. There's so much to love and admire, but what always strikes me as the “secret weapon" is Bennie Maupin's chiaroscuro bass clarinet.
1971
Rahsaan Roland Kirk: Blacknuss (Atlantic) This was a little more my speed when I was in high school. I first heard some of it on a Long Island rock radio station ("The Old Rugged Cross" in particular), back when freeform radio was less concerned with genre boundaries. It was funky, it was jazzy, it was gospelly, and it exuded charisma. I might at this point slightly prefer Volunteered Slavery or Bright Moments, but this was my introduction to Rahsaan and will always have special meaning to me.
1972
Julius Hemphill: Coon Bidness (Freedom) In 1980, a writer named Len Lyons had a book entitled The 101 Best Jazz Albums: A History of Jazz on Records published by William Morrow & Co. A few years later, looking to more systematically expand my jazz collection/knowledge, I got it and not only read it cover to cover but began using it like a checklist. And not just the 101 albums of the title, either; after each chapter covering an era or style with its albums on the 101-length list, there was also a section of additional recommendations. I was going through those and checking them off too. One of the things I noticed was that LPs on the Arista-distributed label Freedom regularly blew my mind. And after all the players and bands in the “Free Jazz" chapter, there came “MISCELLANEOUS," wherein this album (which has also been issued alternatively titled Reflections) was listed. Taking up all of side two is “The Hard Blues," which is THE JAM. If there is one thing on this list that most people haven't heard but MUST HEAR, and which I hasten to add will appeal to a broad spectrum of listeners thanks to its deep grounding in, yes, the blues, THIS IS IT. (Sorry for shouting.)
1973
Sun Ra Arkestra: Pathways to Unknown Worlds (Evidence [originally Saturn/Impulse!]) I bought this as a cheap cut-out and was stunned by the fiery power of Marshall Allen's screaming alto sax and the way Eloe Omoe (AKA Leroy Taylor) burbles and screams with unfettered energy on bass clarinet at the beginning of “Extension Out" for three-and-a-half minutes over a polyrhythmic bed laid down by multiple drummers. Pathways quickly became one of the LPs I played for friends to hip them to something special. Eventually I would experience Sun Ra and his Arkestra in concert multiple times and be at his last recording session (Billy Bang's A Tribute to Stuff Smith on Soul Note, for which label I was working at the time (1992)). The Magic City, earlier in Sun Ra's career and thus more historically important in the history of free improvisation, gets more press (rather a relative situation when the topic is free jazz), but it's not as powerful as this aptly titled album.
1974
Cecil Taylor: Silent Tongues (Freedom) Another Freedom LP, this one firmly among Lyons's 101 rather than an afterthought. For a pianist, even one so limited as myself, this solo improvisation, recorded live at the Montreux Jazz Festival, provides a revelatory vision of a new approach to piano. Nor is it just the percussive pounding that detractors would have us think; there's real lyricism, made all the more moving by contrast within the context of his style, which is perhaps as related to the European atonal avant-garde as to jazz (though I disagree with the critic Stanley Crouch and his cohort when they say that Taylor's music is not jazz). The lines he sculpt exude physicality, a strong sense of movement (he said he was influenced by modern dance); they are not random, having their own inner logic and deep beauty.
1975
Keith Jarrett: The Köln Concert (ECM) This was the point at which I started picking up jazz albums not as historical items, but as relatively recent releases (within a year or two or three of issue, at least). A big thank-you to whoever at the Bay Shore Public Library was purchasing cool stuff like this for the collection. I took it home, drove my mom crazy playing it on the living room stereo (for her, jazz stopped after swing), and then drove her even crazier trying my own hand at rhapsodic solo piano improvisation. If you want to understand tension and release in music, this is Exhibit A.
1976
Ornette Coleman: Dancing in Your Head (A&M) I understood at some point in my college self-education about jazz that Ornette's '60s quartet was Very Important Stuff. But this was more current; this was what was being debated/touted in music magazines and Village Voice columns. This was (more or less) the Ornette band that I could see in action, multiple times, and whose members' (especially guitarist Bern Nix, bassist Jamaaladeen Tacuma, and drummer Ronald Shannon Jackson) own projects I sought out. I related to it not as jazz history, but as jazz as it was happening in the present.
1977
Weather Report: Heavy Weather (Columbia) “Birdland," the most popular tune on this album led by veterans of Miles Davis's band, was played even on rock stations, and covered by ambitions college fusion bands. Desperate to give it a shot myself, I plugged my electric piano into my stereo system and managed a pretty good imitation of Joe Zawinul's opening bass synth notes—until my poor little speakers couldn't take the strain and blew out. No matter: the idea of tuneful fusion that was about more than playing lots of notes really fast—and that featured keyboards rather than guitar!—was inspiring.
1978
Pat Metheny Group: s/t (ECM) Even more tuneful fusion, played even more frequently on rock stations. (Oh WLIR, how I miss your halcyon '70s era.) But while some snobs looked down on Metheny (and even more his keyboardist, Lyle Mays), I could not so easily dismiss such catchiness. And generally in the decades since, Pat has (except for a few albums overly Brazilian-influenced) always skirted smooth-jazz banalities. There's a bright cheeriness here that is beyond category.
1979
Betty Carter: The Audience with Betty Carter (Verve [orig. Bet-Car]) There were earlier Betty Carter albums I bought and loved; all of her '70s releases on her own Bet-Car label are brilliant. But if there's one track that can be used to convert people into Carter fans by showing how much more than a “jazz singer" she is—how much she wields her voice like an instrumentalist—it is the 25-minute up-tempo excursion on “Sounds (Movin' On)" that kicks off this double album. Accompanied by the superb trio of pianist John Hicks, bassist Curtis Lundy, and drummer Kenny Washington, she seems more like a horn fronting a quartet than like a singer, not just when she's scatting (and she's one of the greatest scat singers ever!) but even when singing the words and melodies of her original compositions. There's an ecstasy here that's more like speaking in tongues than mere songs. And she can sing standards like nobody else as well.
1980
World Saxophone Quartet: Revue (Black Saint) Around this time the WSQ took jazz by storm. The idea of a band consisting entirely of four horn players (Hamiet Bluiett, Julius Hemphill, Oliver Lake, and David Murray), with no rhythm section, was so audacious it seemed it couldn't possibly work, it must be a gimmick, and yet not only did it keep working for many albums, it reached the point that when they did work with drums, the drums seemed like an unnecessary intrusion—a gimmick. Funny how things work out. Anyway, this (their fourth, I think) was the first WSQ album I bought, based on a rave review in The Village Voice, and before the multi-facted title track had finished playing, I was hooked. The sheer gravitational pull and funkiness of Bluiett's bass lines on baritone saxophone was enough by itself to convert me; equally amazing were the luscious textures of their chordal passages, and the way the upper horns (not just saxophones; everybody doubled on something else, a clarinet or flute of some range or other, ensuring plenty of variety of timbre) twittered as they wove around each other, a joyous explosion like birdsong that held within it the intensity of cacophony even within tonality—though yes, they could get quite “free" when appropriate. The following decade, it was my privilege to work for Black Saint in the brief period when that Italian label opened a New York office.
1981
David Murray Octet: Home (Black Saint) Working for Black Saint (or, more precisely, for Sphere Marketing, which distributed the sister labels Black Saint and Soul Note, other Italian labels manufactured by the company that owned BS/SN, and Japanese labels owned or related to the DIW store/label) exposed me to just how amazingly prolific WSQ tenor saxophonist/bass clarinetist David Murray was. In the 19 years from 1978 (Black Saint's first Murray LP) through 1996 (my last year at Sphere), he recorded 17 albums for Black Saint, 25 for DIW—and at least another 11 for other labels, probably more, but I have 11. He made five albums for DIW just in January '88! Of that outpouring of 53 albums, only four weren't good. The ones for octet tend to be particularly good, with this one (including fellow saxophone pioneer Henry Threadgill) a prime example.
1982
Ronald Shannon Jackson & the Decoding Society: Mandance (Antilles/Island) Frankly, I like Jackson's Decoding Society even more than Ornette's Prime Time. And on this album, he seemed (in my young and naïve mind) poised to take over the world. The compositions with their intertwining lines, organic dissonances, and amazing polyrhythms seemed like the jazz complement to the post-punk/no wave bands thriving in NYC at the same time. Part of me is still amazed, almost three decades later, that Jackson didn't break through.
1983
James “Blood" Ulmer: Odyssey (Columbia) Ulmer made his reputation playing with Ornette Coleman, but almost crossed over to a rock audience in the early '80s with his fierce guitar playing, winning over even more of the post-punk/no wave crowd than Jackson (he even had an album on the ultimate post-punk label, Rough Trade). Then he pulled back a little with this trio with violinist Charles Burnham and drummer Warren Benbow, lessening the ferocity but deepening the blues roots. It's acquired such a legendary aura over the years since that even major label Columbia felt obliged to reissue it on CD, the only one of his three albums for them that got that well-deserved honor (a European label briefly issued Black Rock on CD, well worth tracking down; Free Lancing is still vinyl-only, so buy a turntable).
1984
Gil Evans & the Monday Night Orchestra: Live at Sweet Basil, vols. 1 & 2 (Evidence [orig. King (Japan)]) One of the traditions of the NYC jazz scene is that on Mondays, the slow night when many clubs don't have major bookings, the top musicians gather around some legendary focal point to form a big band (big bands traditionally not considered money-making ventures by the clubs) and play more for love of the experience than for money (if any). For a while in the '80s, that focal point was legendary arranger Gil Evans. But these were not the precise arrangements of his '50s work with Miles Davis; these were loose, jamming affairs with Evans on (mostly electric) piano and an ever-morphing lineup that, this time out, had Hiram Bullock on guitar, Pete Levin on synthesizer, Mark Egan on electric bass, Adam Nussbaum on kit and Mino Cinelu on small percussion laying down fat beats, and some of the city's top horn players, notably trumpeters Lew Soloff and Hannibal Marvin Peterson and tenor saxophonist George Adams. But Evans's imaginative ears for texture still clearly guided them, most spectacularly on the arrangement of Hendrix's “Voodoo Chile" where Howard Johnson (who appears on several albums on this list) gives the famous riff a wild and wooly ride on tuba. These two albums overflow with joy.
1985
Cassandra Wilson: Point of View (JMT) This album, Wilson's first as leader, is not only on this list on its own merits, it also stands in for several other favorite artists I couldn't squeeze in on their own: alto saxophonist Steve Coleman, veteran trombonist Grachan Moncur III, and guitarist Jean-Paul Bourelly, all contributing here as both players and composers. Aside from the older Moncur, they were the brash leaders of the so-called M-BASE scene, which created a distinctive new kind of fusion with herky-jerky rhythms and melodies. Coleman's prototypical World Expansion and Bourelly's funky Jungle Cowboy are equally excellent.
1986
Last Exit: The Noise of Trouble (Enemy) Last Exit was a noise-jazz all-star quartet of guitarist Sonny Sharrock, German saxophonist Peter Brötzmann, bassist Bill Laswell, and drummer Ronald Shannon Jackson. The sheer raw power and improvisatory furor they could generate was overwhelming; all but one of their albums was recorded in concert. This one, built from a pair of gigs in Tokyo, Japan, includes guests Akira Sakata (alto sax, clarinet) and Herbie Hancock (piano), and is slightly less dense and unremitting than some of their earlier releases, because it often features Sharrock's bluesy compositions instead of pure free improv. One of the greatest live albums in any genre, ever, an ear-blistering effort loved not only by free jazz aficionados but also by adventurous hardcore punk fans.
1987
John Stubblefield: Countin' on the Blues (Enja) Most of the albums on this list are by famous people. Yes, some of them are only famous to jazz fans, but to this point, the only leader whose name might draw a blank with the average jazz fan would be Ronald Shannon Jackson. But jazz players can be great without being widely thought of as great. Tenor/soprano saxophonist John Stubblefield is perhaps best known as a sideman, having played on albums by everyone from Miles Davis, McCoy Tyner, and Sam Rivers to Anthony Braxton, Lester Bowie, and Nat Adderley; in his last decade, he was prominent in the Mingus Big Band tribute group that played Monday nights, both as soloist and arranger. He only released six albums as a leader, mostly on European labels. But he had his fans; famous aficionados who valued his contributions enough to visit him in the hospital as he was dying of prostate cancer included Bill Cosby and former President Bill Clinton. And when he did have sessions or club gigs (no matter how small the club) as a leader, you can bet he made the most of them. There were several albums recorded in 1987 that I was strongly tempted to include here, especially two excellent Bill Frisell projects, his ECM album Lookout for Hope and his trio with bassist Melvin Gibbs and Shannon Jackson Power Tools' Strange Meeting (Antilles). And yet, I love this obscure Stubblefield album (with Hamiet Bluiett, pianist Mulgrew Miller, bassist Charnett Moffett, and drummer Victor Lewis) every bit as much, and so will you if you enjoy soulful modal jazz. I also treasure his two other Enja albums, Bushman Song and (especially) Morning Song, and his Soul Note album Confessin'.
1988
Don Pullen: New Beginnings (Blue Note) Though he recorded more prolifically as a leader, Pullen's career could have been roughly the same as Stubblefield's (straddling the mainstream/avant cusp and esteemed in both camps, Mingus connection, mostly on European labels including Black Saint/Soul Note, respected sideman)—except Pullen won the major-label lottery and got to spend the last decade of his career on Blue Note. I mean no denigration of Pullen by that, of course; he'd totally earned the opportunity. The point is that in the '80s a label such as Blue Note only had so many slots available for players of that ilk, and someone (presumably producer Michael Cuscuna) happened to give Pullen that call. And Pullen, to his credit, grabbed that chance with both hands and took full advantage (don't think he would've lasted that decade if he hadn't). Of his eight Blue Note albums, this is one of the best, partly because he's teamed with the superb rhythm section of bassist Gary Peacock and drummer Tony Williams, partly because in the trio format Pullen's piano fireworks (lots of tone clusters and glissandi, but in a broadly appealing tonal context) have plenty of room to shine, and especially because of a particularly catchy bunch of original compositions.
1989
Naked City: s/t (Nonesuch) This quintet of saxophonist John Zorn, guitarist Bill Frisell, Fred Frith (here mostly on bass), keyboardist Wayne Horvitz, and drummer Joey Baron (here and elsewhere with Yamatsuka Eye of Japan's noise-punk band Boredoms contributing a few screaming vocals) exists outside of genre boundaries. Among the 26 tracks there are bursts of noise, a majestically shimmering take on Georges Delerue's great theme for Contempt, arrangements of soundtrack themes by Ennio Morricone, Henry Mancini, Johnny Mandel, Jerry Goldsmith (Chinatown), and John Barry (James Bond theme), surf-rock, warped jazz (Ornette Coleman's “Lonely Woman" crossed with the theme from Peter Gunn), something like jazz speed metal, and style-hopping ditties that jump from country to hardcore to honky-tonk to more hardcore, from New Orleans to lounge to funk to jump blues and back. And more, much more. It's one wild ride.
1990
Dianne Reeves: I Remember (Blue Note) The product of multiple 1988 and '90 sessions with a variety of accompanists; I put it in 1990 because my favorite tracks—a very groovy “Afro Blue," a pensive reading of Stephen Sondheim's “I Remember Sky" with beautiful piano from Billy Childs, and a dramatic “Love for Sale" —come from the two '90 sessions. Besides Childs, Bobby Hutcherson, Greg Osby, Donald Brown, Mulgrew Miller, Charnett Moffett, Marvin “Smitty" Smith, Kevin Eubanks, Terri Lyne Carrington, and more are used, making this one very hip jazz vocal album, but that would mean nothing if Reeves weren't so hip herself, endowed with a great voice, and talented enough to decorate her singing with exquisite inflection and phrasing. She alternated jazz albums like this with high-class R&B albums, equally comfortable in either.
1991
David S. Ware Quartet: Flight of i (DIW/Columbia, 12/10-11/91) Here was a new sound to blow my mind. Ware (mentored by Sonny Rollins early on) united two strands of free jazz: the powerfully full-toned tenor sax blower, and the intellectual craftsman. The combination proved oddly accessible. The opening track, “Aquarian Sound," sports an irresistible modal groove driven by bassist William Parker's ostinato and drummer Mark Edwards's gently propulsive polyrhythms. There are two familiar standards, “There Will Never Be Another You" and “Yesterdays." The amazing title track finds Ware sustaining a circular-breathing solo of fierce intensity over pianist Matthew Shipp's Scriabinesque, bell-like harmonies. The epic “Infi-Rhythms #1" sports an almost minimalist theme that nonetheless inspires many shifting textures. Ware and the next man on this list quickly became my go-to saxophonists on New York's then-thriving downtown scene.
1992
Charles Gayle: Repent (Knitting Factory) Thanks to Steve Dalachinsky for hipping me a year earlier to Gayle, a tenor sax force of nature. Then the Knitting Factory gave him a regular Monday night gig, and it became, for a small circle of free jazz fanatics, the place to be. This album was the first released result of that residency, conveying the sheer sonic power and unfettered freedom better than his previous albums, all studio affairs. If Gayle's young rhythm section couldn't keep up with him, well, that was easy to overlook. (It was an interesting time in NYC: the artist I saw nearly as frequently as Gayle, because he also had a regular residency at a club, was 87-year-old trumpeter Doc Cheatham, who also put out an album recorded in '92, The 87 Years of Doc Cheatham (Columbia).)
1993
Joe Morris: Symbolic Gesture (Soul Note) Morris is the most original jazz guitarist of the past two decades. He doesn't chord, just plays serpentine, horn-like lines and the occasional cluster. He manages to swing while routinely deploying unusual meters and phrase lengths (even when his pieces are 4/4, they don't sound like it). And he led one of the most telepathically cohesive trios (with bassist Nate McBride and drummer Curt Newton) of the era. Without ever imitating Ornette Coleman, he and they often recall the askew lines and turn-on-a-dime ensemble of Ornette's classic quartet. This was Morris's first album on a label other than his own Riti Records, and felt like a giant step forward both musically (though his first two albums were already superb) and reputationally. He's never looked back, never been satisfied with his work, never stopped questing for new sounds.
1994 Thomas Chapin Trio: Menagerie Dreams (Knitting Factory) Not my favorite Chapin album (that's his unintended swan song, Sky Piece, recorded a year and a half before he died of leukemia at age 40), but the first one that I loved, and a better reminder of his incredible energy. It also shows his instrumental versatility (alto, mezzo-soprano, and baritone saxophones plus flute) and his long-time partnership with bassist Mario Pavone and drummer Michael Sarin. Thomas, we miss you.
1995
Yusef Lateef & Adam Rudolph: The World at Peace: Music for 12 Musicians (YAL & Meta) This two-CD set was a joint release by the leaders' own labels. A massive major work packed with innovative compositional processes, it's not just the highlight of Lateef's quite productive '90s output, it's one of the finest albums of his more than six-decade career, and a landmark in drummer Adam Rudolph's superbly creative work as well. Lateef, always versatile, is heard here on tenor sax, flute, shenai, bamboo flutes, and voice (a mere fraction of his instrumental arsenal). The band is a mix of Lateef's longtime associates, such as the also-versatile hornmen Ralph Jones and Charles Moore, and Rudolph's Los Angeles cohorts; their cohesiveness in a concert setting is a marvel.
1996
Richie Beirach: The Snow Leopard (Evidence) My favorite Beirach album is his solo Antarctica (Evidence), but I had the privilege of writing the liner notes for The Snow Leopard, which got me the greater privilege of hanging out at his apartment for an afternoon. I soaked up his listening suggestions like a sponge, not least his advice to seek out classical composer Federico Mompou's own recordings of his solo piano music. Most of the times I've been turned on to music, I probably would've found my way to it through another route eventually, but maybe not Mompou, and certainly not as soon nor as thoroughly. Thanks again Richie. And thanks for your own great music as well, of which The Snow Leopard is one my top five faves.
1997
Shirley Horn: I Remember Miles (Verve) Horn was one of the great ballad singers, understated yet seductive, never merely coy, always deeply expressive of the words, and a superb self-accompanist on piano. And her tribute to Miles was deeply felt: they were friends and mutual admirers; he had her open for him, and adopted some of her standard repertoire for his album Seven Steps to Heaven. Those songs, several favorites from Porgy and Bess, and other Miles-associated songs were, as the CD jacket rightly put it, reclaimed here, none with more audacious imagination than “My Man's Gone Now," based not on his '50s version but on his radically extended fusion version from the '80s. It wouldn't be a '90s Verve album without a plethora of “special guests," but only Toots Thielemans annoys (harmonica on “Summertime"? Could it get more obviously corny?), and trumpeter Roy Hargrove evokes memories of Miles without being slavishly imitative about it. All of Horn's albums are wonderfully intimate affairs, but this one's extra special.
1998 Ron Sunshine & Full Swing: Straight Up (Daddy-O/Royalty) And sometimes I love an album not only for its inherent musicality, but also because the musician's a friend. Not somebody I've met through the business and become friendly with, but someone I knew when he or she was starting out. Ron Sunshine started as a harmonica sideman who would occasionally sing a song, working in blues and then swing; when the swing revival of the late '90s hit, he was perfectly positioned to take advantage of it, and he's still making a full-time living as a musician. How'd I meet Ron? I was working as a guard at his girlfriend's dormitory and he'd come downstairs in the morning and always hear me listening to my tape player, and we ended up talking. That's how music lovers are.
1999
Steven Bernstein: Diaspora Soul (Tzadik) Trumpeter Steven Bernstein's another long-time friend, since college. More than anything except perhaps his incredible work ethic, what's made him the musician he is today is the sheer breadth of his music: he will play any style if he has something to say in it. So his music mixes 1920s jazz with free jazz, James Bond soundtrack themes, pop songs, klezmer, blues, Balkan music, New Orleans R&B, and more. Hybrid vigor!
2000
Wesla Whitfield: Let's Get Lost: The Songs of Jimmy McHugh (HighNote) One more friend, but not so much Wesla, though we're friendly, as her husband and pianist Mike Greensill, who I met on a now-defunct message board where jazz fans argued about issues big and small and gave their opinions about what they were listening to. Well, not only is Mike a fine pianist who with Wesla has a knack for creating excellent album programs, he's also a baseball fan and beer connoisseur. That's a winning trifecta if you ask me. And Wesla inhabits the border between jazz and cabaret, delivering lyrics (and monolog interludes) with wit and erudition and the sort of low-key emotion that hits all the harder for its restraint. Their devotion to The Great American Songbook has yielded many wonderful albums, few greater than this one.
2001
Martial Solal: NY1: Live at the Village Vanguard (Blue Note) First off, Martial Solal is one of the greatest pianists alive, though the U.S.-centric jazz world only notices that in fits and spurts because he's based in France. His trio here, with bassist François Moutin and drummer Bill Stewart, is superb. But this album was recorded in NYC a week after 9/11. You think that didn't ratchet up the stakes a little? After that tragic event, a little musical catharsis was called for, and he delivered.
2002
Mal Waldron: One More Time (Sketch/Harmonia Mundi) There were three other Mal Waldron/Steve Lacy collaborations I considered for this list (the duos Live at Dreher Paris, vols. 1-2 (hatOLOGY, '81) and Communique (Soul Note, '94—I was privileged to write its liner notes) and the quintet Hard Talk (Enja, '74)), but I went with one made as Waldron stared death in the face and, musically speaking, didn't flinch. Though Lacy is not nearly as prominent here as on their other work together: there are two solo piano tracks, bassist Jean-Jacques Avenel duets with Waldron on four (including a dually credited free improvisation), and Lacy joins them on “You" and “Soul Eyes." The solo pieces find Waldron looked over the edge of the abyss, their stark beauty unnerving but uplifting. In contrast, the tracks with Lacy are loving, even nostalgic; “Soul Eyes" is one of Waldron's oldest and most famous pieces. Waldron's liner note (in its entirety) states, “Measured against eternity, our life span is very short, so I am extremely happy to have this record as a high point of mine." It truly is a high point.
2003
Dave Burrell Full-Blown Trio: Expansion (High Two) Burrell's another jazz lifer whose profile has never been as big as his talents or the admiration his fellow players have for him. Like the older Jaki Byard, Burrell is a pianist whose style covers all of jazz history, and who can pivot between atonality and stuff Fats Waller might've found hokey. Teamed with William Parker and Andrew Cyrille for something of a dream trio, he leans more towards his avant side, though with a lighter touch than many piano avant-gardists. That said, the literal centerpiece of the album is a solo stride version of Irving Berlin's “They Say It's Wonderful," more than a bit reminiscent of some of Thelonious Monk's solo old-time excursions in its dry wit and ironically squared-off rhythms. At the time, it was just his second album in an 11-year period, and a most welcome comeback.
2004
Billy Bang: Vietnam Reflections (Justin Time) On the spectrum of avant-identified jazz violinists, Bang's on the bluesier end, his playing rarely as abstractly knotty as his teacher Leroy Jenkins's. He's made many fine albums; what made this one stand out was his use of several traditional Vietnamese songs, complete with two Vietnamese musicians. As an Army veteran of the Vietnam War, he'd started working out his feelings about the experience on his previous album; here he moved past the nightmares and worked for cultural reconciliation. But even without those striking tracks, this would be a toughly tender modal jazz album featuring a sterling supporting cast of trumpeter Ted Daniel, drummer Michael Carvin, percussionist Ron Brown, conductor Butch Morris (all fellow Vietnam vets), alto saxophonist/flutist James Spaulding, flutist Henry Threadgill, pianist John Hicks, and bassist Curtis Lundy. But Bang's still the focal point with his gritty fiddling and tensile compositions.
2005
Ran Blake: All That Is Tied (Tompkins Square) A pianist who created a highly personal style outside of the popular Herbie Hancock/Oscar Peterson/McCoy Tyner/Bill Evans templates, influenced by Thelonious Monk but not imitative, Blake is one of the supreme solo pianists of our time. “Unique" is an overused term, but Blake fully merits it: nobody else plays piano like him. He had long concentrated on solo playing, but over the previous decade had ramped up his collaborations. Going it alone again on this album, his playing had a bit more bite than usual but was still full of quietly concentrated beauty, film-noir shadows, and a vein of quirkily expressed soul.
2006 McCoy Tyner Quartet: s/t (Half Note) There have been many years along this list that could have been filled with a Tyner album. He's so consistent—he's only ever made two albums I didn't like, out of dozens—that I had the luxury of slotting him in where it was convenient. And this IS an excellent album, with Joe Lovano at the top of his game as the lone horn (as usual he plays best on other people's gigs). With bassist Christian McBride and drummer Jeff “Tain" Watts (on his best behavior) rounding out the band, this date is by turns fiery and magisterial in its improvisational brilliance and motivic power, with Tyner still at the top of his game.
2007
William Parker: Double Sunrise over Neptune (AUM Fidelity) Bassist William Parker—whoops, excuse me, I believe that it's part of the jazz reviewer's code to refer to him as “ubiquitous bassist William Parker." But, while it's true he's already been mentioned on several records on this list, and true that there was a time when it seemed he was playing in someone's band every night, he was in that much demand because of how his creative wellspring flowed so freely, and that helped make him a perfect band leader as well, and a superb writer for the many ensembles he's led. This performance at the 2007 Vision Festival (founded by Parker and his wife, dancer Patricia Nicholson Parker) is an even greater achievement than his already high norm, however, helped by an all-star band with Rob Brown, Barnes, Bill Cole, Sabir Mateen, Dave Sewelson, Jason Hwang, Mazz Swift, Jessica Pavone, Shiau-Shu Yu, Joe Morris, Brahim Frigbane, Sangeeta Bandyopadhyay, Shayna Dulberger, Gerald Cleaver, and Hamid Drake. Bursting with emotional breadth and humble ambition, this is one of the great free jazz albums.
2008
Anthony Braxton/William Parker/Milford Graves: Beyond Quantum (Tzadik) One of the most imaginative alto saxophonists of the avant-garde, Braxton records prolifically, but too often in contexts that don't particularly suit him (on piano, or on standards), and often with younger accompanists who aren't his equals. So this was a welcome all-star outing in a firmly avant and altoistic setting. It's also refreshing to hear him moving unfettered in free improvisation; his complex compositions are fascinating, but cut loose in the moment, he has an energy and momentum that he sometimes loses touch with. Thanks to producer Bill Laswell and label owner John Zorn for enabling this invigorating session.
2009
David S. Ware: Saturnian (solo saxophones, volume 1) (AUM Fidelity) This was Ware's return concert after a kidney transplant. It was not just a triumph of spirit—under the circumstances, is their a more audacious comeback possible than a solo saxophone concert?—but of unshakeable musicality and improvisatory creativity in the one musical format in which there truly is no net. I was there. It was a special evening.
2010
Matthew Shipp: Art of the Improviser (Thirsty Ear Blue Series) Shipp has been heard from here as an integral part of the David S. Ware Quartet, but his work as a leader and as a solo act has been equally fruitful over the past quarter century. I'm especially partial to his trio albums By the Law of Music (Hat Art, '97) and The Multiplication Table (Hatology, '98, liner notes by yours truly) and the solo outings Symbol Systems (No More, '95) and One (Thirsty Ear Blue Series, 2005). This new two-CD set, recorded at concerts, has a solo disc and a trio disc and provides the most up-to-date documentation of his ever-evolving style, notably the suite-like way he frames his solo improvisations amid compositions and the occasional standard. The quicksilver shifting of textures makes it seem like a particularly interactive sort of listening experience.
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