Recently passed jazz greats, saxophonist James Moody
and pianist Hank Jones
, were both fortunate enough to be making solid, vital recordings right up to the ends of their lives. Moody's 4A
(IPO, 2009) and 4B
(IPO, 2010) were as well-played as any he ever recorded, and Jones, who was still active in his last year at the age of 92, was the quintessential jazz classicista person younger musicians turned to when they wanted to hear something played right.
Of course, neither Moody or Jones were the first musicians to leave us for that big gig in the sky. With over a hundred years of recorded jazz available in virtually every format imaginable there are an inestimable number of 78s, albums, CDs, digital files- -you name itfrom thousands of artists representing millions of performance hours. And, as sad as it is to say, most of those musicians are now deceased. Duke Ellington
, Miles Davis
, Ben Webster
, Bud Powell
and all the rest are like ghosts speaking to us across the ages, living on through their recorded performances. Some, like Charlie Parker
or Clifford Brown
, have been lionized posthumously for far longer than they were ever active as working performers. Like it or not, most of the greatest artists ever to play this music are never going to be heard in a club or hall ever again. Thank goodness, then, for the art of recorded music.
Moody and Jones' coda recordings were of exceptionally high quality, which begs the question: Who else left that last masterpiece in evidence of their undiminished skill and swing? (OK, to be fair, the answer to this question alone could fill an encyclopedia.) Who else went out with their horn held high, and their toes tapping?
Scanning the dusty racks of vinyl finds three good candidates, all by musicians of the same generation, and coincidentally all on the same label: Norman Granz
's 1970's imprint, Pablo. In the pantheon of jazz stars Roy Eldridge
, Coleman Hawkins
and Count Basie
shine as bright as anyone ever did. All three made recordings, late in their careers, that stand up today and compare well with recordings each made during their heydays.
When tenor man Hawkins died in 1969, his health had been in decline for some years. Various biographies suggest that he'd been drinking more and he seems to have suffered from a form of dementia. In that context, his last recording session from December 20th, 1966, yielding the posthumously released album Sirius
, is sometimes derided as unworthy: a portrait of a great musician whose horn had tarnished with age. Hawk's fingering seems a little slower, but his tone, his expressiveness and his deep blues all remain powerfully intact. In fact, when he duets with pianist Barry Harris
on "Time on My Hands," his saxophone is so emotive that it almost sounds as if he's crying through it. Harris lays out completely for a few bars, leaving Hawkins blowing alone in an audible space. It's sad, poignant and beautiful, and quite possibly the most overtly emotional thing Hawkins ever recorded.
In 1983 the Kid from Red Bank, Count Basie, cut a pair of albums on Pablo. One of them, the full big-band session 88 Basie Street
, has since become a lauded jazz and audiophile classic. The other one, Mostly Blues...And Some Others
, is a more modest affair, featuring a septet, but may be more illustrative of Basie as a musician. Always known as a spare pianist, preferring a few perfectly placed notes to a torrent of sound, Mostly Blues
is that rare recording where Basie takes equal time with his sidemen, comping vigorously for them, but also taking ample time in the lead. He intersperses his signature single-note accents over a boogie line behind Joe Pass
and Eddie Davis
on, "Blues for Charlie Christian
," and then opens, "Jaws," with a lengthy blue intro that showcases his minimalist grandeur, even as he sets the stage for Davis to workout. Basie's playing is prominent on every track. It's a shame that Basie didn't record more small-group dates during his lifetime because his piano is just pure pleasure to hear. William Basie died less than a year after this recording was made, having maintained his performance standards to the end.
There are recordings of Roy Eldridge
playing the blues that have Louis Armstrong
written all over them, and while he never embraced bebop, he was also quite at home playing among the post-war modernists. Dizzy Gillespie
readily acknowledged his influence, and the two played together with some regularity over thirty years. But Eldridge was a swing trumpeter at heart. What It's All About
, recorded in 1976, channels Eldridge's big band rootsmusic that would have been at home at the Apollo in its primebut updated to incorporate the intervening thirty years. Side A is a swing date, pure and simple, and the band just cooks. "The Heats On" features a fast muted solo, before handing off to the saxophones of Norris Tunney and Budd Johnson
. But Eldridge comes back for a recap with the mute off, releasing that warm brass sound that was Eldridge's aloneas distinctive and unique as Gillespie, Armstrong, or any other trumpet player.
Eldridge's skills as a composer are also on display, most notably with, "That Thing," a vamp blues with a memorable horn arrangement. Side B shakes things up by adding the consummate bebopper, vibraphonist Milt Jackson
to the mix, and it proves illustrative. The combination seamlessly blends styles of both eras. "Melange," another Eldridge original is a swing statement bugle call that bows to a lengthy blues jam in the finest tradition of jazz musicians of any era. The performance is flawless, the music is timeless, and Roy Eldridge makes a bold case for his brand of jazz.
There are surely thousands of albums cut by musicians in their later years, and these three represent just a small sliver of that output. James Moody
and Hank Jones
may have been the most recently lauded musicians to receive posthumous accolades, but they are by no means the first to deserve it. Jazz is full of ghosts, and many of them have left great stories to tell through late, if underappreciated recordings.
The Count Basie Trio, For the First Time
(Pablo, 1974) Coleman Hawkins and Roy Eldridge, At the Opera House