Dave Burrell / Sam Woodyard: The Lost Session, Paris 1979

A lot of hoohah gets thrown around about legendary lost dates, but few live up to the billing. But The Lost Session by pianist Dave Burrell and drummer Sam Woodyard assuredly does. During the summer of 1979, Burrell had a three-month stand at the Campagne Premiere Club in Paris, which allowed him to fully explore and refine the series of pieces that would ultimately comprise his solo masterpiece Windward Passages (Hat Hut, 1980). But here he did so in the company of Woodyard, a veteran of Duke Ellington's Orchestra, who joined him every night.

In a sense, the meeting embodies an often overlooked connection between the 1960s avant-garde and an earlier era. Burrell was one of the few pianists to participate in the new Fire Music, with leaders like Archie Shepp, Marion Brown and Pharoah Sanders. Woodyard played with Ellington from 1955 to 1966, and subsequently with Ella Fitzgerald. That they came together at all is remarkable. That they did so for three months is astonishing. That it was possible is thanks to Burrell's inclusive philosophy, summed up in the title of a 1975 album with drummer Beaver Harris and the 360 Music Experience: From Ragtime To No Time (360 Music).

The performance here reveals Burrell's tunes as often catchy and, with Woodyard on board, invariably swinging. Burrell himself possesses a sure sense of time, allowing the drummer the leeway to accent and comment, which he does with an impeccable elegance. A relaxed after-hours ease pervades the disc, with both men in an exuberant mood. Burrell prances and sparkles across the keyboard, scattering blue notes and dissonant Monkish digressions with abandon. At times, he holds onto phrases for just that bit longer than might be anticipated, building a delicious release when he eventually moves on.

Among the standout moments is the pianist's "Punaluu Peter," given a playful rendition in which time is elastic, notwithstanding Woodyard's insistently skipping hihat. "A.M. Rag" passes at hyperspeed, spiced by high-spirited drum fills. A dramatic flourish on floor toms marks the climax of Billy Strayhorn's "Lush Life," while the pair delivers an achingly lyrical account of Gershwin's "Embraceable You." For a recording taken from a cassette copy of a lost master tape, the sound proves surprisingly clear. Burrell overcomes a questionable piano and Woodyard's vocal asides lend an ambience which makes the vibe all the more intimate.

What lingers most in The Lost Session is not the novelty of its rediscovery but the unlikely rapport between two musicians from different worlds. Burrell's pianism absorbs the whole canon of the instrument, while Woodyard grounds the proceedings in a dance pulse no matter how far the music stretches. Their nightly communion, now heard decades later, reminds us that jazz history is less a line of succession than a conversation across generations, still unfolding in real time.