Surprise is the key word in a jam session—surprise at unexpected guests, unusual repertoire, and new musical associations. Jazz works best when the element of surprise is maximized, which is why jam sessions have always been renewing experiences for musicians and, often, breeding grounds for new musical ideas.
This date was a jam session in the true sense of the word. The personnel was a closely guarded secret, and as one member after another strolled in, the air warmed with excitement and anticipation. With each new arrival came laughter and greetings; some were meeting for the first time, others were old friends.
Producer Don Schlitten conceived of this session as a welcome home for Dexter Gordon, a longtime friend and associate. Dexter has made his home in Copenhagen for 14 years, making several trips back to the States. He visited the West Coast in 1975 and Chicago in 1974, but Dexter hadn't appeared in New York since the Newport/New York Jazz Festival of 1972, where he was not featured to advantage.
This time around, however (Fall, 1976), those in the New York area had abundant opportunity to hear him. His appearances at Storyville and the Village Vanguard took on near-mythic status. There was a definite electricity in the air during his visit; it was never long before the focus of any jazz conversation turned to Dexter.
For this recording, Schlitten wanted an ensemble that was large enough to provide solo variety and contrast, yet one small enough to operate without written arrangements.
thereby preserving the spontaneous quality of the jam session he had in mind. Al Cohn became the other half of the reed section. Cohn, who is roughly three years Gordon's junior, began his career in the 1940s with a variety of big-band work, including periods with the orchestras of George Auld, Buddy Rich, and Artie Shaw, and time as a member (with Stan Getz, Zoot Sims, and Serge Chaloff) of the "four brothers" sax section of Woody Herman's band of 1948-1949. In the 1950s, Al became quite active as a freelance arranger for commercial bands and orchestras, as well as carrying on his jazz activities. In 1957 he began to perform regularly in a group that he co-led with Zoot Sims. The late sixties saw the demise of their band, although they continued to make periodic appearances together.
Counterbalancing this tenor madness are two trumpeters with deep roots in the Fats Navarro/Clifford Brown tradition. Blue Mitchell was born in Miami, Florida, in 1930. He recorded extensively in the fifties and sixties, spending six years with one of Horace Silver's finest groups, along with Junior Cook. In the late sixties, he travelled to the West Coast with Ray Charles' band and found the climate, musically and physically, to his liking; he has made his base there since. In the early 1970s, Blue spent a period with John Mayall's blues band, as well as working a lot around the Los Angeles area with men like Teddy Edwards, Jack Sheldon, Dolo Coker, Bill Berry, and Harold Land. Blue had been planning to return to California when he got the call from Don Schlitten for this date; he stayed in town an extra week to make it.
Sam Noto is a brilliant player whose career has only recently begun to yield opportunities for him to be heard as the excellent soloist that he is. Born in Buffalo, New York, in 1930 (it was a good year for trumpet players), Sam went with Stan Kenton's band in 1953, staying until 1960. He had a couple of feature spots with the band, but the experience didn't lend itself to deep jazz involvement, at least as a personal voice. Something of the same thing can be said of a short period he spent with Count Basie's big band in the mid-sixties. After this, for financial reasons, Sam moved to Las Vegas to play in show bands. If Kenton and Basie were frustrating, imagine the scene at the "Golden Sahara Nugget," or wherever.
Barry Harris, Sam Jones, and Louis Hayes first joined forces in early 1960 as the rhythm section of Cannonball Adderley's quintet and recorded an excellent trio album for Riverside at the Jazz Workshop in San Francisco. Barry and Louis are both Detroiters; Harris, born in 1929, is eight years Hayes' senior. Barry was a legend in Detroit, instructing a few younger musicians in the way the music is put together. During the sixties, after coming to New York with Adderley, he led his own bands and trios and was the pianist in Coleman Hawkins' last quartet. Unquestionably, Harris, whose pianistic roots lie in Bud Powell, Art Tatum, and Thelonious Monk, is one of the most sensitive players around. Despite his resolute adherence to this lineage and musical outlook, his touch, time feel, and harmonic approach are immediately identifiable. He is also a remarkable, deep-thinking composer, a fact that gets overlooked in much of the writing about him.
Hayes is an exciting drummer whose talents are put to good use by leaders who like to burn; Horace Silver, as well as Cannonball and Oscar Peterson, come to mind.
Jones, like Blue Mitchell, a Floridian, has played with almost everyone because he is one of the best bass players in the world. It is so important for a bassist to pick notes that complement both what the soloist is doing and the voicings that the pianist is using; Sam has ears like radar. Dig the way he sings behind Blue's solo on How Deep Is The Ocean.
The first tune to be played that day was the Tadd Dameron composition Lady Bird, which, by the way, Barry recorded on his Xanadu Dameron album. As soon as everyone had arrived, the run-through began in earnest, with Dex and Al playing the surging, straight-ahead Dameron line and Sam and Blue playing Miles Davis' sinuous line on the same changes (Half Nelson). The combination works well and can be heard as a duet between Dexter and James Moody on Dexter's album More Power, recorded under Don's guidance for Prestige in the late sixties. After a couple of choruses of warm-up jamming for all, they ran over the closing melody a few times to get the ensemble harmony down. Barry, seated at the piano, ran the horns through it, suggesting alterations in the voicing, alternately frowning and laughing until it sounded right. Finally, they were ready to go.
An eight-bar intro from Barry prefaces the dual melody statement. Dexter solos first. Every phrase he plays rings with the deliberation and exhilaration that commingle in his unspeakably suave approach to the horn. He quotes from Pres' solo on Jive at Five midway through his third chorus before making way for Noto. Sam, by contrast, is a kind of highly strung player, full of overt enthusiasm, chasing ideas wherever they lead, sometimes just shouting to let off steam. His phrases are oblique and darting here. Al comes out preaching with passion and held notes. Cohn has a certain wail in his playing that is totally unique to him; the same can be said for his humor and heart. Blue flows through his two choruses. Within his fantastic swing are a relaxation and shyness that remind me of early Miles. Some of his ideas are ghostly beautiful. Barry, thoughtful and graceful as
always expounds and dances with his customary balance and eloquence. Sam has it for two, and there is a chorus of eight-bar exchanges between the glossy-deep Dameron-sounding ensemble and Hayes before the head is ridden tandem to a glowing close.
Don wanted a ballad featuring all the horns, and one of the tunes that had occurred to him was Irving Berlin's How Deep Is The Ocean. Between takes, Barry, who hadn't been told of the idea, was musing at the keyboard and started playing How Deep; in seconds, so did Dexter. In the pleasant afterglow of that unspoken understanding, the tune was decided upon, and the work of beauty we have here is the result.
Barry starts it off with a short, out-of-tempo introduction, then Sam and Louis join in for Barry's chorus, in which the melody is used as a point of departure for long thoughts. Al is next with an incredibly direct and lyrical solo; again I notice his held notes. They become broader as he holds them and more penetrating and insistent; sometimes they waver and threaten to burst like heavy-bellied clouds. Serge Chaloff had that same way of laying himself completely open. Blue blows a touching, superbly put-together solo; dig how his playing has an ironic edge to it that Al's doesn't here. Dexter plays a thoughtful late-afternoon chorus, not without its own dry humor. Sam Noto soars on wide, airy notes, sometimes introduced by downward sixteenth and thirty-second note swoops. The tune ends after a lovely cadenza from Sam.
For the third time, Don suggested that Blue come up with a blues line, something on the order of his Sir John, which he had recorded several times. True Blue was the result—a funky blues designed to be blown upon. Blue is up first, dancing behind the beat. He plays in a way that encourages a direct response from a rhythm section; his phrases are very answerable. His way with the blues, the particular way he moves from chorus to chorus, as well as his approach to swinging, often puts me in mind of Wardell Gray. Al builds his solo ingeniously, at first humorously implying more than he says, then stomping full-steam ahead. Noto has his say next. He doesn't swing as evenly as Blue, but he is a little more prone to take chances; he comes up with some exquisite ideas here. Dexter forges fourteen irreversible choruses. I remember seeing Al with his eyes closed, smiling during this. Barry is next, driving through a frothy, swaggering solo. Louis gets seven very melodic choruses before the horns return for a few rounds of fours between themselves. Back to Blue's line twice through and out.
Incredibly, this is only half of what went down at the session. Volume two is entitled Silver Blue. Sessions like these are our assurance that wonders will never cease.
-Tom Piazza (1977)
diegodobini2
Dexter Gordon – True Blue (1976)
https://youtu.be/wNaFCKlsTZA
Original Liner Notes:
Surprise is the key word in a jam session—surprise at unexpected guests, unusual repertoire, and new musical associations. Jazz works best when the element of surprise is maximized, which is why jam sessions have always been renewing experiences for musicians and, often, breeding grounds for new musical ideas.
This date was a jam session in the true sense of the word. The personnel was a closely guarded secret, and as one member after another strolled in, the air warmed with excitement and anticipation. With each new arrival came laughter and greetings; some were meeting for the first time, others were old friends.
Producer Don Schlitten conceived of this session as a welcome home for Dexter Gordon, a longtime friend and associate. Dexter has made his home in Copenhagen for 14 years, making several trips back to the States. He visited the West Coast in 1975 and Chicago in 1974, but Dexter hadn't appeared in New York since the Newport/New York Jazz Festival of 1972, where he was not featured to advantage.
This time around, however (Fall, 1976), those in the New York area had abundant opportunity to hear him. His appearances at Storyville and the Village Vanguard took on near-mythic status. There was a definite electricity in the air during his visit; it was never long before the focus of any jazz conversation turned to Dexter.
For this recording, Schlitten wanted an ensemble that was large enough to provide solo variety and contrast, yet one small enough to operate without written arrangements.
thereby preserving the spontaneous quality of the jam session he had in mind. Al Cohn became the other half of the reed section. Cohn, who is roughly three years Gordon's junior, began his career in the 1940s with a variety of big-band work, including periods with the orchestras of George Auld, Buddy Rich, and Artie Shaw, and time as a member (with Stan Getz, Zoot Sims, and Serge Chaloff) of the "four brothers" sax section of Woody Herman's band of 1948-1949. In the 1950s, Al became quite active as a freelance arranger for commercial bands and orchestras, as well as carrying on his jazz activities. In 1957 he began to perform regularly in a group that he co-led with Zoot Sims. The late sixties saw the demise of their band, although they continued to make periodic appearances together.
Counterbalancing this tenor madness are two trumpeters with deep roots in the Fats Navarro/Clifford Brown tradition. Blue Mitchell was born in Miami, Florida, in 1930. He recorded extensively in the fifties and sixties, spending six years with one of Horace Silver's finest groups, along with Junior Cook. In the late sixties, he travelled to the West Coast with Ray Charles' band and found the climate, musically and physically, to his liking; he has made his base there since. In the early 1970s, Blue spent a period with John Mayall's blues band, as well as working a lot around the Los Angeles area with men like Teddy Edwards, Jack Sheldon, Dolo Coker, Bill Berry, and Harold Land. Blue had been planning to return to California when he got the call from Don Schlitten for this date; he stayed in town an extra week to make it.
Sam Noto is a brilliant player whose career has only recently begun to yield opportunities for him to be heard as the excellent soloist that he is. Born in Buffalo, New York, in 1930 (it was a good year for trumpet players), Sam went with Stan Kenton's band in 1953, staying until 1960. He had a couple of feature spots with the band, but the experience didn't lend itself to deep jazz involvement, at least as a personal voice. Something of the same thing can be said of a short period he spent with Count Basie's big band in the mid-sixties. After this, for financial reasons, Sam moved to Las Vegas to play in show bands. If Kenton and Basie were frustrating, imagine the scene at the "Golden Sahara Nugget," or wherever.
Barry Harris, Sam Jones, and Louis Hayes first joined forces in early 1960 as the rhythm section of Cannonball Adderley's quintet and recorded an excellent trio album for Riverside at the Jazz Workshop in San Francisco. Barry and Louis are both Detroiters; Harris, born in 1929, is eight years Hayes' senior. Barry was a legend in Detroit, instructing a few younger musicians in the way the music is put together. During the sixties, after coming to New York with Adderley, he led his own bands and trios and was the pianist in Coleman Hawkins' last quartet. Unquestionably, Harris, whose pianistic roots lie in Bud Powell, Art Tatum, and Thelonious Monk, is one of the most sensitive players around. Despite his resolute adherence to this lineage and musical outlook, his touch, time feel, and harmonic approach are immediately identifiable. He is also a remarkable, deep-thinking composer, a fact that gets overlooked in much of the writing about him.
Hayes is an exciting drummer whose talents are put to good use by leaders who like to burn; Horace Silver, as well as Cannonball and Oscar Peterson, come to mind.
Jones, like Blue Mitchell, a Floridian, has played with almost everyone because he is one of the best bass players in the world. It is so important for a bassist to pick notes that complement both what the soloist is doing and the voicings that the pianist is using; Sam has ears like radar. Dig the way he sings behind Blue's solo on How Deep Is The Ocean.
The first tune to be played that day was the Tadd Dameron composition Lady Bird, which, by the way, Barry recorded on his Xanadu Dameron album. As soon as everyone had arrived, the run-through began in earnest, with Dex and Al playing the surging, straight-ahead Dameron line and Sam and Blue playing Miles Davis' sinuous line on the same changes (Half Nelson). The combination works well and can be heard as a duet between Dexter and James Moody on Dexter's album More Power, recorded under Don's guidance for Prestige in the late sixties. After a couple of choruses of warm-up jamming for all, they ran over the closing melody a few times to get the ensemble harmony down. Barry, seated at the piano, ran the horns through it, suggesting alterations in the voicing, alternately frowning and laughing until it sounded right. Finally, they were ready to go.
An eight-bar intro from Barry prefaces the dual melody statement. Dexter solos first. Every phrase he plays rings with the deliberation and exhilaration that commingle in his unspeakably suave approach to the horn. He quotes from Pres' solo on Jive at Five midway through his third chorus before making way for Noto. Sam, by contrast, is a kind of highly strung player, full of overt enthusiasm, chasing ideas wherever they lead, sometimes just shouting to let off steam. His phrases are oblique and darting here. Al comes out preaching with passion and held notes. Cohn has a certain wail in his playing that is totally unique to him; the same can be said for his humor and heart. Blue flows through his two choruses. Within his fantastic swing are a relaxation and shyness that remind me of early Miles. Some of his ideas are ghostly beautiful. Barry, thoughtful and graceful as
always expounds and dances with his customary balance and eloquence. Sam has it for two, and there is a chorus of eight-bar exchanges between the glossy-deep Dameron-sounding ensemble and Hayes before the head is ridden tandem to a glowing close.
Don wanted a ballad featuring all the horns, and one of the tunes that had occurred to him was Irving Berlin's How Deep Is The Ocean. Between takes, Barry, who hadn't been told of the idea, was musing at the keyboard and started playing How Deep; in seconds, so did Dexter. In the pleasant afterglow of that unspoken understanding, the tune was decided upon, and the work of beauty we have here is the result.
Barry starts it off with a short, out-of-tempo introduction, then Sam and Louis join in for Barry's chorus, in which the melody is used as a point of departure for long thoughts. Al is next with an incredibly direct and lyrical solo; again I notice his held notes. They become broader as he holds them and more penetrating and insistent; sometimes they waver and threaten to burst like heavy-bellied clouds. Serge Chaloff had that same way of laying himself completely open. Blue blows a touching, superbly put-together solo; dig how his playing has an ironic edge to it that Al's doesn't here. Dexter plays a thoughtful late-afternoon chorus, not without its own dry humor. Sam Noto soars on wide, airy notes, sometimes introduced by downward sixteenth and thirty-second note swoops. The tune ends after a lovely cadenza from Sam.
For the third time, Don suggested that Blue come up with a blues line, something on the order of his Sir John, which he had recorded several times. True Blue was the result—a funky blues designed to be blown upon. Blue is up first, dancing behind the beat. He plays in a way that encourages a direct response from a rhythm section; his phrases are very answerable. His way with the blues, the particular way he moves from chorus to chorus, as well as his approach to swinging, often puts me in mind of Wardell Gray. Al builds his solo ingeniously, at first humorously implying more than he says, then stomping full-steam ahead. Noto has his say next. He doesn't swing as evenly as Blue, but he is a little more prone to take chances; he comes up with some exquisite ideas here. Dexter forges fourteen irreversible choruses. I remember seeing Al with his eyes closed, smiling during this. Barry is next, driving through a frothy, swaggering solo. Louis gets seven very melodic choruses before the horns return for a few rounds of fours between themselves. Back to Blue's line twice through and out.
Incredibly, this is only half of what went down at the session. Volume two is entitled Silver Blue. Sessions like these are our assurance that wonders will never cease.
-Tom Piazza (1977)
3 days ago | [YT] | 35