Paul Horn “Dream Machine”

One nice thing about checking out a new (well, 1978) record is the excuse to go back and listen to others by that artist—in this case, the excellent “Visions” from 1974—and seeing if that short span of years is as catastrophic here as for many recording artists. Certainly, you wouldn’t connect the two album covers—from hippie drawing (that one) to this one’s larger-than-life, full headshot, which looks like the promotional poster for a motivational speaker. Nice. Recorded a week after my 18^th birthday—not a record I would have bought my first year of college (when I budgeted one LP per week)—so it’s just had to wait for me somewhere for 46 years—ha! The next thing that catches your eye (back cover credits) (besides a list of excellent musicians) is Lalo Schifrin (“Composed, Arranged & Conducted by”)-—so this is kind of also a Lalo Schifrin record. But it’s first of all a Paul Horn record—it’s a flute record—flute from start to finish. I like it. All the musicians are good—what stands out to me most (besides flute) is some of the bass playing. Credited is Abraham Laboriel. As with flute, I’m no great judge of bass playing, but I know what I like, and some of these lines make me stop and wonder if I’ve left something burning on the stove.

As for the songs, I most associate Lalo Schifrin with some great movie scores—so will this be one of those records I’m best able to relate to by envisioning movie scenes? Why not. Six instrumentals that may as well be named anything, so maybe. The first one, though excellent, doesn’t take me anywhere, specifically, so I’m going to engage my imagination more. Next one, I’m seeing a slightly futuristic world and we’re following some kind of cop (naturally) through his daily rituals. This is the future where the cars got much cooler (as opposed to the one we’re living in) and 1970’s fashions (including moustaches) stuck around. Next song is a deal going down. Side Two starts with a kind of split-personality song that alternates from “too cool to even be bothered” to TV show about a well-adjusted high school teacher who only helps kids get the highest SAT scores possible and has no dark side. And then… a song called, “Quite Early One Morning,” which is, as you’d expect, quiet, meditative—one of those mornings more focused on beauty, mortality, and the meaning of life than, say, coffee. But, as coffee is as inevitable as death, we progress into the day with a sad coolness. Finally, then, “The Juggler” is a bit clownish—and since I find a happy clown unbearable, I’m imposing my own sense of irony on the proceedings and choosing to imagine a protagonist who juggles love affairs, bank accounts, and wellbeing—with disaster. The End.

Terry Gibbs “Vibes on Velvet”

Nothing starts out much smoother than this record—I guess it’s a five saxophone, ten (or so) piece orchestra—the beginning of “Autumn Nocturne”—and then the vibraphone comes in, and it goes even smoother, if that’s even possible. I guess I’m kind of partial to vibes—standards with orchestra and vibes—the kind of late Fifties early Sixties cocktail den jazz—because that’s (as I said before) what I listened to in my crib (baby crib, not bachelor pad). I suppose when they named the record “Vibes on Velvet,” smoothness was what they had in mind. There are extensive liner notes covering half the back album cover, if you’re interested in some serious biographical information. Also, a bit of selling—of this record, that is. It’s charming to imagine a time when a person might pick up an LP in a record store, and that small, serious, print would function as a selling tactic. Imagine! The cover is a closeup of a vibraphone, and some mallets—it’s pleasant, but not spectacular like the other Terry Gibbs record I have—it looks like a jazz album from the year it came out, 1956. Terry Gibbs released a ton of records—I’m not even going to count what the internet lists—but this was part of his first half-dozen. It’s an early one. And he’s still around! He’ll be 100 in October! Some of my very favorite standards are here, including “Mood Indigo,” “It Might as Well Be Spring,” and one of my major obsessions, “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” Really good versions, too. Plus, others I don’t know like the back of my hand, but still sound like remembering dreams. There are three Terry Gibbs originals—that are great, as well, and sound pretty familiar to me, too—maybe because I’ve played this record more times than I realize. I’d play it even more if I had a rec-room, with cocktails and mellow lighting, and I was entertaining dates with romantic intentions.

Dorothy Donegan “at the Embers”

Album cover photos don’t get much better than this one—four well-dressed people sitting at a bar on movable stools, the kind without backs, and tubular steel footrests at the bottom. Two women are on the center stools—wearing skirts and stockings (the photo is cropped above their waists)—and they have slipped off their shoes, which are on the floor below. It’s a rather suggestive photo for 1957. Also, a little weird. I’m not exactly sure what it says, but it seems to say a lot. One would like to assume it’s taken at “The Embers”—and there is music in the air. Drinking is going on, definitely. The men may be more focused on the woman than the woman are on the men. The band is a small jazz combo, sounds like a trio, dominated by piano that I assume is Dorothy Donegan—and her playing is kind of nuts, if I can say it. A lot of energy, and then some. Mostly standards. I have always particularly loved the name “The Embers” for a bar, nightclub, or restaurant—it’s the best.

I wouldn’t call this music “jaunty,” exactly—but it’s definitely not laid back. I might call it “caffeinated”—which I like more than jaunty (the word and the sentiment). It’s certainly energetic. It’s kind of like… why not play 100 notes, where one will do, if you can work in 100 notes. I read a little bit about Dorothy Donegan—classically trained, from Chicago, put out a dozen-and-a-half records from the Forties to the Nineties, but was best known for live performances. Wikipedia notes she was “the first African American to perform at Chicago’s Orchestra Hall”—in 1943. She criticized sexism in the music industry. She was a protegee of Art Tatum. She “was known for performing stride and boogie-woogie, as well as be-bop, swing, and classical.” When you put all those together, what do you get? Rock’n’roll. I’m just kidding—but listen to the short number called “Donegan Walk”—which sounds more like rock’n’roll than most music that calls itself rock’n’roll—it’s my favorite on the record. It’s credited to Dorothy Donegan, as is another one called “DDT”—another rockin’ out number that I’m guessing isn’t named after the insecticide. Maybe it’s “Dorothy Donegan plus something that starts with “T”—(Time, Terror, Tyrannosaurus?). I also very much like some of the standards I know—in particular, a nuts version of “That Old Black Magic,” “Just in Time,” a nice slow version of “My Funny Valentine,” and a hot version of “Lullaby in Birdland” that won’t put you to sleep. All of them are good.

Even though it’s an album cover you might want to hang on your wall, don’t do it! For one thing, you’ve got to protect the record. And for another, you’ll miss the liner notes on back—pretty good ones, though uncredited, which is weird. Even more weird, whoever formatted the liner notes obviously didn’t read them—I won’t go into details, but there are errors—how does that stuff happen—even in 1957? A lot about the Embers—a nightclub/restaurant on East 54^th Street in New York. It was on East 54^th Street, I guess—I looked it up—long gone now—just hideous skyscrapers there, now. Though it’s (was) just around the corner from Dee Dee Ramone Corner. I guess they served food there, too, and for a moment, the liner notes seem to want to turn into a restaurant review—or maybe the author was just hungry! Mostly, it’s some glowing words about Dorothy Donegan and her very popular live performances. A Time Magazine writer is even quoted: “Dorothy shuts her eyes. Her feet begin to pound the floor. Her face contorts as if she were in agony. What comes out is pure Donegan. It has the customers shagging in their seats.” What’s that mean? Well, either they are baseball players, catching fly balls for practice, or they’re f**king!

Lambert, Hendricks and Ross “The Way-Out Voices of Lambert, Hendricks and Ross”

Apparently this is a 1968 re-release of the 1962 LP, “High Flying”—though, I like this album cover better than the original— by my favorite vocalese trio—Dave Lambert, Jon Hendricks, and Annie Ross. They’re backed up here by The Ike Isaacs Trio. It’s kind of a post-mortem record—in that they were no longer a band, and also, sadly, Dave Lambert had died in a tragic accident, in 1966.They only put out a handful of records—though maybe they printed a lot—as I come across their records regularly, for not much money. I wonder if they fell out of favor with audiences at some point since their style is a little bizarre, probably considered an acquired taste, and certainly “way-out.” I could imagine both jazz purists and jazz novices being scared off, and others finding the extreme nature of the style off-putting. I don’t know! To me, they are 100% delightful, all the time, and that includes the 11 tracks on this LP. Maybe I’m wrong, and they’re still a big deal with fans—I’m sure they are—that rarified group of Lambert, Hendricks and Ross superfans—my kind of crowd.

I was going to save this one for posting on my Halloween special—(and viola, no H. special)—anyway, the reason for that is because there’s a song called “Halloween Spooks”—which is one of the stranger Halloween-themed songs I’ve heard (written by Dave Lambert). The lyrics are odd enough—“can’t find the children”—that’s kind of alarming! And then there’s some truly otherworldly wailing—but not like you’d imagine—I mean some messed-up, out-there wailing—you have to hear it. Besides that, there’s one great song after another, including three by Horace Silver—two with the word “Cookin’” in the title, including my fav, “Home Cookin’”—which is about soul food. I am partial to songs about food—but of course, it’s about more than just food—there’s a lot to take in—candied yams, collard greens, etc.—but it’s really more about women. It’s kind of an epic, though not exactly a feminist anthem—though, who knows, maybe it is, in a backwards way.

The prettiest song on the record is “Blue” (by Gildo Mahones)—quiet and sad and subtle. (Little else on this record could be accused of being subtle!) My very favorite on the record is “Farmer’s Market”—written by Annie Ross and Art Farmer (get it?)—it reminds me somewhat of my favorite Annie Ross song, “Twisted.” It’s about a young woman going to a farmer’s market… and then a whole lot about beans! I can’t think of another song that’s so much about beans (even jellybeans). But what else is it about? Well, the guy selling beans isn’t the usual bean guy, but a cute hipster. My first inclination is, of course, sex—which is usually the case. But then it just goes right off into outer space—I can’t even begin to hope to paraphrase here! I can’t even begin to follow it—and I’m afraid that even if I could make out all the lyrics, it might be beyond my understanding. And that alone makes this my favorite song on the record! Blame it on the beans!

The George Shearing Quintet and Orchestra “White Satin”

I’ve written about many George Shearing records here, but I won’t stop until I touch on them all—he’s one of my favorites (I won’t go into that whole childhood business, again). I was thinking, if I ran one of those retro cocktail lounges—you know, classic style, very dark, no chocolate martinis!—I’d play nothing but Shearing. Well, not exactly true, but I’d stay away from digitally remixed lounge music, or cleaned up jazz standards that make you feel like you’re in a doctor’s office. One good thing about George Shearing is you can find beat-up vinyl copies of his records for next to nothing, and they sound great—and would be the absolute best sound for cocktail lounge ambience. This is another really good one, from 1960—probably one of the smoothest sounding records I own—it’s the Shearing Quintet (musicians not credited here, but includes bass, drums, guitar, and vibes) along with an orchestra conducted by Billy May. The 12 songs on this record blend into a seamless evening of silky music (I’ll keep it in mind if I’m ever dating again) including some of my favorites. “Laura,” “Dream,” “How Long Has This Been Going On,” “There’ll Be Another Spring,” “There’s a Small Hotel, and “Moonlight Becomes You.” I love his albums titles—I’ve already written about Latin Affair and Black Satin and Burnished Brass. Here’s a few more (believe it or else) that I’m still waiting to come across: Soft and Silky, Latin Lace, Satin Affair, Velvet Carpet, and Blue Chiffon. It may sound like I’m making those up, but no. And there’s plenty more.

I found this one at a thrift store, probably a dollar, and the vinyl happens to be in excellent condition, but the cover is one of the most hilariously beat up I’ve seen—it looks like it spent time in a barn, yet still cared for. The front is almost totally separated from the back, which has an informational promo sticker (with song credits) in one corner, along with a lot of cryptic markings from previous owners. The front is the usual Shearing cover, a lovely woman with a lot of hair (in this case, red), and she’s, surprise, wearing white satin and reclining on more white satin. There are more markings, some initials, a date (6-26-60—I was five months old!), a $1.99 price sticker, and hand scrawled: 25 cents, right on the woman’s shoulder! The funniest thing, though, is that someone glued a carefully cut piece of pink paper over the part of the woman’s chest that’s not covered by the dress. Naturally, I had to find a photo of the album online for comparison, and of course there isn’t that much bare skin revealed—but someone not only took offense, they were careful to make their alterations in a manner respectful to the original photograph. If you don’t know the cover, or look closely, you might be fooled, thinking the glued paper actually is an additional garment! 25 cents, ha! This album cover is priceless—it should be recognized as a masterpiece—and be hanging in the museum of found/altered art!

Julie London “Julie Is Her Name”

You could say the same thing about Christie, Andrews, the girl I had a crush on in third grade, my aunt and uncle’s poodle, and probably someone you know well—as well as this singer—it almost sounds like an introduction, doesn’t it? I guess she was acting for a decade before this LP, but it was a hit record—it begins with her biggest hit song “Cry Me a River”—you might remember her appearance, and that song, in The Girl Can’t Help It (1956)—a very weird scene. This is a low-key, smooth, mellow, make-out record—her voice is like vanilla yogurt (way better—I’m kind of sad I used that comparison—maybe expensive Scotch and menthols, I don’t know). She’s accompanied only by guitar (Barney Kessel) and bass (Ray Leatherwood)—and these are some fine versions of some of my favorite standards, including “I Should Care,” “I’m in the Mood for Love,” “I’m Glad There is You,” “It Never Entered My Mind,” “Easy Street,” “No Moon at All,” “Laura,” and more—thirteen songs, no bad ones. The striking cover is a chest up photo of her in front of a light-green background with just a tiny glimmer of a lowcut dress evident (they probably first tried to crop it so she could be imagined wearing nothing, but this was 1955). The liner notes are in a font smaller than my early ‘zines (everyone complained about eyestrain)—an enthusiastic bit by Bill Ballance, and then some real excess by screenwriter Richard Breen: “…there is a sweet impermanence about things; the marigold will lose its yellow; spring will not last forever; not all butterflies will stay genial.” Just that bit says a lot, and he’s really pushing it with the butterfly part.

Ahmad Jamal “Sun Set”

The first song, “If Not for Me,” starts out particularly understated—you know the song, so when he doesn’t even finish one of the phrases, your mind finishes it, but it’s supremely pleasing in that it denies your expectations, as well as fulfills your expectations. Then there’s a part where a couple of notes are repeated to the extent that if it was a CD, you’d be certain it was skipping, even though this record came out in 1976, and CDs were still on the drawing board, right? (I don’t remember anymore.) Well… certainly when it was recorded, over a decade earlier. But it doesn’t sound like a record skip—so I guess back then, it would probably just evoke a kind of weird but interesting repetition. I know nothing about jazz, really—despite listening to years and years of Phil Schaap’s radio shows—but you don’t necessarily need to know much to enjoy it. Of course, the more you know, the better. It’s kind of funny how opposite I feel about live jazz recordings and live rock recordings. I avoid the rock ones—I can think of very few I like—too much energy with nowhere to go, not to mention inane patter (could drugs have been a factor?) But for jazz, live recordings make perfect sense.

This is a double record—a repackaging from “Chess Jazz Master Series.” It’s put together by a guy named Dan Nooger, who wrote the liner notes. It’s a release of a couple of records that were live recordings from 1958 and 1961—nearly 30 songs. The personal is the same: Ahmad Jamal, piano; Israel Crosby, bass; Vernel Fournier, drums. So… these are recordings of live shows from just before I was born and just after I was born. And for whatever reason, this is music that connects with me like I was listening to nothing but this all my life. I wonder who decided to call it “Sun Set”—rather than “Sunset” or “Chess Set”—interesting. The cover is a picture of, I suppose, a sunset (though, I might have thought moonrise) over some mountains. It’s funny—the picture is roughly the aspect ratio of a movie—but the cover opens up, and then the picture, a landscape, continues onto the back—and becomes the aspect ratio of a CinemaScope movie. I don’t know if that was intentional or not—but I’ll take it.

I don’t know that much about Ahmad Jamal, but I have a couple of his LPs—that I was able to find without mortgaging anything. No doubt I’ll pick up another one. The Big Board says he’s currently 92 years old—and he was born the same year as my dad, in roughly the same geographical area, with partly the same name (he changed his name to Ahmad Jamal in 1950, when he converted to Islam). He started playing piano at the age of 3, and by now has been releasing records for seven decades or so. I suppose by listening to this record enough times I know quite a lot about him (and his bass player and drummer). Hearing a good musician’s music is a direct connection to them—I guess that’s partly why we feel so strongly about music. And for some reason, piano, more than anything else, strikes me as a direct connection to the musician’s mind. Piano was the first instrument I tried to play—and I guess it was the first time I can recall experiencing significant failure. But that didn’t turn me against the instrument, or people who play piano. I might always consider it my one true love.

Lionel Hampton “Golden Vibes”

A year (1959) before Lionel Hampton’s “Silver Vibes,” came this one, subtitled: “with reeds and rhythm.” What I said (in my earlier review) about the Silver Vibes album cover also applies here (though this one is much better, overall). As usual, I can listen to Lionel Hampton records all night long, and as I’ve said before, the jazz vibraphone is perhaps my earliest memory of music—from my dad’s collection—probably meant to quiet me in my crib. And here I sit six decades later, still listening to Hamp in my “crib”—though, since having replaced the formula bottle with the bourbon bottle, and since, the sparkling water. Oh, well, the music makes me happy to simply be alive. This record features a song I’m most obsessed with (“Smoke Gets In Your Eyes”) and one of my favorite jazz compositions (’Round Midnight”) as well as standards I recognize, some I don’t, and some Hampton compositions with names like “Vibraholidy.”

It starts off with “My Prayer”—which immediately beams you into a smoky, dim cocktail lounge, candlelit through red glass, with mysterious figures deep in the shadows. I don’t know about you, but I’m drinking a Rusty Nail. It occurs to me now, that’s an awful name for any drink—and particularly that one. Should I start drinking again, I’m going to rename it “Lauren Bacall”—though, there probably is one. Cocktails are like band names. If there isn’t a cocktail called “But Beautiful”—there should be—and this version, here. Okay. (Not) in keeping with the Olympic medals model, I’ve got to say, as good as this record is, I do like Silver Vibes better—but that’s a unique and exceptional recording. That’s the one with trombones on all the tracks—if I remember correctly. A pretty stunning record. I don’t think he did a “Bronze Vibes”—that would be too weird… maybe I’m wrong. So many records—I’m not even going to check them all. He was active over the large part of the 20^th Century—a pretty amazing dude.

The liner notes, by Irving Townsend, cover the back cover—worth reading, too—gives you the sense of where Lionel Hampton was as popular recording artist when this record came out (the year before I was born). For an odd minute, while listening to the record and reading the back cover, then looking at the generic yet classy album cover, I got this strong feeling of what it might have been like back then, at the time this record came out—the feeling you’d get going to your local record store and buying this album brand new. You’ve already heard a few Lionel Hampton records, of course, or maybe you have several, like my dad did, and then you get this one, and it’s all new to you. Really exciting. When was the last time I went out and bought a contemporary record new, and had that sensation? Well, a few years ago I did, but had to get it mail-order—and it felt different than going to the record store and picking out the record, based on experiences, but also curiosity. I wish I could talk to my dad right now about buying all the jazz records that he had—how he knew about them, where he got the records, which ones first, and how he felt hearing a new one.

The George Shearing Quintet “Mood Latino”

It starts out with “Blue Moon,” a song I wish you’d only hear once in a blue moon—rather than all the time—I don’t hate the song, I just wish I didn’t hear it so often. But here, it’s a totally delightful way to start the record, because this particular incarnation of the “Shearing sound”—with congas and flute—is the perfect expression of this song. Percussionist Armando Peraza is all through this record, playing conga and bongos—as well as other percussionists. And there’s flute. I’m going by the liner notes on back of the record—there isn’t a musician lineup—and I’m not looking online. This is a very percussion-heavy record, actually—I really like it. There’s a mixture of standards—some that I’m not that familiar with—and Latin numbers—mambos, cha-chas, boleros. I guess you could say it’s Latin versions of Shearing, and Shearing treatment of Latin songs. The liner notes go more into depth, but I’m not going to retype/paraphrase any. You can find this record for little or no money, on vinyl, like a lot of these Fifties and Sixties Shearing records. Consider yourself lucky. It’s a great record. Also—typical Shearing album cover—a beautiful, darkhaired woman, album cover model, sitting on a tablecloth thrown over an egg crate—with no shirt. She has her back to us, looking over her shoulder. It’s funny, back in 1961, would this have been scandalous? I guess not, it’s here. If she would have been facing forward, however, it would have been considered provocative, maybe even obscene, by some. It would not have been “acceptable.” Her back was okay, front, not okay. It’s nice that we are so much more sophisticated now than those silly prudes back in 1961!

J. J. Johnson “First Place”

“First Place” refers to—it says right on the album cover—“The most consistent first place winner in jazz polls throughout the world.” Which, I guess, is something that will sell records—like calling a book a “best seller”—even though everyone knows that there is absolutely no correlation between what is popular and what is good—unless there’s, arguably, a negative correlation—except “everyone” does NOT know that—and in fact “everyone” is a group that people who DO know that would prefer not to be a part of. That said, this is nice jazz record—and even though pretty much everyone should be able to enjoy it, “no one” listens to jazz anymore. (So say some—I know that’s not true.) J. J. Johnson plays trombone, which is an insane instrument that you probably hear more in marching bands than jazz. Think about it, the slide trombone—it’s like a mad experiment gone wrong. What a nutso idea. If I had it all to do over, I’d love to dedicate my life to playing the slide trombone. I just took a brief hour reading about the trombone—it’s been around forever. Well, I tried and failed to play brass instruments, so I should quit dreaming. J. J. Johnson is a modern jazz trombonist, in that he embraced Be-Bop—I guess a lot of musicians felt the trombone wasn’t suited to that style, but he did it—even if he did knock over some things or put out an occasional eye. That’s my one trombone joke, sorry. He recorded like 50 records over the second half of the 20^th Century—was a composer and arranger and performer—and was the most consistent first place winner in jazz polls throughout the world.

I love the album cover—it’s a bold design, nice colors, very cool. J. J. Johnson sitting in front of a tan table with a tan background—he’s wearing a suit and tie, has a ring. In front of him, his trombone, mouthpiece removed, an ashtray, matches, and a glass of liquor with no ice. Also, a hat on the table—though I can’t really tell if it’s a snap-brim or a beret. It’s a very cool album cover. On the back are three columns of zine-size, tiny print—liner notes by Nat Hentoff—in which he goes in depth at length. I’ll make a generalization that people used to read more—and that includes the liner notes on their popular albums—in 1957 than they do now. And also, maybe jazz fans read more than fans of other music. Also, there’s an ad for a Columbia Hi-Fi—a one-piece thing, on legs—I wonder if it’s like the one my parents had? (This record is on Columbia, by the way). The band is Max Roach, Paul Chambers, and Tommy Flanagan—drums, bass, piano—among the best there was, in jazz, at those instruments. The nine songs are a combination of standards and numbers I haven’t heard—including three compositions by J. J. Johnson—they all go together nicely. I’ve always liked the name J. J., by the way—because it was my dad’s name (he went by others, too, as do most J. J.s). J. J. Johnson’s name was James Louis Johnson—so why he went by J. J. and not J. L.—well, I guess, a matter of preference—I suppose anyone could go by J. J.—but if neither your first nor middle nor nick-name didn’t start with a “J”—that might be kind of weird. But still, you could do it.