Cannonball Adderley Sextet - ‘Jive Samba’

Picking up for a mere song the other day a still-sealed copy of the Cannonball Adderley Quintet recorded live in concert by the Europe1 radio station in 1960 and 1961 reminded me that this was a band built more for the stage than the studio (c.f. its leader, built for comfort rather than speed.) The evidence is there in the plethora of live performances available on YouTube and the number of albums the Adderley band released that were recorded live. Not that the studio recordings were inferior, far from it, but concerts such as In San Francisco seem to capture Cannon’s band at its spontaneous best. Not only did his well-drilled small bands strut their simple soulful stuff with impeccable musicianship, but Julian ‘Cannonball’ Adderley was the most genial of hosts. A complete contrast to his former Kind Of Blue, late ‘50s sextet leader, Miles Davis, the burly alto saxophonist’s announcements are a delight: courteous, witty and informative, a little like Dizzy Gillespie’s but a little less tongue-in-cheek. Is there just a hint of arch amusement, as if poking fun at an outmoded tradition, or can he truly be that polite? I tried to find a video performance that included one such peroration, but the closest I got was a performance of brother Nat Adderley’s best-known number, ‘Work Song’, on Jazz Scene hosted by Oscar Brown jr., who wrote a set of celebrated lyrics that turned the song into a hip chain-gang anthem. Alas, the sound quality is fairly poor and the number itself so well known as to have become almost derivative.

While possibly better known as a quintet, I prefer the Adderleys’ sextet format, largely because of the musicians chosen to make up the number: latterly, the erudite and almost guru-like Charles Lloyd, whose career after a period of self-imposed exile was reborn in the company of Michel Petrucciani; and before that, William Evans, or Yusef Lateef as he found fame, who occupied the sixth seat between 1962-1964. Lateef’s use of flute and oboe lent his music the exotic Eastern quality that probably influenced John Coltrane among others. So… I focused my search on the sextet.

In the end, it was a toss-up between two numbers culled from a 1963 concert in Switzerland. As well as a nice sharp focus and sound quality, the fire and spontaneity of the performance are almost in inverse proportion to the stereotype of the Swiss national character. In the blue corner is a rendition of the lesser-known ‘Jessica’s Birthday’, in which the sextet manages to sound like a little big band, swinging with the gusto of Count Basie’s Orchestra in its pomp, with each soloist in turn urged on intermittently by the other two riffing members of the brass section, and Joe Zawinul comping for all he’s worth on the piano. Individuals in the audience spotted by the camera look curiously contemplative, even bored in a Swiss kind of way.

In the red corner, however, is a version of ‘(The) Jive Samba’, another stomper written by brother Nat and covered by everyone from Quincy Jones to Jack Costanzo and Gerry Woo, whose 1968 version would become a salsa classic. It finds the band positively on fire. Backed by the favoured rock-solid rhythm section of Sam Jones on bass and Louis Hayes on drums, the players peel off one fantastic solo after another: first Cannonball, who shows that the influence of rhythm and blues alto saxophonists such as Louis Jordan and Eddie ‘Cleanhead’ Vinson was as potent as that of Charlie Parker and Benny Carter; then his younger brother, who might have preferred the more mellow cornet but who certainly doesn’t hold back during a spot that suggests the influence of Dizzy Gillespie and Clark Terry; then Yusef Lateef whose flute solo is worthy of Roland Kirk; and finally Joe Zawinul, still fairly fresh from his native Vienna and still at this point with hair, no doubt held in place by some sort of preparation, who shows less than a decade before he went electric and synthesised in Weather Report that he could be as funky a pianist as a predecessor in the outfit, Bobby Timmons. It’s as near to a complete small-group soul-jazz performance as you could wish for.

The big question remains: why Cannonball? Reputedly, it’s a corruption of ‘cannibal’, according to the liner notes of En Concert Avec Europe1, a name given to him by a friend back home in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, in recognition of his appetite. Although he died just shy of his 47^th birthday from a stroke, his girth probably didn’t help. Nevertheless, he packed a lot into his abbreviated life. During national service, he hooked up with the pianist Junior Mance and trombonist Curtis Fuller and led his first band, the 36^th Army Band. After leaving Florida to try his luck in New York at the urging of ‘Cleanhead’ Vinson and others, he quickly gained a reputation as the new Charlie Parker, forming his first quintet with Nat, with an alto sax and trumpet/cornet front line modelled on the Parker and Gillespie bebop combo. After serving time with Miles Davis and the blind British pianist George Shearing, his quintet and sextet became long-running fixtures on the scene. Latterly, George Duke took over the pianist’s chair and the outfit leaned more towards the kind of electric funk-jazz (that would evolve into a smoother jazz-funk} sound that Miles Davis, Herbie Hancock and Cannonball’s long-term sideman Joe Zawinul were pioneering.

As befits anyone with such a moniker, Cannonball never appeared to take himself too seriously, either as a musician or a compère. It’s jazz, Jim, but not the deep, serious permutation that tends to turn off the casual listener. He and his brother and their ever-excellent sidemen made the kind of jovial, optimistic music typified by the evergreen ‘Jive Samba’.

 

Wynton Marsalis with the Jazz at the Lincoln Centre Orchestra feat. Wayne Shorter - ‘Yes or No’

Opinions vary about Wynton Marsalis. For one who plays the trumpet so brilliantly and composes so prolifically, he attracts a lot of opprobrium. Perhaps that’s the problem: it might all seem to come too easily to him. Big band, small band, classical orchestra, suite, dance piece; he can do ‘em all. ‘I’m a jazz musician who can play classical music,’ he has described himself. Perhaps that’s what upset the notoriously truculent Miles Davis, who (in)famously cold-shouldered Young Wynton at a concert once in Vancouver. Miles was a lifelong innovator with a limited technique; maybe he was a trifle jealous. Maybe it’s the way that Wynton does ‘em all: Shouldn’t someone so gifted, with so much class and style and technique, be more of an original? Perhaps his respect for the jazz elders he venerates is a little too respectful. Who knows? It’s evident that his father, the pianist Ellis, and his brothers Branford the saxophonist, Delpheayo the trombonist and Jason the drummer never attract the detractors in such numbers.

I certainly like Wynton Marsalis. Very much. Apart from the fact that he spells it with an ‘i’ and not a ‘y’ (which is akin to ‘u’ for ‘you’), his Citi Movement is one of my favourite studio albums of the modern era and the (count ‘em) 7-CD Live at the Village Vanguard is a monumental live recording. And I like him, too, as a commentator. On documentaries, he talks eloquently and passionately from a genuine love for and knowledge of jazz heritage.

All of which suggests that it’s high time to spotlight him in some capacity. I thought about that extraordinary live concert in separate rooms that he stage-managed during COVID lockdown. To my technologically-challenged mind, the logistics of getting the Lincoln Centre Orchestra together-but-apart to play note-perfect versions of numbers like ‘Walkin’’ that still manage to swing are mind-boggling. Extraordinary as it is, however, it does lack the chemistry or whatever it is that makes a live performance so special. More a curio for a curious time.

This one, though, is something else again. It’s made with more or less the same musicians, gathered together under Marsalis’ direction as the Lincoln Centre Orchestra, but it features an octogenarian Wayne Shorter and his music. And since Shorter got slightly short shrift as one part of Weather Report in an earlier chapter, it kills more than one luminous bird with one stone. It’s a homage to one of the finest jazz composers of his or any time while that composer was still alive, always a consummation devoutly to be wished. Moreover, despite the advancing years, Shorter clearly hadn’t lost his chops. It’s lovely to see him once again on tenor rather than soprano sax on this sumptuous version of a number that appeared on his second solo album for Blue Note, 1964’s Juju. Shorter’s is the first of three very polished solos, with Marsalis and then pianist Dan Nimmer following suit. The saxophonist’s tone still bears some distant echo of the early influence of John Coltrane, but it’s the almost imperceptible quality of melancholy that made him such an individual stylist and characterised so many of his greatest compositions. Marsalis solos almost nonchalantly with the burnished tone and lyrical precision of earlier gods, Fats Navarro and Clifford Brown. Outside of this orchestra, I’ve never heard Dan Nimmer. There’s a distinct note in his solo of McCoy Tyner, who was Shorter’s pianist on his first two Blue Note albums. 

 

One reason why I like Wynton Marsalis the human being so much is that he’s always so loyal to and generous about his sidemen, whether cohorts in the Lincoln Centre Orchestra or protégés and ‘homeys’ from his native New Orleans in his small groups of an earlier time. While critics like the almost infatuated Stanley Crouch were busy lauding him as the great new classicist, the keeper of the flame and the heir apparent to Duke Ellington, Marsalis has never appeared to let his ego get the better of him. His principal impulses seem to be those of (proscribed) experimentation, education and entertainment. Now there’s an idea for a book: Wynton Marsalis and the Three Es. For all his remarkable technical prowess – he learned trumpet as a child, was playing his first concertos as a young teenager and was assessed by the famous classical trumpeter Maurice André as ‘potentially the greatest [classical] trumpeter of all time’ – Marsalis is essentially a child of the Crescent City, where they like nothing better than to strut their stuff on the streets with the marching bands on Mardi Gras. He has never lost, as this video illustrates in my belief and to employ the title of his 1993 album, that essential Resolution to Swing.

 

Madeleine Peyroux - 'Dance Me To The End Of Love'

I confess. I once owned a 7” single by Dean Martin: a slurred version of the bluegrass musician John Hartford’s song, ‘Gentle On My Mind’. The song won a number of Grammy awards, which justifies my purchase with the benefit of hindsight, but I sold all evidence of it at the time when I became a serious fan of prog-rock in my youth. In those days, it wasn’t even cool to own a 7” single, let alone one sung by a member of the Brat Pack.

What, you might ask, has all this got to do with Madeleine Peyroux? Well, she banishes all traces of any residual embarrassment by transforming the song into something lush and beautiful on her album, The Blue Room. Despite the presence of musicians of the calibre of Larry Goldings on organ and Dean Parks on electric guitar, for a Madeleine Peyroux release, it’s just a little too awash with strings for my taste and you could argue that it’s more quality pop (even veering into country territory at times) than it is jazz. But that would be to deny her legitimate jazz singer’s ability to transform material by the likes of Buddy Holly, Randy Newman, Leonard Cohen and Warren Zevon – in a similar way to Cassandra Wilson – into something that takes on a new dimension – and to do it with a voice that reminds many punters of Billie Holiday.

So that’s by way of prefacing this wonderful example of a genuine jazz singer’s art: a live version of another Leonard Cohen, ‘Dance Me To The End Of Love’, the first number on her breakout second album, Careless Love, and arguably the definitive interpretation of a Cohen song. In fact, there are two versions and it’s very hard to draw a line between the two. There’s her performance from 16 years ago, which is slightly shorter – and therefore suggestive that the instrumental introduction heard on the version I chose finally has been elided. The band play impeccably on both versions, with an electric organ and violin added on this more recent live-in-LA rendition, while the accordion from the older one has been dispensed with. But it’s her voice itself that finally clinched it. On the older version, she sounds ever so slightly more mannered, and one or two commentators even complained that she strayed off tune on occasions. In fact, the singer had to have a cyst surgically removed from her vocal chords back in 2004 and she revealed that it took so long to re-train her voice that she even considered giving up singing. So we should lend her a little compassion and understanding. Even so, I feel that on the later rendition the ‘distinctive, honeyed croon’ (as it’s described on her website) and the Billie-esque timbre are slightly more evident. Listen to both and see what you think…

When I first came across young Ms. Peyroux, I thought for some reason best known to myself that her fluency in French suggested she must be a French Canadian. Not a bit of it. She is as American as pumpkin pie, born it seems in the hip university city of Athens, Georgia, which spawned the B52s and R.E.M. among others. She was brought up in New York and California, then moved to Paris with her mother as a 12-year-old. That by now familiar cover of Careless Love, showing her as a barefoot street urchin, became synonymous in my mind with her time spent busking on the streets of Paris, playing apparently with street musicians in the Latin Quarter. Having done her time and learnt her trade, she was discovered by Atlantic Records, who released her debut album, Dreamland.

She recorded the best-selling follow-up on Rounder Records with Joni Mitchell’s ex, Larry Klein, in the production seat. And if all that failed to add up to someone seriously hip, she worked subsequently with the likes of Walter Becker, k.d. lang, Marc Ribot, Allen Toussaint and Meshell Ndegeocello. Enough to make you spit were it not for the fact that Madeleine Peyroux seems to be a seriously decent and thoughtful human being, who acknowledges Louis Armstrong and Nina Simone among her teachers and heroes, who cites the dub poet Linton Kwesi Johnson as a ‘spoken-word genius’ and who suggests that ‘African American music has been the one constant, true path in [her] life.’ Her recent, ninth album, Let’s Walk – featuring more of her original songs this time than covers – was selected as one of the albums of the year by Konstantin Rega on All About Jazz. 

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I rest my case: Madeleine Peyroux is a serious and seriously good jazz singer.

James Carter - 'I Wonder Where Our Love Has Gone'

Although you could put up a very strong case in its favour, even if James Carter weren’t the finest saxophonist of his generation, he’s undeniably the snappiest dresser. I saw him perform at the little local annual jazz festival in Souillac on the Lot/Dordogne border back in the year 2000 or 2001, whenever he was pushing his tribute to Django Reinhardt, Chasin’ The Gypsy. He was on top form and looked the business that night in either the loud checked suit on the back cover of the album or something equally lurid. My friend, who wasn’t then and probably still isn’t really into jazz, was knocked out by the saxophonist. Admittedly, James treated his audience to some fiery rhythm & blues à la Big Jay McNeely in his encore, but it was a testimony to his ability as a jazzman to preach to the unconverted.

My introduction to James Carter came with a promotional cassette copy of his marvellous third solo album, The Real Quietstorm – one of the finest jazz albums of the 1990s in my ‘umble. He sports another million-dollar suit on its cover (as well as a tie that would give Cab Calloway a run for his money), but more to the point the nine numbers confirm how equally comfortable he was and is with ballads and with up-tempo numbers, and with the baritone, tenor, alto and soprano saxes as well as the bass flute and the wonderful velvety bass clarinet, an instrument that’s reputedly very difficult to play (as well as afford). It sounds like a recipe for a slightly annoying showcase for his considerable talents, but never comes over thus. It’s simply that he was young and spirited and just so darn good on whatever he picks up to play.

Living in an age where anyone in the audience can record a performance on their phone, you are spoilt for choice of ‘JC in The House’ on YouTube: JC in the context of an organ trio, showing himself to be the inheritor of Eddie ‘Lockjaw’ Davis’s mantle; JC duelling tenors with his closest contemporary rival, Joshua Redman; JC with a big band; JC the lush balladeer. In the end, I plumped for the latter – and in particular two performances: one at the Marciac Jazz Festival in 2016 as part of an organ trio, which would have done quite nicely had it not been for the other: effectively a 7½-minute solo in which he turns his tenor into what Don Byas dubbed a ‘sexophone’. It’s lush rhapsodic stuff that makes your toes curl and the hairs on the back of your neck stand on edge. Not yet 30, it is a precocious and virtuoso performance. Commentators object to ‘all that popping and slapping crap,’ but what little there is could be put down to youthful exuberance. Without a certain element of show-boating, there wouldn’t be that magical moment just before the end when someone in the audience whistles and Carter responds instantaneously with a high note and a wry smirk.

It’s no accident that among the vintage saxophones Carter owns is one that once belonged to Don Byas. Even as a young tyro, Carter always respectfully acknowledged his debt to the elders. If he’s anyone’s heir apparent, it’s probably the man from Muskogee’s, although there’s more than a suggestion sometimes of Ben Webster, whom he played in Robert Altman’s 1996 film, Kansas City. Here he is then, performing with extraordinary élan ‘I Wonder Where Our Love Has Gone’, written by the jump-blues pianist and band leader Buddy Johnson, who also wrote the immortal ‘Since I Fell For You’. Because the spotlight is so much on Carter himself, it’s very difficult to identify who’s with him in the band, but given that it’s 1997, it could well be his regular band of Craig Taborn on piano, Jaribu Shahid on bass and Tami Tabbal on drums.

The Detroit-born saxophonist has matured nicely since his more exuberant youth. He has brought out umpteen albums under his own name and contributed to umpteen more – playing majestically, for example, on pianist Cyrus Chestnut’s eponymous album and, somewhat surprisingly, Madeleine Peyroux’s Dreamland. Like Chick Corea, he’s always ready to form genre-specific bands to focus on the different aspects of music that he loves: his Elektric Outlet, for example, probably helps to satisfy his ‘frustrated guitarist’ urge. His organ trio has released a Live From Newport Jazz album on Blue Note, still the jazz musician’s stamp of approval. With so much talent to spare, it’s hardly surprising that he’s not content to sit still and blow permutations on the same theme. The New York Times has described him as ‘one of the most charismatic and powerful soloists in jazz’, and it’s the power allied to the loving finesse of this performance that makes it in my book so outstanding. Whether he’s playing the huge, cumbersome bass sax (as he does on Chasin’ The Gypsy) or the baritone, tenor, alto or soprano saxophones, he does it with such confidence and panache that it’s hard not to agree with the Washington Post’s verdict that ‘to hear saxophonist James Carter is to be blown away.’

 

Chet Baker & Stan Getz - 'Just Friends'

I’m fond of the word ‘raddled’: it’s almost an onomatopoeic way to describe Chet Baker’s shocking physical dilapidation that resulted from hard drugs and the jazz musician’s ruinous lifestyle. For a few years, before his 1950s poster-boy good looks had been indelibly defaced, he was even touted as the James Dean of jazz. In fact, both Chet Baker and Stan Getz, alumni of the so-called ‘cool school’ of American West Coast jazz, could have been poster boys for a ‘Don’t Do Drugs’ campaign. At least it didn’t show so much on the saxophonist’s face, although the effect of all those narcotics seems to have compromised his taste in shirts and ties.

Both Baker and Getz spent periods in a kind of self-imposed exile in Europe – which is where we find them in 1983, in Stockholm, the subject of a number from the same concert that I was very tempted to choose. In the end, on balance, I plumped for this version of a song that seems tailor-made for the trumpeter, if purely because… he plays and he sings! With Chesney Baker jr. you can’t really have one without the other. Although his trumpet playing won music press awards in the ‘50s when his star was in its ascendancy, it was often subsequently criticised for its lack of adventure and the slavish influence of early Miles Davis (before his trademark sound was forever pinched by the Harmon mute}. I wouldn’t go quite as far as one commentator who suggests that ‘the man was a trumpet’, but I do love his sound for its simplicity, its purity of tone and its air of bittersweet romance that complemented so beautifully his strange, haunting, androgynous voice. It was (once) the voice of an angel – but an angel on the verge of a fall. The (shamefully) anonymous writer of the fine sleeve notes for my boxed set of his American studio recordings from 1952-to 1955, the year when he took himself off to Europe and embarked on the road to ruin, puts it beautifully: ‘Chet Baker’s sound is the sigh of total despair.’

The despair in question was both that of others, especially women, who had any regular dealings with him, and his own. An apparent death wish within Baker jr., the son of a feckless, violent father, seemed to prevent him from curbing a promiscuous appetite for women, narcotics and the demon drink despite frequent reminders of the consequences. Photographer Bruce Weber’s beautiful elegiac documentary Let’s Get Lost paints an unforgettable portrait of someone as charming and as exasperating as he was downright mean. It’s hard to equate the plaintive beauty of the soundtrack with the stories told about him, but then isn’t that often the way with life’s most driven artists? It was ever thus. Jonathan Richman audaciously rhymed ‘Pablo Picasso’ and ‘asshole’ in the Modern Lovers’ quirky song about the Spanish Lothario. Baker managed royally to piss off fellow junky Gerry Mulligan, in whose ground-breaking piano-less quartet he first really rose to fame, and early appearances with Stan Getz were coloured by the mutual jealousy of two paranoid druggies. Having garnered acclaim and controversy in equal measure, and as if fleeing his demons, the so-called 'white Miles' set sail for Europe in 1955 at the age of 26. Like many an American jazz musician, Paris was Chet's first stop. He made a series of recordings there for Eddie Barclay’s eponymous label, but even though he continued to play and record it was downhill all the way. Based back and forth between Europe and the U.S., he was jailed twice, expelled from Germany and the U.K. for drugs-related reasons and beaten up so badly that he lost sufficient teeth to ruin his embouchure. After a spell on welfare and various comebacks, he fell to his death from his Amsterdam hotel in 1988. Or was he pushed? Hard drugs were found in his room, but his death was ruled an accident and remains a mystery – as does the conundrum of why so many talented artists end up destroying themselves.

So here are the two old adversaries back together again, performing a number that Baker would replay in a moving concert appearance at Ronnie Scott’s three years later in the company of Van Morrison and Elvis Costello. In Stockholm, support comes in the form of Getz’s regular drummer Victor Lewis, his occasional pianist Jim McNeely and celebrated bass player, George Mraz. Given Baker’s signature love of melody and mellow music, he often played the flugelhorn in later years, but here he reverts to the trumpet and a style that stayed simple and clear throughout the decades. He opens and closes the performance by singing verses of the song, the first time embellished by some fairly perfunctory scatting. While his voice is still fairly unique, it is by then as raddled by drugs and cigarettes as his facial features and redolent of a distinct world-weariness. Compare and contrast… his voice here with the truly extraordinary voice of this beautifully restored footage from nearly 20 years earlier of Baker singing Jules Styne and Sammy Cahn’s ‘Time After Time’. It’s like comparing Joni Mitchell’s original rendition of ‘Both Sides Now’ with the version she recorded on her year 2000 album of the same name – or Marianne Faithfull’s ‘As Time Goes By’ with just about anything on, say, Broken English. Cigarette packets should also carry a health warning for vocalists.

In many ways, the saxophone sound of Stan Getz is the ideal foil for Baker’s mellow trumpet. Getz fleshes out the middle of the song with a typically clean, clear-as-a-bell solo, a sound that initially owed more to the mellow school of Lester Young than to the reedier, raspier school of Coleman Hawkins. It was fashioned in Woody Herman’s ‘Four Brothers’ saxophone section, where his famous solo on ‘Early Autumn’ served notice to the world of what was to come. By the time he eventually earned the nickname of ‘The Sound’, it had acquired slightly more of a metallic heft: the evolution of a featherweight into a middleweight, perhaps. Anyway, it's high time to watch the two skin-deep romantics in tandem…

Like Chet Baker, Stan Getz was a highly flawed human being, but his career followed a somewhat different trajectory. Despite the early acclaim for his work in big bands, the 1950s were not the happiest decade for the saxophonist. He was arrested and jailed for a robbery that could pay for his heroin habit, and his first marriage – to a fellow addict – ended with three displaced children and a divorce. Disenchanted with the American jazz scene, he moved to Copenhagen in 1958 for three years. However, his career really took off soon after his return: with the bossa nova craze that he helped to popularise with albums like Jazz Samba and Getz/Gilberto. Although it proved a passing phase, he went on to record some of his finest albums – often in the company of pianist Kenny Barron – towards the end of his career. Meanwhile, however, his addictions re-surfaced, there were a couple of illegal firearm incidents and his second marriage disintegrated. No wonder his fellow Woody Herman ‘Brother’, Zoot Sims, famously described Getz as ‘a nice bunch of guys’. He died in 1991, maybe unsurprisingly, of liver cancer. Damningly, when rumours circulated about a heart operation, his former collaborator, trombonist Bob Brookmeyer, questioned whether Getz had a heart to operate on.

It’s a funny thing: how often artists, musicians and film-makers whose work one reveres turn out to be shites. Here are two more: two troubled souls who purveyed some of the most romantic jazz in the history of the genre.