Tag Archives: 78

Shellac Spotlight: Max Roach Quintet, “Maximum” / James Moody Quartet, “Just Moody” (Blue Note 1570)

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Original 1949 pressing
“Maximum” recorded May 15, 1949 at Studio Technisonor, Paris
“Just Moody” recorded April 30, 1949 in Lausanne, Switzerland

A Max Roach Quintet, “Maximum”
B James Moody Quartet, “Just Moody”

Selection:

“Maximum” (Dorham-Roach)

There is something to be said about the role exclusivity plays in record collecting and even in music appreciation in general, with this 78 being a prime example. If you’re a collector and you want to preview the songs on this disk, it’s possible to unearth them on YouTube. But you won’t find them on Spotify, and you’ll need to make a considerable effort to locate them in the twelve-inch LP format on a compilation from the ’70s. Admittedly, knowing the scarce availability of these recordings makes listening to the original 78 a little more exciting.

The A-side, “Maximum”, steals the show by a longshot. It was written by Max Roach and Kenny Dorham, and the title is surely a tribute to the former. I would be hard-pressed to find a more exhilarating musical performance in any era and in any genre of music. Indeed, Max Roach played a central role in making fast tempos fashionable during the bebop era. I have always been fascinated by how quickly bop is played at times, and several years ago I actually set out to determine which drummers in jazz could play the fastest. At the end of my survey, Max Roach and Tony Williams were at the top of the heap, unmatched in their ability to keep a steady, swift beat.

This track is of incredibly-low fidelity standards. But just like the other 78s covered here recently, that lack of sheen gives the recording oodles of character. In fact, I’m glad this wasn’t recorded in higher fidelity — can you imagine how different the overall feel would be if this was recorded at 30th Street in the 1960s? Bassist Tommy Potter gets lost in the lo-fi melee but everyone else cuts through with ease. Perhaps as a consequence of being the session leader, and despite the trend to subdue the drummer in 1940s recordings, leader Roach has a surprisingly up-front presence. This rightfully gives the sonic spotlight to Roach’s pedal-to-the-floor tour de force.

I have never heard such thunderous drumming in my life. Roach’s in-your-face snare packs a punch, and when he winds up for one of his machine-gun fills, watch out. (Depending on how you count a measure, and as a result of how fast the song is, Roach is technically only playing eighth notes during these rolls!) Solos by James Moody, Dorham, and Al Haig are all executed with astounding precision, all the more impressive when considering the quintet’s race-car velocity. But my god, Roach is superhuman on this. He is incredibly inventive, even while comping, and his accuracy is awe-inspiring.

Max and company recorded four other tunes on that Paris spring day in 1949. All five were released in the 78 format by Vogue Records in France originally. “Prince Albert”, “Maximum”, and “Yesterdays” (titled “Tomorrow” for this issuing) would all be licensed to Blue Note for 78 release before they appeared on Blue Note ten-inch 5010 three years later. “Baby Sis” (dubbed “Maxology”) would be licensed to Prestige Records for a 78 release here in the states, and “Hot House” (titled “Ham and Haig” — someone dodging publishing royalties???) would remain unissued in the U.S.

Nothing beats feeling the sheer weight of a shellac 78 in your hands. I have a special adoration for the original Blue Note 78 label as well. This precursor to the classic Blue Note LP label is perfect in every way. I love the thicker block font of the company name and how everything fits neatly within in the 78 label’s smaller surface area. I also like how the deep groove lines up with the edge of the label as originally intended. The hazy yellow — preceded and succeeded by the more familiar off-white — has an edginess, though I wonder if this was an intentional aesthetic choice despite the fact that many Blue Note 78s look like this.

Getting ready to (gently) drop this record on my turntable

Disks like this make record collecting worth it, and I’m glad to have stumbled upon this record when I did. Episode 2 of Origins of Bop is slated for next week so stay tuned.

Origins of Bop: Charlie Parker / Miles Davis, “Ah-Leu-Cha”

Charlie Parker, “Ah-Leu-Cha” (Original 78)

Savoy Records Cat. No. 939 (Side B) | 1948

Personnel:

  • Miles Davis, trumpet
  • Charlie Parker, alto saxophone
  • John Lewis, piano
  • Curley Russell, bass
  • Max Roach, drums

Miles Davis, “Ah-Leu-Cha” (Original LP)

Columbia Records Cat. No. 949 | 1955

Personnel:

  • Miles Davis, trumpet
  • John Coltrane, tenor saxophone
  • Red Garland, piano
  • Paul Chambers, bass
  • Philly Joe Jones, drums
Welcome to Origins of Bop, a new Deep Groove Mono series aiming to explore the lineage of some of my favorite hard bop recordings. I have always been interested in music history, and with jazz, that has meant finding out more about where my favorite compositions came from. This series is therefore intended to provide some backstory for many of the hard bop performances that we as collectors of twelve-inch vinyl LPs have come to love so much. Quite often, these songs date back to the 78-R.P.M. era of shellac disks, and in many cases I will be happy to feature 78s from my own collection.

This first installment features a tune composed by one of the founding fathers of bebop. I was introduced to Charlie Parker’s “Ah-Leu-Cha” back in 2001 through the first jazz LP I ever bought: Miles & Monk at Newport. One rainy afternoon in Albany, New York I had a break between my college classes, so I decided to hop in my car and venture downtown to Last Vestige, a local record shop. With a musical background largely focused on hip hop and rock at the time, my experience with jazz was limited. All I had was a cassette tape from a friend with Kind of Blue on one side and My Favorite Things on the other. But as a DJ, I had been seeing lots of cool covers for jazz albums popping up on the Turntable Lab website, and I had recently gotten interested in Madlib’s new electronic jazz project, Yesterday’s New Quintet. I was also DJing with an R&B cover band, and I befriended the group’s saxophonist, who was a locally-renowned jazz musician and composer.

My first-ever jazz vinyl purchase

This all had an influence on me when I decided to check out the jazz section of that shop for the first time. The copy of Miles & Monk I found was a stereo ‘70s reissue, it costed six dollars, and I pretty much bought it solely on the strength that I had heard of both leaders before. Side 1 was the Miles side. “Ah-Leu-Cha” was the first track, and it wasted no time ripping my face off. Miles liked to play fast live, and this Newport Festival reading was taken at a blistering pace, nearly twice as fast as Parker’s original 1948 recording, which by no coincidence also featured Davis. If I’m being honest, I remember wondering if I would even like jazz if this was what most jazz sounded like! Today I love that recording for its tenacity, high fidelity, and airtight performances. But back then, knowing nothing about jazz and being quite unfamiliar with such high levels of musicianship, I felt utterly confused.

Many years later when I discovered Davis’ classic ‘Round About Midnight, I was pleasantly surprised to find a slower, more accessible version of “Ah-Leu-Cha”. It was recorded three years before the Newport date in 1955 and features Miles’ First Great Quintet. Philly Joe Jones sounds snappy, his patented loose-wrist cymbal work creating an inimitable groove for each soloist to work with. The exceptional fidelity of this recording needs to be noted as well.

Side 1 label for CL 949

Prior to reviewing ‘Round About Midnight for my blog several years ago, I had never noticed Parker as the composer of “Ah-Leu-Cha”, and when I listened to Bird’s version for the first time I was caught off-guard by its syrupy tempo. Recorded for Savoy Records at Apex Studios in New York City (mentioned last week in a blog post here), engineer Harry Smith set the rhythm section back a ways behind a very present front line. This was a standard mixing aesthetic in the 1940s, and it makes jazz recordings from that period unmistakably of-the-era. Max Roach could tear it up like no one else in 1948, but he’s much tamer here. Peppering the backbeat with gentle fills throughout, the drummer manages to quickly trade two half-bar solos with bassist Curley Russell before the track’s closing. As a composition, the counterpoint of Bird and Miles creates exciting harmonic motion that makes my ears smile every time I hear it.

Shellac Spotlight: Thelonious Monk, “Humph” / “Misterioso” (Blue Note 560)

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  • Original 1949 pressing

Personnel:

  • Idrees Sulieman, trumpet (side A only)
  • Danny Quebec West, alto saxophone (side A only)
  • Billy Smith, tenor saxophone (side A only)
  • Milt Jackson, vibraphone (side B only)
  • Thelonious Monk, piano
  • Gene Ramey, bass (side A only)
  • John Simmons, bass (side B only)
  • Art Blakey, drums (side A only)
  • Shadow Wilson, drums (side B only)

“Humph” recorded October 15, 1947 at WOR Studios, New York City
“Misterioso” recorded July 2, 1948 at Apex Studios, New York City

A Humph
B Mysterioso

Selections:

“Misterioso” (Monk)

“Humph” (Monk)

It’s been several months since I last did a proper record review. It’s a rule of mine to refrain from writing unless inspiration strikes, and it hadn’t until now. I recently received a birthday gift from my significant other in the form of a homemade video. She knows I adore Thelonious Monk, and while the inclusion of some of Monk’s music was a real treat, I didn’t realize she knew my taste well enough to include one of my all-time favorite Monk recordings.

The recording I am speaking of, a recording that makes my heart melt every time I hear it, is Monk’s original 1948 recording of “Misterioso”, the pseudoword title taking on the more predictable spelling “Mysterioso” for this inaugural release. Eight months prior to cutting this side for Alfred Lion and Blue Note Records, Monk recorded a flurry of tunes in his studio debut as a leader in the fall of 1947, also for Blue Note. But while all three of those sessions took place at a studio operated by WOR radio station in Manhattan, Blue Note pivoted to acclaimed engineer Harry Smith (not to be confused with the legendary 78 collector of the same name) and his nearby Apex Studios for this July 2, 1948 session.

In the late ’40s, Harry Smith was making a name for himself as a major industry player. Yet the fidelity of Monk’s sole session at Apex stands in stark contrast to the earlier WOR dates. The latter, recorded by engineer Doug Hawkins, exhibit lower noise and greater clarity in definition of the instruments. But Smith’s take on this quartet, distorted peaks and all, is dirtier, it’s grittier, and it excels at complementing Monk’s obtuseness both as composer and improviser.

Monk can’t help but demand our attention from start to finish on “Misterioso”. Vibraphonist Milt Jackson, another one of the jazz world’s rising stars at the time, accompanied Monk on the date. While Jackson navigates the changes, Monk manages to steal the spotlight out from under Bags’ busy hands with a jarring, minimalist comping technique that probably struck many contemporary listeners as…odd. For this author listening over 70 years later, it evokes an image of Monk leaning back on his stool between key strikes in a way that might seem casual or just flat-out lazy. But even and especially in the summer of 1948, Monk is hungry. He is a predator on his way to the top of the musical food chain, and in those silent moments he is surely scanning the keyboard with intense focus, deciding which keys will be his next tonal prey. He is a complete and utter alien to the music world, and we have Blue Note producer Alfred Lion to thank for blessing us with this glimpse of just what a musical revolutionary Monk was early on in his career.

When Jackson’s solo is over, the less-is-more trend continues, and the space Monk leaves between notes gives us a chance to catch a glimpse of John Simmons’ bassline lurking mischievously in the background. Long descending runs are often found in Monk’s solos at this time, and his patented half-step dissonance is also on full display. To most of the era’s critics, this flat-fingered striking of adjacent keys was presumedly the work of a hack pianist with poor technique that lacked the necessary precision. Yet time has revealed to us that every last one of these notes was deliberately chosen by a highly skilled pianist with an entirely unique musical conception.

The A-side, “Humph”, is no slouch either. Recorded during the first of the three previous sessions, it stands far apart from “Misterioso” not only in sonics but also in arrangement and songwriting. In fact, one might even guess that producer Alfred Lion was desperate to pair Monk’s strange “B” with a brighter, more upbeat “A” — anything vaguely resembling something more accessible to the customer — and to think that “Humph” was as close as Lion would get is a hilarious predicament only Monk could create.

Like many of the quintet and sextet sides he recorded as a leader at this time, Monk respectfully falls in line with his sidemen on “Humph” by taking a shorter solo that gives everyone a chance to shine under the limitations of the format. A lesser-known original of which Monk only recorded once, “Humph” is a complex undertaking densely packed with descending chords and fast-paced notes that sound like a tornado ripping through a cartoon town. And the peculiarity of that metaphor speaks perfectly to the character of the song’s tumultuous, colorful creator.