Kenny Dorham, “My Ideal” (Original Jazz Classics LP Reissue)
New Jazz Records Cat. No. 8225 | 1959
Personnel:
Kenny Dorham, trumpet
Tommy Flanagan, piano
Paul Chambers, bass
Art Taylor, drums
I’ve been noticing some buzz on the internet about an up-and-coming mono reissuing of Kenny Dorham’s Quiet Kenny by the Craft label, so I thought I’d feature a track off that album for this edition of Origins of Bop. “My Ideal” dates back to 1930, the year of both its publishing and premier on the silver screen. Playboy of Paris starred Maurice Chevalier, who was also the first to record the song.
After several years of laying commercially dormant, Maxine Sullivan decided to give “My Ideal” a fresh reading. Gone are Chevalier’s humorous French accent, masculine perspective, “B” section, and half-spoken delivery of the final verse. With Buster Bailey’s clarinet taking the instrumental lead, Sullivan’s version is the first to feature a jazz arrangement. Sullivan was 32 at the time of recording but the innocence of her voice suggests a teenage girl waiting for a fantasized heartthrob to make her acquaintance on the way home from school.
Coleman Hawkins followed soon after with his own instrumental version, which retained the structure of Sullivan’s. Over a decade later, Chet Baker tried the tune on in 1956, brining back the “B” section while moving it to the beginning, and two years later Earl Coleman would mimic the Baker arrangement on Sonny Rollins’ Tour de Force album.
A word about the popular music form: It has always seemed like “real music lovers” kind of shun popular music. I’m not one of them. I love pop music. I love it for its simplicity. You get that with Sullivan’s version. Her lyrical inflections are hardly adventurous yet they easily keep my interest. The humility of her straight-down-the-middle interpretation is also admirable. Baker takes a few steps away from that, swinging to-and-fro with syllables rarely falling on-beat. Then Coleman and Rollins wreak havoc on this pretty love song, mangling it to the point of near-unidentifiability.
Is the ease of pop such a sin? These are my opinions, after all, but to me Coleman’s version is the epitome of trying too hard to make things interesting. (Fans of Rollins might guess, like me, that his atypical stylings here are meant to appease Coleman.) Surely I don’t understand the fundamental conception of most jazz vocalists, as numerous legends seem to “jazz things up” in this manner: Johnny Hartman, Sarah Vaughan, Helen Merrill, Sheila Jordan, Cassandra Wilson. Give me Ella or Blossom Dearie and I’m a happy camper.
Thank heavens for Kenny Dorham restoring some order to the universe in 1959 with his version, which, like Hawkins’, is executed in the spirt of Sullivan’s. Dorham’s heartwarming, muffled tone is reminiscent of Baker’s, yet I have always found Kenny to have a unique and understated musical persona that is perfectly complemented by this type of tone. From his sweet playing alone I had originally and erroneously assumed that this song was dedicated by its authors (Newell Chase, Richard A. Whiting, and Leo Robin) to their respective lovers. Yet the lyrics reveal a hopeful story of longing for a partner unknown.
Dorham’s version is a favorite ballad of mine and I’m glad it led me to discover Maxine Sullivan. There’s plenty more Origins of Bop posts to come so please stay tuned.
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.
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.
“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.
Recorded September 11 and September 24, 1929 in New York City
Selection: “My Feelin’s Are Hurt” (Waller)
While I still haven’t delved all too deeply into ‘pre-bop’ jazz, I managed to find another great 78 from that era. For a stretch in 2019 I was accustomed to seeing the silly grin on Fats Waller’s pudgy face regularly while volunteering at the National Jazz Museum in Harlem. Footage of Waller performing was part of a video on loop there, and I was regularly reminded what a natural entertainer he was.
It was enough to make this “serious” jazz fan (who sometimes takes himself too seriously) avoid Waller’s records whenever they came up. But trying to be more open-minded about older jazz, I figured I would give Fats a chance if I could find an instrumental record of his. Then I found this. Despite knowing how influential all the stride pianists were on my favorite bop pianists including Thelonious Monk, I’m still not decided on how I feel about boogie/stride piano numbers like “Smashing Thirds”, the B-side here (pretty awesome title, though). For this 78, it was the “A” that caught my attention.
The first thing that stood out about “My Feelin’s Are Hurt” was that it is not an uptempo stride tune. More of a brisk walk, it reminds me of Monk’s tendency to avoid faster paces. Fats starts the tune off by playing with numerous ideas and finally settles on a rhythmic romp halfway through the side. Like the Louis Armstrong sides I reviewed recently, his super-steady playing here makes me move every time. Toward the end Waller breaks out into stride for a brief spell, then slows things back down to return home with a beautiful cadence.
For many collectors including myself, exclusivity ultimately plays a role in the extent to which a particular record is desired. Very rarely is a recording unavailable via streaming services like Spotify and Apple Music. That being the case for the A-side here, don’t say I never did anything for you. This is a fun tune you’re not gonna hear anywhere else on internet, so enjoy and I’ll see you for the next installment of Shellac Spotlight!
Recorded May 7 and May 10, 1927 at Okeh Studios, Chicago
Selections:
“Willie the Weeper” (Melrose-Bloom)
“Alligator Crawl” (Waller)
So far, Deep Groove Mono’s coverage of 78s has been limited to the very first 78 I ever acquired and the Dual idler wheel turntable I recently picked up for its popularity with 78 collectors. Since I have replaced that first 78 with a cleaner copy, abandoned the economical Califone portable featured in that post, and now prefer my modified Technics 1200 to play 78s over the Dual, this in some ways is my inaugural 78 post.
I have managed to build up a modestly-sized 78 collection over the past six months, and without trying to sound too self-congratulatory, I worked hard for it. It took a lot of research, shopping, patience, reception of packages, cleaning, critical listening, transferring, and photographing. Time for me to finally relax and enjoy the fruits of my labor.
For Jazz Historians
I have always taken an interest in the historical roots of the hard bop I cherish most. After exhausting all my resources for bebop 78s recently, I shifted gears to collecting original vocal versions of my favorite jazz standards. But jazz history is deep as the ocean, and it surely does not end with the white popular vocal artists featured on most of these earlier records. The music of colossal jazz legends like Louis Armstrong and Fats Waller was clearly a major influence on my favorite bop musicians, and even if it isn’t naturally the first music I would reach for, I still felt a drive to understand it and the way it’s connected to bop. Maybe I would develop a more genuine interest in the music from there; either way, the records those guys put out have historical value to me.
In the process of exploring “hot jazz”, I stumbled upon the Instagram page of Hot Club of New York. Founded and maintained by a young, bright WKCR alum and disciple of Phil Schaap that I only know as “Fat Cat”, his passion and enthusiasm for hot jazz is infectious, and it surely inspired me to further explore the subgenre.
Ever since I watched Ken Burns’ (somewhat controversial) Jazz documentary, I had been curious about Louis Armstrong. The thing I noticed right away about that documentary (probably true of any history of jazz) was how unanimous the interviewees seemed in their agreement that Louis Armstrong is essentially the gravitational force of creativity at the center of the jazz galaxy. More than any other figure in the music’s history, experts seem to agree that Pops is tops. For obvious reasons, this white boy born in 1980 had trouble understanding that universal sentiment, but I too wanted to share in the knowledge of Armstrong’s lasting influence on jazz.
Author Gary Giddins’ input on Satchmo made an especially strong impression on me. Giddins spoke about Armstrong’s importance with certainty and conviction. There was also a moment in which I really felt I understood just how special Louis Armstrong was. During footage of an October 21, 1933 live performance with his orchestra in Copenhagen, his immense charm and skill is on full display as he effortlessly shifts between addressing the crowd, dancing along with the music, and taking his solos with utmost poise and seriousness. Fashioning a white rag to wipe the sweat from his brow, one can’t help but remember trumpeters past like Buddy Bolden who would drape a rag over their hand to protect the secrets of their fingering from onlooking players. Witnessing Louis’ swagger then made it perfectly clear why he was far and away “the man” in his day.
For Record Collectors
Once I started researching Armstrong’s 78 catalog, it didn’t take long to realize that his Hot Five and Hot Seven recordings for Okeh in the late 1920s are considered by many to be the creme-de-la-creme. So I started listening on Spotify. Of the dozens of sides I heard, two stood out above the rest. Not only that, both were originally issued on the same 78, and even more coincidental, there was a decent copy for sale on eBay — surprising since these Louis Okeh 78s seem rare and in regular demand.
I decided to take a chance on the disk, which was graded “V” (I have learned that V for 78s is more comparable to VG- with LPs). There’s something about these really old 78s where the older the record is, the more forgiving I am of playback issues. The record proved conservatively graded, and even with some minor playback issues I decided it was worth the price of admission (my time collecting has shown me that effectively determining what does and does not constitute an “enjoyable listen” is a skill that needs developing). And I’ll be honest: these gorgeous Okeh labels and their highly-stylized typography inevitably enhance my enjoyment. Perhaps a less shallow assessment would be that records like these are pieces of history that make listening exciting in a special way.
For Music Lovers
I still have a lot to learn about the history of Louis Armstrong’s small groups, but I have managed to figure out that these are some of the earliest sides cut by the newly-formed Hot Seven in Chicago in early May 1927. Tuba and drums were added to what by modern standards seems like an odd conception of a rhythm section, which in the Hot Five consisted of a pianist and banjoist. Pops is still on cornet at this point, and while we catch the band in the middle of a one-year Kid Ory hiatus here, trombonist John Thomas succeeds at filling his shoes, and clarinetist Johnny Dodds remains faithfully flanking our leader to complete the septet’s front line.
The band comes roaring out the gate at the beginning of “Willie the Weeper”, an old Vaudeville song that saw a sort of resurgence around the time this disk was cut. For the very first moments of the take the band is in complete rhythmic unison, creating momentum that makes me nod my head every time. No doubt this is busy music. The parts individually have a beautiful simplicity but together they ensue a happy sort of chaos that is a proven hallmark of hot jazz.
I’ve heard many historians say that one of the great original contributions Armstrong made to jazz was the way he created space for soloists to make their mark on a tune. In “Willie the Weeper”, John Thomas leads off and does not disappoint. In fact, while casually perusing my Hot Five and Hot Seven playlist on Spotify, this was probably the first solo that made my ears perk up. I continue to fashion hot jazz as a little ‘silly’ sounding (regardless of how ignorant or historically invalid that opinion may be), and while I find Thomas’ solo fits this description to a tee, I find it entirely captivating at the same time.
Dodds comes in next and steals the show. A few weeks ago I had the pleasure of joining a virtual meeting of the Hot Club of New York on Zoom, at which time Fat Cat proceeded to school me on the brilliance of Johnny Dodds. With embellishments shifting at each chord change, Dodds resolves the first and second halves of his solo with a matching pair of high notes that create a most satisfying sense of cadence.
I’m not sure how typical this was of Armstrong but he lets his bandmates take the lion’s share of the spotlight here. After a brief appearance by Satch, pianist Lil Armstrong pounces through her solo and is followed by guitarist Johnny St. Cyr, who registers yet another catchy solo for the group. The leader then triumphantly returns with a chorus that is pure rhythm. Accompanied by Baby Dodds’ syncopated bashing of a choked cymbal, the two proceed to create a bouncing rhythm that makes it impossible to sit still. They are eventually rejoined for a victory lap by the rest of the band and they ride out the side together.
Things slow down on the B-side with “Alligator Crawl”. Written by Fats Waller, I wonder if Louis learned of the song back when he was playing with Fletcher Henderson in New York. Dodds opens things up and is followed by a chorus from the band. Then we finally get to hear Louis unleash over Pete Briggs’ bossy tuba and Baby Dodds’ choked cymbal, which again, along with Armstrong’s highly rhythmic sense of playing, provides motivating syncopation. St. Cyr enters jarringly just as Armstrong exits, does some strumming, and the band plays the tune out.
I’m not sure how much more Hot Five and Hot Seven stuff I’m going to collect but this disk definitely does it for me. Stay tuned, I’ll be back with another Shellac Spotlight post soon!
“Evonce” recorded October 15, 1947
“Off Minor” recorded October 24, 1947
All selections recorded at WOR Studios, New York City
A
Evonce
B
Off Minor
Selection:
“Off Minor” (Monk)
For some time now I have wanted to get into collecting 78s. Recently, I began reading Robin D.G. Kelley’s Thelonious Monk biography, and digging into the history of Monk inspired me to seek out the “authentic” experience of hearing his earliest Blue Note recordings on original ten-inch 78 R.P.M. shellac discs opposed to the CD box set I already had (which sounds great, by the way).
The 2014 double-CD Monk Blue Note “box set”
Part of my hesitation to jump into 78 collecting was the problem of playing the discs. There are a couple Technics 1200 clones currently on the market that will play 78s (Pioneer, Audio-Technica — thanks to DGM reader Ross for pointing this out) but I might as well just pay to get my 1200 modified to do the same thing. Vintage was also an option, but I have my issues with the quirks commonly plaguing vintage equipment. Then I remembered Califone, the California-based company that manufactured “record players” mainly for use in educational settings through the ’90s, all of which have a 78 setting. Years ago when I first got into collecting jazz LPs, I picked up one of their newer models with the intention of playing beater copies of originals on it, and I was pleasantly surprised by how good those records sounded blasting out of the four-by-ten-inch full-range speaker on the front of the unit.
In theory, that bold, exciting sound has a lot to do with the heavier tracking force of the Califone tonearm, which I understand is in the upwards of six to seven grams. Once I realized this though, I got rid of the player out of fear that it would wear out my LPs.
But then a month ago when I decided I wanted to make the move into 78s, I decided that a Califone would be a great place to start. (Admittedly, I did this assuming that 78s have a higher tolerance for higher tracking forces, and I should probably look further into the matter before I end up ruining anything.) I quickly found a model 1010 AV for cheap locally, a model I chose specifically because it was produced through the ’90s, so any chances of “quirkiness” should have been minimized, and they were. The unit operates as new — surely more wow and flutter than my 1200 and not perfectly silent in operation but blasts out music regardless. And it has a quarter-inch line level output to hook it up to my amplifier and make needledrops. Soon after I got the Califone, I got lucky on Discogs hunting down the beautiful disc being presented here and my 78 experience was ready to begin.
The Califone 1010 AV
The 78 Sound
Surely another reason I hesitated to get into 78s was their “inferior” sound quality. Not a high fidelity experience by any stretch of the imagination, the medium nonetheless has an incredibly unique sonic signature. While volunteering at the National Jazz Museum in Harlem recently, Senior Scholar Loren Schoenberg told me that he always felt tenor sax sounded incredible on original 78s, which intrigued me even more.
Once I got a replacement 78 stylus for my Califone (the tip of which is 3 mils opposed to the 1-mil styli for the earliest microgroove LPs), I dropped the thick, weighty 78 onto the Califone’s miniature platter, watched it spin at lightning speed, plopped the needle down onto the disc, and was quickly impressed by the clarity and impact of the sound. Maybe down the road I’ll upgrade by modifying my 1200 to play 78s and then I can get a special 78 cartridge, but for the moment I’m quite happy with this setup.
What a rush hearing Monk in a similar way to how he would have been heard back in 1948. The disc is virtually free of obtrusive pops and ticks, though as is the case with all 78s, you still get a continuous stream of hiss floating above the music. (In the needledrop included here, I attenuated the high frequencies above ~6.5 kHz since that was around where the frequency response of the recording sounded like it started to roll off.) No audible groove wear on this one either, though I have to imagine that groove wear can be an issue with 78s.
The Music
According to the catalog numbers, this was the third Monk 78 released by Blue Note, preceded by 542 “Thelonious” / “Suburban Eyes” and 543 “‘Round Midnight” / “Well, You Needn’t”. For the A-side, Blue Note decided on “Evonce” (slang for marijuana at the time), a tune not accredited to Monk but instead group members Idrees Sulieman and Ike Quebec. The melody line is typical of the zanier melodies in the bebop songwriting tradition. The horns cut through like a butcher knife, though Monk is only awarded half a chorus to solo.
“Off Minor”, the Monk-penned B-side, is the real gem of the disc. Nine days after the recording of side A, the horns stayed home to let the rhythm section do its thing unrestricted in the studio. As with most of Monk’s classic compositions, the first time I ever heard “Off Minor” was not in its original Blue Note incarnation. It was instead on Monk’s Music (Riverside 242). That cleaner recording and bigger ensemble make it a very different version compared to its predecessor. The Riverside version fails to embody the grit and minimalist thrust of this power trio, rounded out by Gene Ramey and a 28 year-old Art Blakey.
On both sides Blakey shuffles, a style of drumming that was a staple of the swing era. Though he doesn’t play with “four on the floor” — the technique that played a major role in defining swing where the drummer would shoulder the bulk of the pulse-keeping responsibility with the bass drum — his cymbal work here nonetheless manages to establish a similar feel. Many bebop drummers in the ’40s (Kenny Clarke, Max Roach) broke with this rhythmic tradition by handing the task of pulse-keeping off to the bassist and instead chose to focus on establishing a sense of swing with the ride cymbal while providing unpredictable excitement with intermittent bass drum “bombs”. Though the bebop movement was well underway in 1947, shuffling apparently wasn’t a completely dated technique yet.
These early Monk recordings cannot be beat for the undeniable hunger and passion emitted by the pianist. Through the lo-fi sound we hear an inspired composer aggressively striking the keyboard, shocking the jazz community with a style of playing so foreign it would take nine more years before Monk would achieve widespread acceptance with the release of Brilliant Corners.
