Impulse! 2-on-1 - Celebrating 50 Years of Impulse Records!

Impulse! 2-on-1: More Than Just A Label. An Identity. A Statement.

Impulse Records was more than just a label. It was an identity. It was a statement. Impulse Records was a musical brand of artistry that provided some of jazz’s greatest creators with a platform for making some of their very best music. The new wave of jazz was indeed on Impulse!

With its distinctive logo and unique packaging, Impulse stood out in the crowd. But it was the music that made Impulse impressive. Impulse captured not only such traditionalists as Duke Ellington and Art Blakey but also cataloged many of the fiery voices of the emerging free-jazz movement, notably led and inspired by John Coltrane, who made his most memorable music for Impulse.

The label also caught everything in between, from traditional jazz combos with a special affinity for jazz’s best drummers to psychedelic jazz-rock and orchestral outings, while later specializing in spiritual jazz and musical fusions.

Series Production - MATTHIAS KÜNNECKE & DOUGLAS PAYNE

Ahmad Jamal: Even though the great pianist Ahmad Jamal had “retired” from performing in the late 1960s, he waxed a number of recordings for the Impulse label, including these two live sets from 1969 and 1971, that proved he was not only at the top of his game but at the height of his musical prowess.

Albert Ayler: The searing and searching saxophone of Albert Ayler (1936-70) explored the roots of jazz as much as its outer reaches. John Coltrane brought Ayler to the Impulse label, where he recorded a dizzying display of his iconoclastic lore, including these two scorchers, Love Cry and The Last Album.

Alice Coltrane: Pianist, harpist, organist and composer Alice Coltrane (1937-2007) turned her attention toward orchestral endeavors on these great Impulse albums from the early 1970s, producing a rich musical palette without ever sacrificing the spiritual jazz she had long championed.

Archie Shepp: Swept up in the “new thing” of the 1960s, Archie Shepp quickly began to discover how more traditional forms of music, like African polyrhythms and R&B, could appropriately inform the jazz he was delivering, as evidenced on these two terrific albums recorded between 1968 and 1969.

Art Blakey: The revered leader of the Jazz Messengers, one of jazz’s greatest musical proving grounds, drummer Art Blakey (1919-90) recorded only these two dates for Impulse, 1961’s Jazz Messengers!!!! (with the superb “Alamode”) and 1963’s unconventional, yet sterling, quartet outing A Jazz Message.

Coleman Hawkins: Coleman Hawkins (1904-69) was not only one of jazz’s greatest tenor players, but probably its loveliest ballads performer. The Hawk recorded several Impulse records, including these two from 1962: Today and Now (with “Love Theme from ‘Apache’”) and the unusual Bossa Nova.

Curtis Fuller: Bebop trombone great Curtis Fuller had already led dates for Prestige, Blue Note, Savoy and Epic and joined the Jazz Messengers when he waxed his only two leader dates for Impulse in the early 1960s, Soul Trombone (with fellow Messengers) and Cabin in the Sky (arranged by Manny Albam).

Duke Ellington: It was producer Bob Thiele’s idea to feature legendary orchestra leader Duke Ellington (1899-1974) in small-group settings with former Ellingtonian Coleman Hawkins (1905-69) and the fiery saxophonist John Coltrane (1926-67). Both 1962 sets are inspired, historic and featured here.

Elvin Jones: At the time propulsive drummer Elvin Jones (1997-2004) manned the beat in John Coltrane’s 1960-1965 quartet, he also found time to lead these great Impulse gems, Illumination (co-led with Coltrane bassist Jimmy Garrison and featuring Coltrane pianist McCoy Tyner) and Dear John C.

Gabor Szabo: While the late, great guitarist Gabor Szabo (1936-82) recorded many studio albums during his brief career, he was always best served by his few live recordings. These two live Impulse albums brilliantly catch Szabo’s working group, featuring the stunning guitarist Jimmy Stewart, in 1967.

McCoy Tyner: Legendary pianist McCoy Tyner launched his mercurial solo career with these two exciting trio sides, a mix of well-known standards and effective originals (including the now standard “Effendi”) recorded in 1962 while he was still part of John Coltrane’s historic quartet.

Milt Jackson: Vibraphonist Milt Jackson (1923-99) led a double life, co-fronting the Modern Jazz Quartet, while also charting a significant course of his own on records such as 1962’s bracing Statements and 1964’s light-hearted Jazz ‘n’ Samba – two of his earliest and best Impulse endeavors.

Pharoah Sanders: Saxophonist Pharoah Sanders was initially part of John Coltrane’s group before scoring his own hit with 1969’s “The Creator Has a Master Plan.” The saxophonist went on to become a world-class leader, waxing the East-meets-West-meets-Africa of these two great albums from 1973.

Shirley Scott: Hammond B-3 great Shirley Scott (1934-2002) often played with John Coltrane in the 1950s but rose to fame as part of Eddie “Lockjaw” Davis’s group. Her long string of Impulse albums included these two, among her best, alternating her trio with a big band arranged by Oliver Nelson.

Sonny Rollins: Tenor saxophonist Sonny Rollins was already one of jazz’s greatest players and composers when he recorded 1965’s On Impulse. Thirteen years later that album’s template, There Will Never Be Another You, caught live several weeks earlier, finally appeared. Here, they’re together at last.

Madonna

Say what you will about her music - and Lord knows I have said some unpleasant things in my time about the Material Girl (except for my long-standing defense of Who’s That Girl) - Madonna’s influence is unparalleled.

Over the years I have occasionally fallen under Madonna’s spell, though I don’t often care to admit it. I am usually much happier watching her videos than listening to her music – though Ray of Light stands as something on its own and somewhat meaningful for the ages.

Still, watching her videos makes for something that’s intoxicating. Here’s why watching Madonna is often better than just listening to Madonna. Maybe I like to watch. This is why.

“Open Your Heart” (1986) - The video was originally set to be directed by Madonna's then-husband Sean Penn, but in the end the final honors went to Jean-Baptiste Mondino, who went on to work with Madonna on other videos including the Visconti-inspired "Justify My Love" (1990). Shot in Echo Park, California, the video features a beautiful boy named Felix Howard.

“Like A Prayer” (1989) – I know this better from the notorious and briefly aired Pepsi commercial (a big deal in its day), directed by Pittsburgh born Joe Pytka, who also directed several Michael Jackson videos. This wonderfully conceived video, though, is directed by Mary Lambert, who initially made a name for herself directing Madonna videos (“”Like A Virgin,” “La Ilsa Bonita” etc.), and is probably best known as the director of the Pet Semetary films (the second of which features Edward Furlong). The song features the Andraé Crouch Choir and Madonna's longtime backing vocalist Niki Haris and the video spotlights actor Leon Robinson as the Jesus character.

“Express Yourself” (1989) – Despite accolades to the contrary, this song (which is hardly revolutionary) certainly inspired Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way.” The incredible video was directed by David Fincher (Fight Club, Zodiac, The Social Network and the forthcoming The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo) and obviously inspired by Fritz Lang’s magnificent Metropolis. Madonna herself claims to have had a hand in every part of the creation of this video and mentioned jokingly in a 1990 BBC interview that the main theme of the video and the cat metaphor represents that "Pussy rules the world."

“Ray of Light” (1998) – No words need apply, except maybe “beautiful.” The Koyaanisqatsi-like video is directed by videographer Jonas Åkerlund (Spun, Horsemen).

Lalo Schifrin

A very happy 79th birthday to Lalo Schifrin, one of the greatest composers jazz and film has ever known, a damned fine pianist and truly one of the nicest people you could ever want to meet.

Born June 21, 1932, in Buenos Aires, Argentina, Lalo Schifrin’s resume would be impossible to list here (check out my discography for that). But there are so many high points, including Dizzy Gillespie’s historic Gillespiana, Jimmy Smith’s award-winning The Cat and Paul Horn’s award-winning Jazz Suite on the Mass TextsCool Hand Luke, Bullitt, Dirty Harry and Enter the Dragon and iconic themes to TV’s “Mission: Impossible” and “Mannix.”

Lalo Schifrin continues a tireless pace of composing, recording, touring and conducting, having recently released Invocations , the seventh in his remarkable series of “Jazz Meets the Symphony” recordings and the 45th release on his own Aleph label, scoring the hit Rush Hour films, video games such as Splinter Cell and composing the score for the upcoming James Caan film Sweetwater (interestingly, one of Schifrin’s earliest assignments was scoring the 1964 “Memo From Purgatory” episode of The Alfred Hitchcock Hour starring Caan in one of his first roles).

By way of a tribute, here are some of my favorite Lalo Schifrin moments, gleaned from what I could find on YouTube (YT). Happy birthday, Lalo Schifrin!

“Theme From Joy House” – Jimmy Smith from The Cat (Verve, 1964):

“Egg Eating Contest” from Cool Hand Luke (Dot, 1967):

“Jim on the Move” from Mission: Impossible (1968):

Bullitt (1968) main titles sequence:

“Look Up” from The President’s Analyst (1968):

“La Columna” from Che! (1969):

“Dirty Harry” from Dirty Harry (Aleph, 1971) – I would have preferred to find the main titles sequence on YT, but this gets most of the good stuff:

“Latin Slide” from La Clave (Verve, 1972) – also featured in a different recording as a source cue from the 1971 film Pretty Maids All In A Row:

“Sampans” from Enter the Dragon (Warner Bros., 1973):

“Black Widow” from Black Widow (CTI, 1976):

Nicola Conte "Love & Revolution"

For more than a decade now Nicola Conte has scored brilliantly as a DJ, promoter, producer, compiler and recording artist. From his earliest recording, 2000’s still remarkable Jet Sounds (also issued in the US as Bossa Per Due), Conte has also displayed a retro appreciation for the lounge appeal of bossa nova combined with a soulful groove informed by his love of all things jazz. He even waxed a record for the vaunted Blue Note label in between regular forays on the Italian Schema imprint where he made his name.

That love has deepened over the years to prominently spotlight things in the spiritual realm of what some folks call improvised creative music. Indeed, the Japanese branch of Universal Music commissioned Conte to compile Spiritual Swingers (EmArcy, 2010 – also issued in Europe), focusing on the “deep, afrocentric, modal jazz from Universal Music Archives.” That set is a terrific mix of diverse features from Abbey Lincoln, Ahmad Jamal, Dorothy Ashby, Yusef Lateef, Roy Haynes, Mark Murphy, Klaus Weiss and others that lives up to its grandstanding title and Conte’s abiding love for this sort of thing.

Conte’s Rituals (Schema, 2008) unveiled this nearly heavenly sound kaleidoscope in shades that were a little too primary and sounds that were frankly just a bit too obvious and ultimately annoying. So expectations for Nicola Conte’s Impulse (!) debut were on the low side.

But while Universal Music seemed to repay Conte for Spiritual Swingers, the result, Love & Revolution, returns the favor by giving the label – celebrating its 50th anniversary this year and releasing an average of one new record a year these days – with an album that lives up to Impulse’s storied heritage.

With Love & Revolution, it’s fair to say that Conte, a guitarist who almost never dominates and a musician that often doesn’t even participate, comes into his own as a composer and conceptualist. It’s a mature work that is more cohesive, satisfying and unique than just about anything Conte has attempted before. A hippy dippy vibe prevails here, as suggested by the retro cover graphics, recalling some of the Impulse work of Dave Mackay and Vicky Hamilton, whose “Here” is heard here. But that’s more a superficial catch-all than what this music is all about.

As before, the tendency toward songs with singers prevails here and, as usual, Conte surrounds himself with a variety of young singers who give his music just the right touch of silky soul including José James (“Love From The Sun,” “Here,” Mal Waldron’s “Temple of Far East” set to Conte’s words), Gregory Porter (“Do You Feel Like I Do,” Jackie McLean’s “Ghana” set to Conte’s words), Melanie Charles (“Mystery of Love,” “Love and Revolution,” Cal Massey’s “Quiet Dawn,”) and Hungarian vocalist Veronika Harcsa (“I’m the Air”).

The vocalists soak up the ambient nightclub-y vibe of the rhythm section – driven with loving perfection by drummer Teppo Makynen throughout – and several prominent soloists enhance the jazzy groove of the whole thing like tenor saxist Tim Warfield (“Love From The Sun”), trumpeter Till Brönner (gorgeous on “Here,” “Temple of Far East”) and even Conte himself (briefly on “Mystery of You,” “Shiva”).

Swedish reed player/arranger Magnus Lindgren, who solos nicely on “Do You Feel Like I Do,” “Scarborough Fair” and “Love and Revolution,” provides the subtle sketches that punctuate each track with a warm glow of northern soul and a white heat of those orchestras of yore.

Conte doesn’t play on every track. But when he does, his guitar compatibly fuels the fluidity of the rhythm section and provides an appropriate undertone to propel the other players to some notable work as evidenced particularly on “Scarborough Fair,” “Quiet Dawn” and “I’m the Air.” Like Quincy Jones, Nicola Conte is particularly adept at attracting and assembling a worldly group of musicians from a variety of different backgrounds to pontificate perfectly in their own manner in the leader’s given medium.

Of especial note here are Conte’s “Black Spirits,” with Nailah Porter on vocals and Logan Richardson on alto sax; “Shiva,” with Melanie Charles on vocals and Logan Richardson on alto sax; the dancefloor-ready instrumental “Bantu,” featuring Magnus Lindgren on flute; the sadly too-short “All Praises to Allah,” featuring on Magnus Lindgren on reeds and Logan Richardson on alto sax; and “Ra In Egypt,” with Gaetano Partifilo on alto sax and Flavio Boltro on trumpet.

Apparently, while Love & Revolution has not had an official US release (and one doesn’t appear to be scheduled), several versions of the disc are available. There is the single-disc European version with the white-sky cover featuring 15 tracks. The Japanese version of the CD adds two bonus tracks, Max Roach and Oscar Brown Jr.’s “Freedom Day,” featuring Tim Warfield, Fabrizio Bosso and Pietro Lussu, and Horace Tapscott’s excellent “The Black Apostles,” featuring Logan Richardson, Nicholas Folmer and Pietro Lussu.

There is also a European version of Love & Revolution with the pink-sky cover (pictured above) that features a second disc with the Japanese bonus tracks plus Dave Brubeck’s “Autumn in our Town,” with Veronika Harcsa and Fabrizio Bosso; “Here (alt. version),” with Alice Ricciardi on vocals in place of José James; “The Happiness Tree,” with Veronika Harcsa on vocals and Pietro Lussu lustrous on piano; and Charles Lloyd’s semi-standard “Forest Flower,” with Tim Warfield on tenor sax and Flavio Boltro, a song first heard on a 1964 Chico Hamilton album released on Impulse.

Needless to say, this is the one to get. The added tracks only enhance what is already a thoroughly enjoyable experience.

A vinyl copy of Love & Revolution is supposedly forthcoming too.

Celebrating CTI Records 40th Anniversary – Part 4

Masterworks Jazz continues the 40th anniversary celebration of the great CTI Records with another four newly re-mastered discs including George Benson’s Body Talk, Hubert Laws’s In the Beginning, Freddie Hubbard’s Straight Life, and Stanley Turrentine’s Don’t Mess with Mister T.

Originally produced by Creed Taylor and in most cases recorded by the legendary Rudy Van Gelder, the Masterworks Jazz series is supervised beautifully by Richard Seidel and masterfully re-engineered by Mark Wilder and Maria Triana.

As before, the reissues are packaged in thin flat matte gatefold sleeves that replicate the original LP gatefolds CTI is known for. Unfortunately, though, the flat finish of the covers doesn’t do justice to Pete Turner’s phenomenal cover photos and the sleeves will got lost on many CD shelves and hold up poorly to repeated usage.

Still, it’s the music that matters and CTI represents some of the best jazz recorded during the early half of the 1970s.

Straight Life - Freddie Hubbard: Trumpeter Freddie Hubbard’s second CTI album is one of his very best. Coming on the heels of the classic Red Clay, a tough act to follow, no doubt, Straight Life more than compensates with two long blowing tunes and a sublime ballad performance that ranks as one of the best in the trumpeter’s entire discography. It is a landmark of 70’s jazz and one that Billboard aptly enthused perfectly “bridges the gap of modern and traditional styles,” adding that “Hubbard’s trumpet is exquisite and all of the other musicians complement each other to great extremes.”

Few better – or more – words can explain what makes a great jazz album great.

Originally released in January 1971, Straight Life confirms not only that CTI was on the right track (Hubbard’s record was the label’s 12th LP release) but, more importantly, that Creed Taylor was a force to be reckoned with in shaping the ideal of what jazz could achieve during the 1970s. But good as the music and the musicianship might be, the record was hard to program into bite-size radio formats and, in the end, it probably didn’t perform as well for Hubbard or the label as it ought to have.

Straight Life reunites much of the team responsible for the solid music of Red Clay, including saxophonist Joe Henderson (first heard with Hubbard on the trumpeter’s 1965 album Blue Spirits), keyboard player Herbie Hancock (who featured Hubbard on many of his early solo records, including his 1963 debut Takin’ Off) and ubiquitous bassist extraordinaire Ron Carter, adding guitarist George Benson and percussionist Richard “Pablo” (Richie) Landrum to the mix. Jack DeJohnette replaces Red Clay’s Lenny White.

It’s a dream-team of heavy-hitting modern players to be sure. But it’s interesting to note that Hubbard, Henderson, Hancock, Carter and DeJohnette had earlier contributed to Hancock’s 1966 Blow Up soundtrack and Hubbard would later re-group with Henderson, Benson, Carter, DeJohnette and fellow CTI alum Hubert Laws for the trumpeter’s lovely “To Her Ladyship” from 1978’s Super Blue.

Up first is Freddie Hubbard’s 17-minute jam tune “Straight Life,” with Hancock comping gloriously on Fender Rhodes and Jack DeJohnette firing rapidly on all pistons, more like a rock drummer than a jazz drummer, but definitely a part of the song’s frenetic action. Landrum must have had to work overtime to keep up. The song is almost like a funked-up bossa. Henderson solos magnificently in a trademark style that mixes the power and fury with the passion and fire of his unappreciated and undervalued Milestone albums of the period. Henderson’s solo nearly decimates Hubbard’s own solo – nothing shabby, but hardly matching the intensity of the song’s other performers. Hancock then solos in the funky melodic style he established on Fat Albert’s Rotunda (no spacey interludes here), followed by Benson providing an almost intellectual interjection that still has the warm soulful passion that seems to suggest the composer wanted to alternate Henderson and Hancock’s jazzier interludes with Hubbard’s and Benson’s soulful passages. A percussion workout ensues to bring it all back home.

Weldon Irvine (1943-2002) joins the cast on tambourine (!) and contributes the memorable “Mr. Clean,” a perfect vehicle for Hubbard’s fiery horn antics – which are at their very best here – and the band, which crafts a singularly sample-worthy and Hubbard-esque groove, rock this thing out. Hubbard, Henderson, Hancock and Benson all solo beautifully. Irvine would wax the tune again several months later with Richard “Groove” Holmes on the B-3 great’s Comin’ On Home and later on his own 1972 solo debut Liberated Brother. Each version of the tune sounds considerably different than Hubbard’s take, suggesting that Creed Taylor knew precisely how to keep everybody on target and in line. It’s worth noting that one of Irvine’s earliest recordings outside of his stint as Nina Simone’s musical director, is “Can’t Let Her Go” from Freddie Hubbard’s 1968 album High Blues Pressure.

(Given the strength of Weldon Irvine’s additional contributions to the CTI legacy, namely “Sister Sanctified” – later renamed “Funkfathers” without proper credit – and “Introspective,” both from Stanley Turrentine’s 1972 CTI classic, Cherry, it’s surprising the pianist/composer/arranger was never provided an opportunity to work more extensively with CTI, a label that even recorded Nina Simone in the years after Irvine left her employ.)

Straight Life closes out with an extraordinarily lovely performance of “Here’s That Rainy Day,” the 1953 song by Johnny Burke and Jimmy Van Heusen from the forgotten Broadway musical Carnival in Flanders. Even by 1970, when this version was recorded, the song had become a jazz standard and a favorite among pop singers, particularly Frank Sinatra, who first recorded the song in 1959 and performed it often in concert on his many TV specials. Producer Creed Taylor had also recorded the song on productions for Stan Getz, Kai Winding, Wes Montgomery, Astrud Gilberto and Walter Wanderley, so it’s fair to assume that he too liked the song just as much. In this reading, Hubbard, on flugelhorn, is paired with only guitarist George Benson and bassist Ron Carter for a truly inspired take that warrants classic status. While it’s probably no surprise that “Here’s That Rainy Day” was issued as the album’s single, it’s probably less surprising that this lovely jazz instrumental didn’t turn into a hit when Elton John’s “Your Song” and Santana’s “Black Magic Woman” ruled the airwaves.

For whatever reason, Straight Life is graced by not one but two Pete Turner photographs, a rarity in the CTI discography, as was the trumpeter’s follow-up album First Light. The photographer has no idea why designer Bob Ciano juxtaposed these two photographs. But he clearly approves. The front cover is called “Liberty” (1962), a double exposure. “I went to the Battery and shot [the Statue of Liberty] with a long lens for the small image,” explains Turner. “Then I took the boat to Liberty Island and kept shooting as we got closer and closer. The airplane flying by was just luck.” The back cover, “Parthenon” (1964), was from a series the photographer produced cataloging various wonders of the world, but “not picture-postcard style, more interpretative.” The abstract take on monuments honoring the Roman goddess of freedom (Libertas) and the Greek goddess of wisdom (Athena) has a curiously perfect relationship to the music of Straight Life.

Body Talk - George Benson: This is one of the more unusual and subsequently less predictable albums in guitarist George Benson’s entire catalog, maybe even in the whole of the CTI discography as well. Like the guitarist’s earlier Tell It Like It Is, a one-off coupling of Benson with Mongo Santamaria’s arranger, Marty Sheller, this staged studio presentation pairs the guitarist with the J.B.’s Pee Wee Ellis, one of the more significant architects of the James Brown sound.

Released in September 1973, Body Talk was not only Benson’s third CTI album but also, more interestingly, the first album the guitarist waxed for the label after signing a notoriously “exclusive agreement” with CTI in June of 1973. While the album never allows Benson to sing, as he wanted to do all along (suggesting that he still wasn’t in control of his own career), it is clearly designed to be different, pointing Benson down the instrumental R&B road that the J.B.’s helped forge - though never with the hit success of so many of the era’s one-hit wonders in the pop instrumental field. It’s sort of like Creed Taylor was only willing to let George Benson go so far down the road he wanted to travel.

Pee Wee Ellis is a little-known part of the CTI legacy, having contributed to such Kudu albums by Hank Crawford (Help Me Make It through the Night), Esther Phillips (From A Whisper To A Scream, Alone Again, Naturally, Black-Eyed Blues, Performance, Capricorn Princess) and Johnny Hammond (The Prophet).

Body Talk proved to be Ellis’ only appearance on CTI proper. And while it’s hard to gauge just how much he contributes to Body Talk, it is apparent that there is a headier quotient of soul present here that was nearly absent on so many previous Benson albums. Ellis may have been more inspiring than inspired, but Benson delivers a true jazz guitar classic with Body Talk.

Regardless of how you feel about this album or its material or its significance in the CTI legacy, it really is chock full of Benson’s terrific guitar playing. There is absolutely no adherence to standards-based formulae or overblown arrangements. Benson plays his ass off. The mood is mostly funky. But it swings like crazy from the very beginning.

From the opening “Dance” and Donny Hathaway’s “When Love Has Grown” (originally heard on the 1972 album Roberta Flack & Donny Hathaway, an album that also featured CTI covers in Grover Washington, Jr.’s “Where Is The Love” and Hubert Laws’ “Come Ye Disconsolate”) to “Top of the World,” Benson’s fantastic original that closes out the original LP, Body Talk is a superb showcase for Benson’s beautiful guitarisms.

A recent addition to the band is second guitarist Earl Klugh, who had a brief appearance as a teenager on Benson’s previous White Rabbit and gets a solo here on “When Love Has Grown.” Klugh left Benson’s band shortly hereafter to start his own solo career and was replaced by Phil Upchurch. Benson and Klugh’s next recording together didn’t come until their 1987 duo disc Collaboration.

Bassist Ron Carter returns, of course, alternating duties with the truly underrated electric bassist Gary King (1947-2003) – in one of his earliest recorded outings – while Benson and Carter’s fellow CTI all-star Jack DeJohnette again mans the drums for the last time on a CTI date with the guitarist (the two would reunite for the last time together on Freddie Hubbard’s 1978 album Super Blue).

A horn section featuring Jon Faddis, (former J.B.’s) Waymon Reed, Dick Griffin and Frank Foster (all rather surprising for a CTI session and most of whom were drawn from the Thad Jones/Mel Lewis Big Band of the time) is sporadically added for the Benson originals “Plum,” “Body Talk” (a faster and funkier take on “Tequila” – a song producer Creed Taylor scored a hit with in Wes Montgomery’s 1966 cover, also featuring bassist Ron Carter) and the superb “Top of The World,” without a doubt this album’s finest moment and surely one of CTI’s hidden jewels.

Pianist Harold Mabern makes his second of two CTI appearances on Body Talk (his only other appearance is on Stanley Turrentine’s Don’t Mess With Mister T., recorded the month before) to almost no fanfare whatsoever. Surprisingly, it’s also the only time Benson and Mabern have been recorded together. Surely there must be a story there.

Mabern, who now mans the chair in tenor saxophonist Eric Alexander’s elegant quartet, deserved better than he got here. He’s never afforded any solos and on Fender Rhodes, he sounds nearly anonymous in the background, lacking any of the bluesy ambition he displays otherwise with signature force on the acoustic piano. My guess is he was probably chosen here for his presence in Wes Montgomery’s mid-sixties band that went scandalously unrecorded by Creed Taylor when the late guitarist was recording his hit albums for Verve.

Body Talk isn’t one of CTI’s most memorable outings. But it offers some of guitarist George Benson’s best “guitar magic” and most inspired playing on record and a chance to hear him strut his stuff on the especially inspired “Top of the World.”

Pete Turner’s striking cover photo led Billboard to proclaim that “(t)he cover in red and black will stop customers. If you like windows and walls, this jacket is for you.” It is a marvelously presented image, a photograph Turner calls “Barn Door,” originally taken in 1966. “It was shot in Scandinavia and it was just as red as this. The hook on the back cover is actually right near the door, but Bob Ciano decided to extend the wall forever and the hook ended up left of the fold.”

Don’t Mess With Mister T. – Stanley Turrentine: Don’t Mess With Mister T. is the last of the studio albums tenor sax great Stanley Turrentine recorded for CTI Records between 1970 and 1973 and unquestionably one of the saxophonist’s - and the label’s - most satisfying outings. Indeed this album and Turrentine’s first CTI album, Sugar, rank not only among Stanley Turrentine’s best recordings in his multi-faceted career, but also among his most popular and the two that lent him the nicknames that stuck with him throughout the remainder of his career (“The Sugar Man” and “Mister T”).

Helmed with beautiful fortitude by arranger/pianist Bob James, Don’t Mess With Mister T. is a joy from start to finish, offering Stanley Turrentine’s sensual horn playing on some bluesy, after-hours grooves that showcase his sound and style to, ah, a “T.”

Originally released in September 1973, Don’t Mess With Mister T. was a success from the very start. This may have been the label’s greatest crossover success, gaining black audiences that Miles Davis was trying (but not succeeding) to court at the time.

No doubt it had something to do with Alen MacWeeney’s memorable mack daddy cover shot of Turrentine in Black Godfather mode peering over his shoulder in what appears to be a Cadillac Eldorado (the pimpmobile of choice back in the day) and the saxophonist’s flawless performance of the title tune, best known from its appearance in a popular Blaxploitation film of the time.

Marvin Gaye’s tremendous “Don’t Mess With Mister T.” comes, of course, from the first-rate soundtrack to the now forgotten film Trouble Man, which yielded another superb CTI cover (also arranged by Bob James) by Grover Washington, Jr. on Soul Box. Turrentine takes charge of the song, playing it with the heart and soul that suggests it was written just for him.

Bob James gives the song a relaxed feel that is perfect for Turrentine’s easy-going but unquestionable command of things. Buffered by James on piano and electric piano, Richard Tee on organ, Ron Carter on bass, Idris Muhammad (who replaced Billy Cobham) on drums and an absolutely perfectly deployed horn and string section, Turrentine offers up a sumptuous celebration of jazz and soul, melding it together with a heated precision that could melt butter or warm honey to overflowing. James takes a terrific solo on piano here that ranks among his best on record to this point, but everybody coalesces into a terrific climax of musical ecstasy that made it the signature theme it ultimately became (Turrentine recorded the song again for his 1995 album T Time).

Turrentine offers up two of his own originals, the spunky “Two For T,” adding Harold Mabern on electric piano and Eric Gale on guitar, and “Too Blue,” with Mabern, Gale and percussionist Rubens Bassini. In addition to showcasing Turrentine in his element, “Two For T” features spots for Mabern, Carter and Muhammad while “Too Blue” offers solos for Gale and James, again on piano. James wisely does away with the horn and string accoutrements on these numbers (though “Too Blue” finds the horns making a quick appearance) and just lets Turrentine and company take care of business.

“I Could Never Repay Your Love” offers up one of the saxophonist’s signature gospel performances, something too few of his records ever did (check out “I Told Jesus” for Turrentine’s previous bow to the church). The song was originally one of the few from the Spinners’ eponymous 1973 album that didn’t turn into a hit. That album yielded hits out of “I’ll Be Around,” “Could It Be I’m Falling In Love,” “One of a Kind (Love Affair)” and “Ghetto Child.” Turrentine is impassioned and beautiful here, set alight by James’ lovely strings and horns, and touching, yet fiery solos from Eric Gale and Richard Tee.

The original program totals only about 30 minutes. But even though more music from these sessions was left off the record, it’s worth pointing out that while vinyl in those days could accommodate considerably more music, Creed Taylor consciously kept CTI albums around a half hour long, or fifteen minutes a side, to maintain the big, clear sound he developed in the studio with engineer Rudy Van Gelder. Like digital files of today, the more you compressed music on vinyl, the less aural clarity it had. That’s why CTI records sounded better than so many jazz records of the day.

The first time that Don’t Mess With Mister T. was issued domestically on CD in 1988, it included Stanley Turrentine’s first recording of the Michel Legrand song “Pieces of Dreams” from these sessions as a bonus track. The memorable song from the not-so-memorable 1971 film had already been covered by such singers as Peggy Lee, Sarah Vaughan and Rita Reys, but this was one of the first jazz recordings of the tune. It was obviously a song that the saxophonist felt strongly about. But producer Creed Taylor didn’t quite agree, so the song was left off the original album. This decision probably prompted Turrentine to seek more autonomy (and considerably more money) at Fantasy Records when his CTI contract expired.

Stanley Turrentine recorded the song anew in a silkier, smoother (and ultimately less satisfying) arrangement by Barry White’s arranger, Gene Page, as the title track to his Fantasy debut album, issued in October 1974.

The song became a radio hit and Creed Taylor hurriedly released the 1973 recording of the tune on The Sugar Man, a hodge-podge compilation of outtakes and unreleased tunes, in February 1975. Even though the Bob James arrangement of the song is the stronger of the two performances, the Fantasy version had already become a hit and it was that version that most people listened to and, more importantly, bought. The CTI version was pretty much ignored.

The song found its way onto CD as part of the first domestic digital issue of Don’t Mess With Mister T. in 1988 (as well as several compilations and the 2003 European edition of the CD, which matches the 2011 CD’s programming), but in an altered mix that differed from The Sugar Man version by adding Richard Tee’s organ pronouncements throughout. Producer Richard Seidel was not aware of The Sugar Man mix of “Pieces of Dreams” until it was too late – so the “other” mix of the song is heard here again.

Still, back on Don’t Mess With Mister T., where it belongs, “Pieces of Dreams” reveals one of the few misjudgments Creed Taylor made in his lengthy career and, in hindsight, one of the first cracks in the mighty wall that CTI had built in only a few short years.

While Taylor’s instincts may have evaded him for “Pieces of Dreams,” it was clear that his instincts had been right on for the recording of Don’t Mess With Mister T.. That’s because, as it turns out, the album we’ve known for nearly four decades was not the first recording Turrentine made of the album.

Several months earlier, Turrentine got together with Bob James, Eric Gale, Ron Carter, (the strangely uncredited) Johnny Hammond on organ, who miraculously orchestrates from his particular position, and Billy Cobham (drummer on Turrentine’s previous Salt Song and Cherry) to lay down tracks for the album. Even though this group more or less made up the CTI All Stars of the time, producer Creed Taylor felt the recording just wasn’t working.

Despite the expense involved, Taylor opted to do nothing with the recordings until a more suitable recording situation presented itself. Three of the tracks recorded at these sessions finally showed up on the 2003 European CD release of Don’t Mess With Mister T., including a completely inferior take of the title song (thoroughly justifying Taylor’s initial decision), Billy Cobham’s “Mississippi City Strut” and Bob James’ “Harlem Dawn.”

Each track in itself is spectacular, especially given the fact that its leader is no longer with us and every note he blew is worth savoring. But given the terrific nature of the final album that was Don’t Mess With Mister T., it’s audibly obvious why the producer thought the music, while perfectly serviceable and exceeding the qualities of most jazz fusion being made elsewhere at the time, was certainly not up to the CTI standard, a bar that was raised with each successive album at this point in the label’s history.

Indeed, Don’t Mess With Mister T. raised the bar for Stanley Turrentine, and provided a measure that the saxophonist probably didn’t equal or better at any point after this in his career. It’s a classic that sits high among the classics Stanley Turrentine waxed and one of the great CTI titles of all time.

In The Beginning –Hubert Laws: The title to flautist Hubert Laws’s 1974 CTI album, In The Beginning references one of the very few overtly biblical titles in the CTI canon (the title of Joe Farrell’s Upon This Rock, recorded shortly hereafter, references Matthew 16:18). This particular title derives from Genesis, the first book of the Hebrew Bible and the Christian Old Testament. Indeed, Genesis is the Hebrew word for “in the beginning.”

As Genesis 1:1 goes, “(i)n the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.” Curiously, several years later – after the flautist left CTI for the more prosperous climes of Columbia – CTI reissued this double album as two individual sets, both bearing the title Then There Was Light, a title alluding to another chapter of Genesis, ( 1:3): “(a)nd God said, ‘Let there be light.’ And then there was light.”

On the other hand, all this bible talk is little more than speculative and may just be nothing more than a case of wrong-headed thinking. After all, the album’s title derives from the little-known Clare Fischer composition that kicks off what was originally one of CTI’s very few double albums. It’s unlikely that Fischer came to the session with an unnamed tune or any religious intentions, therefore allowing the producer to fit it into some unlikely biblical schema he may have had.

The West Coast-based Fischer had never before – or since – had anything to do with CTI, which makes his appearance on two tracks here unusual, to say the least. Producer Creed Taylor had worked with Fischer on some of Cal Tjader’s earliest Verve recordings from the early 1960s, when Fischer was part of Tjader’s working group, and Hubert Laws had only ever worked with the keyboardist / composer / arranger as part of the flautist’s childhood chums, The Jazz Crusaders’ great 1965 album Chile Con Soul.

But, in all fairness, In the Beginning is a slightly odd album all the way around. It’s the flautist’s sixth of eight albums as a leader for CTI and while it continues Morning Star’s near perfect blend of jazz, classics and gospel – with an emphasis more on the swinging side of jazz than previously heard on Laws’s earlier CTI efforts - something substantial is amiss here.

Surely, the musicianship is of the highest caliber.

But is it the double-album length which provides more of the leader than we want to hear? The double album format was certainly extravagant at the time, and probably more than the label should have attempted. But Creed Taylor probably wanted to reward the flautist, one of the original CTI all-stars, for staying with the label when other stars like Freddie Hubbard and Stanley Turrentine had left and at a time when another CTI all-star, guitarist George Benson – who earned Taylor’s wrath with the left-handed nickname of George “Bad” Benson – was striving to do things more his own way.

Is it the audibly weird sound design, particularly notable on the muffled drums and stifled acoustic piano heard throughout, that engineer Rudy Van Gelder came up with for the CTI label during this time? Despite some magnificent playing over a questionably aesthetic program of tunes, In The Beginning audibly reveals its studio origins and sounds as if it was concocted in separate rooms at separate times.

The sound is simply incompatible with the performances, featuring CTI regulars Bob James on keyboards, Gene Bertoncini on guitar, Ron Carter (who fares best of all) on bass, Steve Gadd (in one of his earliest CTI appearances) on drums, Airto on percussion, Dave Friedman on vibes and a minimal use of only a few strings and horn players.

Is it the fact that Hubert Laws took over arranging duties from Don Sebesky on the majority of proceedings heard here (Bob James arranges “Gymnopedie #1” and Clare Fischer arranges his own “In the Beginning”) and the overall effect becomes far less noteworthy than before?

Is it Hubert Laws plying his considerable talent on an occasionally electrified flute overtop some otherwise straight jazz numbers that make it sound more forced or phony? He still plays magnificently. It’s just that an electric flute just doesn’t sound that good when you’re trying to play jazz straight.

Is it the awkward programming? Hubert Laws has previously shown how easily he can adapt his playing style to jazz, souped-up classics, composed works, R&B, even funk – without any disparity in his delivery. Not so here.

Who knows. It may be a little bit of all of the above. My guess is that as ambitious as it is, In the Beginning is neither any listener’s first, second or third favorite choice of Hubert Laws on CTI nor would many consider this album to rank among the top five or ten of the flautist’s all-time best recordings.

In the Beginning is probably best appreciated in small doses.

Things get off to a rousing enough start with Clare Fischer’s interesting, though not interesting enough title track. As presented, it sort of reminds me of the sort of synthesized jazz-fusion composer/keyboardist Kendall Schmidt dialed in over top of the 1970 AIP horror film Scream and Scream Again in the 1980s for the video market.

That’s a compliment, actually. But even though neither Laws nor Fischer had much more use for the tune (Fischer recorded the tune again in 1980 for Bill Perkins’s Many Ways To Go) there are quite a few nicely-hued moments present here, even if it sounds as if it does not belong on a CTI record.

Composer and pianist Harold Blanchard (1930-2010) contributes the album’s lovely “Restoration,” a perfectly complimentary mix of jazz ideas with vaguely classical structures. It is one of the album’s highlights and a gem that features strikingly superb solos from Bob James on piano, Gene Bertoncini on guitar and an especially inspired (electrified) flute solo by Laws himself.

Dave Friedman, Ron Carter and Steve Gadd add their special individuality here too, making the song something of a treasure. A deeply religious man, Blanchard later provided Laws with his neo-classical composition “New Earth Sonata,” recorded in 1983 with Quincy Jones for the CBS Masterworks label, though it’s probably worth pointing out that this “Restoration” is not the same “Restoration” Bob James composed later for his own 1990 album Grand Piano Canyon.

“Come Ye Disconsolate” is a traditional gospel hymn that finds the leader overdubbing flute parts to make an especially nice performance, aided by Richard Tee’s rather backgrounded organ embellishments. The song probably derives from the version heard on Robert Flack and Donny Hathaway’s 1972 eponymous album, an album Laws himself appears on (not this song though). It’s another one of the album’s better moments.

Another of the album’s highlights is Rodgers Grant’s “Reconciliation,” an effective feature for the flautist, the composer (on electric piano) and bassist Ron Carter. Grant and Laws met while both were part of Mongo Santamaria’s band. The two worked often together throughout the ‘60s, even working together on guitarist George Benson’s CTI album Tell It Like It Is, arranged by Mongo Santamaria’s musical director, Marty Sheller. Grant also provided Laws with the title track to the flautist’s previous CTI studio album, Morning Star.

This listener can do without the album’s better-known tunes, including the unbelievably over-considered Satie number, “Gymnopedie #1,” Sonny Rollins’s “Airegin” (originally from a 1954 Miles Davis recording featuring the composer), delivered here as a duet here for drums and piccolo, and the surprisingly perfect progression into John Coltrane’s 1957 classic “Moment’s Notice,” featuring brother Ronnie Laws’s brief tenor solo and James’s electric piano statement.

The album’s closer, Laws’s own Latinate “Mean Lene” (first heard on the flautist’s second album Flute By-Laws from 1966), features Laws, brother Ronnie and Bob James, with a feature for the bassist, drummer and Airto on percussion. But, again, it sounds out of place in this context and another victim of unusually poor programming for a CTI release.

Even when the albums were separated into two individual discs, this music didn’t work particularly well. While all of it sounds good on its own, the songs deserved more of a unified style or theme and less of the K-Tel jazz approach. Maybe producer Creed Taylor was too busy at this point with his other duties at CTI.

But In the Beginning, despite the preponderance of good, nee very good, music present here – and I hope my text makes it plain there is quite a bit of nice music to be heard – is one of the most laxly programmed CTI sets in the label’s entire history. It may not hold up as one of CTI’s best. But it is a worthy display of Hubert Laws’s many prodigious talents.

Pete Turner’s stunning cover photograph is called “Twins,” a photo shot in 1967 for Look magazine during the annual agricultural fair in Mount Hagen in New Guinea. Lit by daylight against a dark background, the photo was shot so that only the remarkable colors on the faces stand out and appear to float. “Twins” is also used as the cover image on Pete Turner’s 1987 book Photographs.

Lee Jones "Songs From The 13th Hour"

This enjoyable and engaging album, guitarist Lee Jones’s second as a leader, aims to throw some much-needed wrinkles in to the smoothness of so much contemporary jazz. That’s not really newsworthy, of course. But hardly anyone thus far has succeeded in doing it as successfully as this.

While so many of today’s new breed of jazz guitarists are either trying to forge their uniqueness into some been-there-done-that formula or regurgitate the sound or style of a guitar hero of the past (sigh), Lee Jones strives to take jazz guitar back to a place of creativity and invention it held before its mellifluous tones landed it square in the quiet storm.

What makes this work especially well is that Lee Jones has a real knack for writing a good tune. Surprisingly, and refreshingly, his program is made up of mostly originals. It’s a risky gambit, but Jones pulls it off nicely without plying the same old worn-out standards or overplayed jazz classics.

The set kicks off nicely with “The Spin,” recalling the good old days when jazz could be funky and riff based yet still have something interesting to say. “Iconic” furthers Jones’ feel for a funk tune, balancing some exceptional guitarisms over some unnecessarily programmed percussion, while the soulful “Feelin’ the Same Way” recalls the high-stepping “stuff” of Eric Gale and Cornell Dupree.

Jones invites several guests to the proceedings, including former Jazz Messenger {{Jean Toussaint}} for the metronomic, medium-tempo title track (the presence of a former Jazz Messenger raises the specter of Jones’s almost Bobby Timmons-like compositional ability). “Game On” welcomes guitar legend {{Larry Coryell}}, another guitarist who can play anything well and with distinction, for a battle royale of dueling guitars. Coryell and Jones are firing on all pistons here, crossing lines of creative fission and Wes-like jazz and pop fusions and suffice it to say, Jones holds his own here.

As a guitarist, Lee Jones more than holds his own throughout. He never overplays his hand or overwhelms a tune, but often inspires noteworthy commentary that elicits the sort of attention that wows, really wows. He struts his stuff admirably on the lovely and Metheny-esque “Western Escape,” one of the album’s real highlights, “Guess Who” and the album’s overdubbed solo stunner “Silhouette.” It’s a joy just listening to him play and these three numbers, which close the disc out, are the best showcases for Lee Jones’s attractive and noteworthy playing.

Even though its title suggests that its later than too late, Songs From the 13th Hour is a beautifully well-crafted set that seems timed perfectly to introduce this young British guitarist to the rest of the world.

Bob James & Howard Paul “Just Friends: The Hamilton Hall Sessions 2011”

This surprising stroll through the Great American Songbook comes courtesy of pianist and two-time Grammy award winner Bob James and seven-string guitarist Howard Paul. Recorded in early 2011 at Hamilton Hall, overlooking the Savannah River, in Savannah, Georgia, this acoustic pairing of two kindred spirits revels in its warm and engaging format and reveals a mutual love for great melodies and beneficially interactive creativity.

What will surprise many is that the pianist, an avatar of ‘70s fusion and one of the long-reigning lords of smooth jazz (as co-leader of Fourplay), contributes no originals to the program and sticks to acoustic piano throughout. Additionally, it’s likely that he hasn’t played many of the songs heard here since the very beginning of his career, when he was discovered by Quincy Jones and given his first break in the music accompanying Sarah Vaughan (where he spent much of the 1960s).

Savannah native Howard Paul has maintained something of a double life. After years in the military and in business, he has played clubs, campuses and festivals around the world with such guitar greats as Bucky Pizzarelli, Howard Alden (both seven-string players themselves), Joe Beck, Jimmy Bruno and has recorded with such jazzers as flautist Ali Ryerson. He also partnered with renowned guitar maker Bob Benedetto to form Benedetto Guitars, Inc., a jazz guitar manufacturing company based in Savannah, Georgia. In addition, he holds down a Monday Night gig at the Jazz Corner club in Hilton Head, South Carolina, where he has performed regularly since 2003.

The obvious model here are the two piano-guitar duo albums recorded by Bill Evans and Jim Hall some half century ago, Undercurrent (United Artists, 1962) and Intermodulation (Verve, 1966). But, together, Bob James and Howard Paul evince little similarity to the earlier duo aside from the pairing of a pianist and a guitarist.

Despite the fact that both Bill Evans and Jim Hall recorded or performed most every song here except “I Only Have Eyes For You” and “Moon River” (in both cases) as leaders or session players, Just Friends doesn’t replicate any of the Evans/Hall programs. And although the pianist has repeatedly paid loving tribute to Bill Evans, Bob James sounds nothing like Bill Evans. Howard Paul certainly sounds nothing like Jim Hall.

They do, however, sound utterly lovely together.

James has rarely sounded this reflective and enthused. Despite the war-horse status of much of these tunes, the pianist doesn’t sound like he’s beating a dead horse so much as he’s looking to ride them the way that mutually suits the horse and the rider. Here is a musician who in the past has been accused of crafting pretty statements that say nothing, proving that he not only knows his way around a melody but is confident of getting his piano to celebrate a good tune with honor and distinction.

Perhaps that is due to simplifying his inspiration to what has always been his musical muse: a good guitar. This is the first full disc featuring Bob James with only one other instrumentalist and, of course, the instrumentalist had to be a guitarist. As far back as the fusion days, James’s piano was best balanced by a strong guitarist. In those days it was Eric Gale. James later found inspiration – and several albums - in the more acoustic travails of Earl Klugh. Later still, Lee Ritenour, a fellow co-founder of Fourplay, propelled the pianist into interesting territories. This was recently confirmed again on Botero, James’s recent disc with the commanding Asian guitarist Jack Lee.

Guitarist Howard Paul seems to call up a host of influences, mixing a style that recalls the not-too-distant past of Jim Hall and Kenny Burrell (and sometimes Wes Montgomery) marked up with a refreshing twist of contemporary modernity that merely suggests Pat Metheny. If rock and R&B or any of its storied guitarists have ever influenced Howard Paul, he surely doesn’t reveal it in his playing. But that’s not to say he’s old fashioned. Paul is driven by the melody and he’s as much a catalyst for James as he is someone who knows how to charm with guile when it’s his turn in the spotlight - a glow that would be set on the moodiest setting available.

Together, Bob James and Howard Paul make for a superb match. They have crafted their alternating leads perfectly (except on “Moon River,” taken as a particularly gorgeous solo for piano). Neither gets in the other’s way and even the behind-the-solo comping is light and airy. Neither shout their proclamations and both sound genuinely excited to hear what the other will come up with next.

There’s not a dud or a dull moment on the program, though the pair reaches a certain apex toward the middle of the program with the especially enchanting “Out of Nowhere.” It’s interesting to also consider previous recordings Bob James has made of some of these songs, including “Alone Together,” heard on the pianist’s 2001 album Dancing on the Water, “Autumn Leaves,” featuring the pianist on Fender Rhodes for Chet Baker’s 1964 CTI album She Was Too Good To Me, “Georgia on my Mind,” arranged by James for Grover Washington, Jr.’s 1971 Kudu album Inner City Blues, and “Moon River” (which, shockingly, doesn’t even give Henry Mancini credit here), which James performed with Sarah Vaughan on her 1965 album Sarah Vaughan Sings The Mancini Songbook.

Johnny Mandel’s “Emily” and the appropriately included ‘30s era standard “Just Friends” are additional highlights to the bewitching program Bob James and Howard Paul have put together here, one apparently fueled by fine wine and one that nearly demands a good wine to properly enjoy. Just Friends is just like fine wine, smooth yet substantial and full bodied yet flavorful. CD available at cdbaby.

Dave Grusin "Mulholland Falls"

While Dave Grusin has crafted many a musically memorable soundtrack, highlights of which probably include The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter (1968), The Yakuza (1974), Three Days of the Condor (1975), On Golden Pond (1981) and Tootsie (1982), he is probably a more remarkable and more remarkably unheralded sound colorist, expertly matching music so seamlessly to an image as to be ambient sound.

It’s like a breeze blowing through a room, or the aural aura of unspoken emotion wafting through the celluloid spaces.

The composer, a superb jazz pianist who’s led many a stimulating record outside the world of film, sculpts sounds for film that are so attuned to what’s happening on screen that you barely register it as music. It’s a sort of “musique concrete” with actual musical instruments – often Grusin’s own piano and one or two other carefully chosen sounds – a myriad of motifs, lacking a fully-developed melody which would make something of a tune. But oh how melodic Grusin’s motifs are.

Mr. Grusin’s triumphs in this area are many in his half century of scoring motion pictures, TV films and serials. But those that come most readily to mind are those that are not often celebrated for being Grusin masterworks, if appreciated for any reason at all. These might include Reds (1981), The Goonies (1985), A Dry White Season (1989), The Bonfire of the Vanities (1990), Hope Floats (1998), the terrific cable TV film Recount (2008) and 1995’s Mulholland Falls.

Mulholland Falls is a neo-noir film, based on a true story, of a police team known as the “Hat Squad” that was prepared to take the law into its own hands to subvert the rise of gangsters and the criminal element in 1940s-era Los Angeles.

Directed in a percussive style by the riveting director Lee Tamahori (Once Were Warriors, Die Another Day) with an exceptional cast including Nick Nolte, Melanie Griffith, Chazz Palminteri, Michael Madsen, Chris Penn, Treat Williams, Jennifer Connelly, John Malkovich and Andrew McCarthy (not to mention cameos by former neo-noir icons Bruce Dern, Rob Lowe, William Petersen and Virginia Madsen), Mulholland Falls probably promised more than it could deliver – whatever that was.

Or, maybe people weren’t ready for a James Ellroy-like take on 40s-era L.A. in 1996. Apparently, they were ready when L.A. Confidential, based on James Ellroy’s novel of the same name, showed up on screens the following year.

In any event, Mulholland Falls proved to be something of a disappointment, at least at the box office. Critics, though, were kinder to the film than audiences. Roger Ebert wrote in the Chicago Sun-Times “This is the kind of movie where every note is put in lovingly.” But the talky movie wasn’t filled with the snappy (though often loopy) dialogue of noirs past as much as it was seen through the more psychoanalytical lens of too much contemporary drama. It was probably more reflective than people like their noirs to be. But lots of cool cigarette smoke careens through each scene.

The film’s title derives from the hills high atop L.A.’s famed Mulholland Drive, where criminals and the like were rolled who the “Hat Squad” attempts to warn off. Apparently this sort of intimidation worked – at least until Miranda warnings came into practice in 1966. Then a woman gets murdered who has liaisons with powerful men, one of whom is a married man of the Hat Squad. She even had secret films made of her trysts. Thus signals the beginning of the end of the “Hat Squad.”

The story shares the same sort of exciting combination of L.A. in the ‘40s reality and pulpy Raymond Chandler-esque thriller stuff that made Roman Polanski’s 1974 film Chinatown the classic neo-noir it was. Curiously, Grusin finds inspiration (not imitation) in composer Jerry Goldsmith’s Chinatown score as much as Goldsmith himself repays the compliment to Grusin with L.A. Confidential’s lovely yet understated score (the two composers have crossed paths before, notably on The Man From U.N.C.L.E.).

A soundtrack for Mulholland Falls was issued by the Edel label at the same time as the film, containing 13 tracks, including Aaron Neville’s performance of “Harbor Lights.” Here, Kritzerland – in a release limited to only 1,000 copies – has issued Grusin’s entire score containing 16 suites (often using different titles than found on the Edel release) plus the Aaron Neville track and an alternate version of the “Main Title,” producing a program that totals nearly 52 minutes.

Dave Grusin does not go for the obvious in Mulholland Falls. He provides a positively appropriate musical counterpoint to Tamahori’s percussive direction; one that relies on mood and feeling more than rhythm and action.

There’s no mournful saxophone or wailing trumpet, like the night owl howling at the midnight moon of so many clichéd takes on noirish gestures. Despite utilizing the brazen force of an entire symphony orchestra, Grusin often designs his motifs for several instruments, centering around his piano, a few strings and almost any horn except, for the most part, a trumpet or a sax.

The themes aren’t as immediately accessible as so many of Grusin’s melodic pieces – and more popular scores - are. But wow. Do they have a power that works up a special intensity after repeated listens. I was surprised to read in this CD’s notes that producer Bruce Kimmel considers this to be his favorite Grusin score. “Not only does his music do everything that film music is supposed to do,” writes Kimmel, “but apart from the film it is a great listening experience.”

I agree. Especially now. Although I probably wouldn’t name Mulholland Falls as my favorite Grusin score, I am surprised at how much this wonderful music has enraptured me since acquiring this disc.

The mournful “Main Title” is strikingly sad and foretells the doom that is to come. But it’s not at all sentimental or even mournful. It’s repeated often in various instrumentations, alternated by the slightly more rhythmic secondary theme, first heard as “Drive To Perinos” (then again immediately thereafter in “Drive To Falls” and heard in its best gestation as “End Credits”) and also repeated often.

Grusin displays his absolutely lovely piano prowess on “Max Home Drunk” and in such brief spots as “Max Meets Timms,” “After Phone Call” and the extraordinarily wonderful “End Credits.” The Herrmann-esque approach to “FBI Search/What Happened?” seems spot on too.

Mulholland Falls is a glorious score and kudos to Kritzerland for issuing Grusin’s shimmering achievement in its entirety (and remastered particularly nicely to boot) and for providing the beautiful cover graphic, which more closely resembles the film’s poster than the original Edel soundtrack.

Ray Bryant - R.I.P.

While the news today has been full of the deaths of Jack "Dr. Death" Kevorkian, 83 (a curiously interesting musician in his own right), and actor James "Matt Dillon" Arness, 88, the great pianist Ray Bryant has also died.

His sound - a mix of joyous jazz and grandstanding gospel - was like no other and is evident on many recordings by Art Blakey, Dizzy Gillespie, Coleman Hawkins, Benny Golson, Oliver Nelson, Aretha Franklin, Sonny Rollins, Yusef Lateef and others.

Ray Bryant began recording as a leader in 1955, featuring on the popular Meet Betty Carter and Ray Bryant for Epic, scoring a hit with "Little Susie" in 1960, recording a series of successful albums for the Cadet label in the '60s and waxing the monumental solo album, Alone at Montreux, for Atlantic in 1972.

He waxed many great albums for the Sue label (reissued on CD by Collectables) in the '60s and quite a number of notable albums for Atlantic and Black & Blue in the '70s.

Here is the New York Times obituary:

Ray Bryant, Jazz Pianist, Dies at 79
By NATE CHINEN

Ray Bryant, a jazz pianist whose sensitivity and easy authority made him a busy accompanist and a successful solo artist, beginning in the mid-1950s, died on Thursday. He was 79.

His wife of 20 years, Claude Bryant, said he died at New York Hospital Queens after a long illness. He lived in Jackson Heights, Queens.

Mr. Bryant had a firm touch and an unshakable sense of time, notably in his left hand, which he often used to build a bedrock vamp. Even in a bebop setting, he favored the ringing tonalities of the gospel church. And he was sumptuously at home with the blues, as a style and a sensibility but never as an affectation.

All of this contributed to his accomplishment as a solo pianist. His first solo piano album was “Alone With the Blues,” in 1958, and he went on to make a handful of others, including “Alone at Montreux,” “Solo Flight” and “Montreux ’77.” His most recent release, “In the Back Room,” was yet another solo album, recorded live at Rutgers University and released on the Evening Star label in 2008.

Raphael Homer Bryant was born on Dec. 24, 1931, in Philadelphia, and made his name in that city during its considerable postwar jazz boom. Along with his brother, Tommy, a bassist, he played in the house band at the Blue Note Club in Philadelphia, which had a steady flow of major talent dropping in from New York. (Charlie Parker and Miles Davis were among the musicians they played with there.) In short order Mr. Bryant had plenty of prominent sideman work, both with and without his brother.

One early measure of his ascent was the album “Meet Betty Carter and Ray Bryant,” released on Columbia in 1955. It was a splashy introduction for him as well as for Ms. Carter, the imposingly gifted jazz singer. It was soon followed by “The Ray Bryant Trio” (Prestige), an accomplished album that introduced Mr. Bryant’s composition “Blues Changes,” with its distinctive chord progression.

That song would become a staple of the jazz literature, if less of a proven standard than “Cubano Chant,” the sprightly Afro-Cuban fanfare that Mr. Bryant recorded under his own name and in bands led by the drummers Art Blakey, Art Taylor and Jo Jones.

Mr. Bryant had several hit songs early in his solo career, beginning with “Little Susie,” an original blues that he recorded both for the Signature label and for Columbia. In 1960 he reached No. 30 on the Billboard chart with a novelty song called “The Madison Time,” rushed into production to capitalize on a dance craze. (The song has had a durable afterlife, appearing on the soundtrack to the 1988 movie “Hairspray,” and in the recent Broadway musical production.) He later broke into the Top 100 with a cover of Bobbie Gentry’s “Ode to Billie Joe,” released just a few months after the original, in 1967.

But Mr. Bryant’s legacy never rested on his chart success or his nimble response to popular trends. It can be discerned throughout his own discography and in some of his work as a sideman, notably with the singers Carmen McRae and Jimmy Rushing, and on albums like Dizzy Gillespie’s “Sonny Side Up,” on Verve. “After Hours,” a track on that album, begins with Mr. Bryant and his brother playing a textbook slow-drag blues.

Along with his wife, Mr. Bryant is survived by a son, Raphael Bryant Jr.; a daughter, Gina; three grandchildren; and two brothers, Leonard and Lynwood. Mr. Bryant’s sister, Vera Eubanks, is the mother of several prominent jazz musicians: Robin Eubanks, a trombonist; Kevin Eubanks, the guitarist and former bandleader on “The Tonight Show With Jay Leno”; and Duane Eubanks, a trumpeter.

Album Art: Suburban Abstract

Somehow abstract art became popular among the American suburban culture of the late ‘50s and early ‘60s. For proof, watch any episode of Mad Men, one of the best ways to see – not really know – what the world might have been like for East Coast Americans of a certain age at certain point in history. (Left: Olga Albizu’s “Red”)

While that show is little more than a tiresome soap opera that only occasionally shows how American culture was evolving through the fascinating specter of the advertising industry, its set designs are often spectacular show pieces of period architecture and design that make the show well worth watching for viewers who can stomach pure style over an anemic lack of substance.

And the accents (posters, framed works, art on the walls) are often beautifully abstract, just as I remember it as a kid growing up in the middle-class suburbs of the East Coast during the 1960s.

But this wasn’t the stuff of the post-war abstractionists like Duchamp, Mondrian, Pollock or Rothko. Probably few suburbanites could afford this sort of thing (even then) if they even knew or cared about such art. Instead, there was a blurring of many of these famed styles to create a certain homogenized blend of colors that abstractly suggested generalized feelings and moods. It was easy listening music for your walls.

You didn’t go to galleries to find this stuff. It was available in furniture stores. Or your interior decorator suggested that a certain piece would go divinely with the divan. You also didn’t buy art like this for the artist. In fact, you probably didn’t even know who the artist was. You probably didn’t care. Did this splash of color on the wall make things look better once you and your friends have a few martinis? Perfect.

Despite my mocking ridicule, I have always loved this sort of art. Unfortunately it’s devolved into a lot of the crap you see today in doctor’s offices (silver washes and pink swishes) and the even less likable stuff you can pick up at any Bed, Bath and Beyond.

But like a lot of the easy-listening music I love from this period of time, roughly from 1960 to 1967, I miss this suburban abstract art and the mood it gave to any sort of room. Such artistry also adorned some of the most popular jazz album covers of the day.

Used as a means to attract the suburban shopper (who probably didn’t give two hoots about most music and cared even less for “jazz”), these covers were designed to “look” as good in your living room as they would sound.

Inspired, no doubt, by the success of the Dave Brubeck Quartet’s 1959-63 Time series, which mostly featured abstract covers by some of the art’s biggest names (S. Neil Fujita on Time Out, Joan Miró on Time Further Out, Franz Kline on Countdown - Time in Outer Space and Sam Francis on Time Changes), the covers appeared sophisticated and arty, yet still accessible and became de rigueur for jazz that tried to position itself as, well, sophisticated and arty, yet still accessible.

The music, like the covers, is undeniably pretty. But remarkably, the bulk of this music is superbly timeless; having stood the test of time with a notable strength that most faddish music has not. It’s as strong and meaningful today as it was when it first appeared.

The same is true of the covers too.

Three artists in particular produced some of the strongest work in this field: Mel Cheren, Olga Albizu and William Shuler. Their work appeared during a brief span of time in jazz between when album covers were either one-color artist photos or four-color cheesecake shots and when jazz went all “hippie relevant” with psychedelic design and flowery typography.

A sampling of this work is seen below. Curiously, though, only one of these artists was a painter by trade. It won’t be difficult to determine which one made painting – and this particular style – their life’s work.

But it’s disappointing and a wee bit surprising that this form of art isn’t more widely known, more popularly received or more enduringly attractive to more people. While there have been a few (a very few) CD covers that parody or honor this sort of artistic presentation, there is very little regard – even among some of the hipper and more knowledgeable designers working today – for what I lovingly refer to as the suburban abstract album cover.

Mel Cheren

Considered the Godfather of Disco, Mel Cheren (1932-2007) started as a production executive at ABC Paramount, where he helmed popular productions by many including the Mamas and the Papas. He also painted a few beautiful covers for the Impulse label in the mid ‘60s. Cheren went on to invent the 12-inch single, mastermind dance remixes and pioneer instrumental b-sides while at Scepter Records, before launching the highly successful disco label West End Records, notable for Karen Young’s “Hot Shot” and some of the most sampled disco in musical history. He also launched Greenwich Village’s famed club, the Paradise Garage, featuring famed DJ Larry Levan, before becoming a gay-rights advocate, activist, philanthropist and hotelier. Cheren continued painting up until he died, adorning the walls of his Chelsea bed and breakfast with his evocative work.

Fire Music - Archie Shepp (Impulse, 1965)

Latin Shadows - Shirley Scott (Impulse, 1965) - This has long been one of my favorite album covers. I even carried a small picture of it in my wallet for many years. It contains the perfect passion for the album it adorns.

East Broadway Run Down - Sonny Rollins (Impulse, 1967)

Urban Blues - John Lee Hooker (Bluesway, 1967)

Olga Albizu

The art of Puerto Rican born Olga Albizu (1925-2005) is heavily influenced by other abstractionists but is absolutely unique in its truly dynamic ability to “take the surrounding reality and translate it into chromatic energy and rhythms.” This made her the ideal portraitist for many of Verve’s inspired, influential and successful fusions of jazz and the Brazilian-born bossa nova. She studied in Puerto Rico, New York City, California, Paris and Florence, but settled in New York in 1953, where she contributed to quite a number of notable records during the 1960s. Her work is attractively lively and thoroughly distinctive and, despite many showings and awards during her lifetime, deserves to be far better known among the general public than it is today. (As an aside, I think Ms. Albizu designed many more classical album covers I’d like to know more about.)

Blackwood: Symphony No. 1/Haieff: Symphony No. 2 - Boston Symphony/Munch (RCA, 1959)

Jazz Samba - Stan Getz/Charlie Byrd (Verve, 1962): This album is credited with starting the historic bossa nova movement in American popular music. It also bears one of the most evocative and elegant covers to grace such a debut: warm and passionate, stylish and sophisticated.

Gloomy Sunday and Other Bright Moments - The Bob Brookmeyer Orchestra (Verve, 1962)

Big Band Bossa Nova - Stan Getz – Arranged and Conducted by Gary McFarland (Verve, 1962): Another long-time favorite, again highlighting the orchestrations of Gary McFarland.

Jazz Samba Encore! - Stan Getz & Luiz Bonfa (Verve, 1963): Another beauty.

Trio 64 - Bill Evans (Verve, 1964)

Getz/Gilberto - Stan Getz/Joao Gilberto featuring Antonio Carlos Jobim (Verve, 1964): Grammy-award winning jazz album, with a beautiful Grammy-nominated cover.

Getz/Gilberto #2 - Stan Getz/Joao Gilberto featuring Antonio Carlos Jobim (Verve, 1965)

Insight - The Rod Levitt Orchestra (RCA, 1965)

William Shuler

According to a 1959 Billboard article, Bill Shuler was comptroller at the Audio Fidelity label when one of his paintings won first prize at an exhibition at the Burr Galleries in New York. The Audio Fidelity label was founded in 1954 by Sidney Frey (1920-68) and became famed for producing the first American stereophonic long-playing (“LP”) record in 1957. Frey was also responsible for bringing many Brazil’s greatest musicians to New York for a historic concert at Carnegie Hall in 1962, the first time Americans heard this new sound live, creating a worldwide musical sensation. The label went on to catalog not only many of the bossa nova greats but also many of jazz’s greatest players and surprising hitmakers The Dukes of Dixieland. Bill Shuler, whose cover paintings are often credited to only “Shuler” probably stayed with the label until Frey sold it in 1966. Unfortunately, much of the music Audio Fidelity produced has gone into the black hole of “public domain” and is issued without much regard to its original packaging, presentation or many of its proper credits, including Mr. Shuler’s. As far as Shuler’s paintings, I know only of the two abstractly conceived covers presented here. Please let me know if you have information about any other such album cover – or more about Mr. Shuler.

Just Jazz! - Bill Evans/Wayne Shorter/Freddy (sic) Hubbard/Curtis Fuller/Ron Carter – Arranged and Conducted by Benny Golson (Audio Fidelity, 1965): Read more about this here.

Jazz Tempo – Latin Accents - Sonny Simmons/Prince Lasha/Clifford Jordan/The Bossa Tres (Audio Fidelity, 1965): Long a secret pleasure in my record collection, I initially picked this album because of the names and the glorious cover. It was also a dollar. I have loved listening to this album over the years (the parts without the well-known American horn players are available on the great Ubiquity CD Bossa Três). And I love looking at it just as much.