S.O.L.A.R. - 1983 - Faith for My Mind

S.O.L.A.R.

1983

Faith for My Mind

01. Faith For My Mind

02. It's A New Day

03. To The Most Holy Place

04. Walk Together Children

05. Living For The Most High

06. Eat I-Tal Food

07. Rejoice

08. Vanity

09. Rainbow

Acoustic Bass, Vocals – Mamaniji Azanyah

Congas, Percussion, Vocals – Claudius Fabien

Drums [Trap] – Jerome Crichton

Flute, Soprano Saxophone, Vocals – Emanuel Ibrahim

Piano, Lead Vocals – Rukiya Imani

Piano, Vocals – Kariba Jendayi

Steel Drums – Ajamu

iolin, Vocals – Humaa Lewis

Vocals – Ariyo, Atiya Damali Hollis

The Private-Press Spiritual Jazz Miracle That Took 30 Years to Get the Standing Ovation It Deserved

Let’s be brutally honest: in 1983, if you told the average jazz head that one of the most forward-thinking, soul-elevating albums of the decade was coming out of Atlanta on a label called Path Of Light Records, played by a collective with an acronym longer than a Rastafarian prayer (Source Of Life Arkestral Revelation) , they would have laughed so hard they’d spill their imported espresso. And yet here we are in 2025, where original copies change hands for the price of a used Honda Civic, and French/Japanese reissues sell out faster than limited-edition sneakers. Faith for My Mind by S.O.L.A.R. (Source Of Life Arkestral Revelation – try fitting that on a T-shirt) is the ultimate “told you so” record: a blissful, genre-melting spiritual jazz masterpiece that was ignored in its day, slept on for decades, and now gets name-checked every time someone wants to sound deep on a neo-soul playlist.

This is Earth, Wind & Fire after ten years of yoga retreats, Pharoah Sanders with a side of Bob Marley, Lonnie Liston Smith smoking the good stuff with a gospel choir in the background. It’s reggae rhythms holding hands with Coltrane sheets of sound while a string section quotes Bach and nobody gets jealous. And the best part? It’s so earnestly positive you half expect the vinyl to come with a free hug.

The Collective Behind the Acronym: A Bunch of Beautiful Weirdos Who Took the Name Seriously

S.O.L.A.R. started in New Orleans in 1980 when two cosmic forces collided:

Rukiya Imani (piano, lead vocals, primary composer, spiritual general) – the heartbeat and the voice. She sings like she’s channeling sunlight directly into your third eye.

Mamaniji Azanyah (bass, vocals, co-leader) – the groove anchor who later released his own killer private-press spiritual jazz trilogy under the name Azanyah (look up The One if you want your mind properly blown).

They moved the whole arkestral revelation to Atlanta in 1981, rounded up a crew of like-minded souls, pressed a tiny run of records on their own dime in 1983, played a handful of conscious gigs, disbanded in late ’84 (because rent is the ultimate buzzkill), did occasional reunion charity shows in ’86, ’90, and 2011, and then basically disappeared into legend. No major-label drama, no scandals, no reality TV – just pure musical ministry. In an era when jazz was either chasing fusion dollars or free-jazz chaos, these cats said “Nah, we’re gonna make music to realign your chakras and still make your head nod.”

The Musicians: Atlanta’s Secret Avengers of Higher Consciousness

Exact personnel credits are as scarce as original pressings (private-press life), but from liner notes, live recollections, and obsessive Discogs detective work, the core revelation included:

Rukiya Imani – acoustic piano, Fender Rhodes, lead vocals

Mamaniji Azanyah – electric & upright bass, vocals

Flute & soprano saxophone (the ethereal top lines that make you levitate)

A full percussion battalion (African drums, reggae skanks, Latin tinged congas – basically everything that isn’t a drum kit)

Guitar (subtle but crucial chordal colors)

Strings (yes, actual classical-trained violin/cello adding European grandeur to the Afrocentric stew)

Multiple female backing vocalists (including Atiya Damali Hollis and Kariba Jendayi on some compositions) who sound like a heavenly choir that wandered in from the Fifth Dimension’s rehearsal

Recorded raw and live-feeling in Atlanta, probably in somebody’s living room that doubled as a temple. The sound is warm, slightly lo-fi in that perfect private-press way – no sterile ’80s digital gloss here.

The Album: Nine Tracks of Pure Ascended-Master Energy (Warning: May Cause Spontaneous Smiling)

Clocking in at a tight 42 minutes, every track is a mini-sermon set to the grooviest soundtrack imaginable.

Faith For My Mind (6:29) – The title mantra. Floating soprano sax, Rhodes chords from heaven, Rukiya testifying like she’s personally seen the light. Instant classic.

It’s A New Day (7:31) – Mid-tempo reggae-jazz fusion that makes you want to quit your job and move to a commune.

To The Most Holy Place (3:35) – Short, meditative, pure incense and candles vibes.

Walk Together Children (5:49) – Gospel reharmonized for the New Age. You’ll be holding hands with strangers by the end.

Living For The Most High (5:12) – Mamaniji takes the lead; deep, dubby bass that could anchor a spaceship.

Eat I-Tal Food (2:54) – Two-minute Rastafarian public service announcement that somehow grooves harder than most bands’ entire careers.

Rejoice (5:00) – Uplifting horns, choir, handclaps – basically musical Prozac.

Vanity (3:32) – A gentle reminder that all is vanity… delivered over the funkiest bass line on the record.

Rainbow (3:47) – Closes with shimmering strings and a promise that yes, there’s a rainbow after the storm. Fade out smiling.

The whole thing flows like one long guided meditation with killer solos.

The Private-Press Prophecy That Neo-Soul Stole From (And Never Sent a Thank-You Note)

In 1983 this sold maybe a few hundred copies to yoga studios and health-food-store bulletin boards. Radio? Zero. Charts? Laughable. Meanwhile Michael Jackson was moonwalking and Prince was riding a motorcycle in a trench coat.

Fast-forward to the 2000s: crate-diggers lose their minds, Japanese collectors start bidding wars, Superfly Records drops a gorgeous limited reissue in 2013 (instantly flips for triple the price), and suddenly every “conscious” producer from Madlib to Thundercat is quoting it. It’s routinely called one of the direct precursors to neo-soul – the bridge between Pharoah/EWF/Lonnie Liston and Erykah/Jill Scott/D’Angelo. Gilles Peterson plays it, Moodymann samples the vibes, Bandcamp reissue culture worships it.

Today an original is a four-figure flex. The reissues keep coming because the message never gets old: eat clean, love everybody, praise the Most High, and lay down some ridiculous soprano sax while you’re at it.

Faith for My Mind is proof that sometimes the universe hides its best music in the humblest sleeves, waits thirty years, then drops it on the world like “Remember me?” S.O.L.A.R. didn’t conquer the industry – they transcended it. And honestly? That feels like the bigger win.

Put it on, light some incense (or don’t – we’re not judging), and let the revelation begin. Your third eye will thank you. Namaste, jazz fam.

Art Blakey - 1982 - Keystone 3

Art Blakey

1982

Keystone 3

01. In Walked Bud 8:12

02. In A Sentimental Mood 7:01

03. Fuller Love 8:43

04. Waterfalls 11:12

05. A La Mode 10:22

Alto Saxophone – Branford Marsalis (tracks: 1, 3 to 5)

Bass – Charles Fambrough

Drums – Art Blakey

Piano – Donald Brown

Tenor Saxophone – Bill Pierce

Trumpet – Wynton Marsalis

Recorded live at Keystone Korner, San Francisco, California, January 1982

Remixed at PER, San Francisco, California

The Night Papa Blakey Turned Two Cocky New Orleans Kids Into Jazz Immortals (And Nobody Got Grounded)

Let’s set the scene: January 1982. Art Blakey is 62 years old—ancient by jazz standards, basically the Crypt Keeper with a better hi-hat. Hard bop is supposedly on life support, fusion is hogging all the synthesizers, and the Keystone Korner in San Francisco is one of the last true jazz shrines on the West Coast. Into this smoky temple walks Blakey with the hottest, most hyped young front line since the Lee Morgan/Wayne Shorter days: 20-year-old trumpet prodigy Wynton Marsalis (already acting like he invented the valves), his big brother Branford (fresh out of Berklee and still figuring out which sax to blow), and the grown-up in the room, tenor beast Bill Pierce. The result? Keystone 3—a live album so ferocious it makes you wonder why anyone ever bothered recording in a studio again. This is hard bop on steroids, Red Bull, and whatever legal substance Blakey was on that kept him swinging like a 25-year-old until he was 71.

Buhaina the Eternal: The Man Who Never Retired (Because Retirement Is for Mortals)

Born Abdullah Ibn Buhaina in Pittsburgh, 1919, Art Blakey was already a legend before most of us were born. Piano player as a teen → forced at gunpoint to switch to drums (true story) → sideman for Billy Eckstine, Miles, Monk, and basically everyone who mattered → co-founded the original Jazz Messengers in the ’50s with Horace Silver → turned it into his personal jazz university for the next 35 years.

The list of Messengers alumni reads like the Jazz Hall of Fame guest list: Lee Morgan, Benny Golson, Wayne Shorter, Freddie Hubbard, Curtis Fuller, Jackie McLean, Keith Jarrett, Chuck Mangione, Woody Shaw, Cedar Walton… and that’s just the first 20 years. Blakey’s formula was simple: find the hungriest young lions, pay them peanuts, work them like mules, teach them how to swing till their ancestors felt it, then boot them out to become leaders. He called it “passing the torch.” Critics called it the greatest talent incubator in jazz history. By 1982 he’d already buried half his peers, outlived multiple jazz eras, and was still kicking harder than anyone half his age. The man didn’t age—he just accumulated more press rolls.

The Class of ’82: The Band That Made Jazz Critics Spit Out Their Martinis

This lineup was together barely six months, but sweet Jesus did they cook:

Art Blakey – drums, press rolls that could wake the dead, and the greatest “Bu-Bu-Buuuuu!” shout in jazz history.

Wynton Marsalis – trumpet (age 20, already playing like Miles and Clifford Brown had a love child who practiced 23 hours a day).

Branford Marsalis – alto sax (mostly—sources argue about tenor/soprano, but on this gig he’s primarily alto, bringing that wild, searching edge).

Bill Pierce – tenor saxophone (the veteran anchor, the guy who actually knew all the Messengers repertoire and kept the kids from falling off the stage).

Donald Brown – piano (subtle, tasteful, the perfect foil for the horn pyrotechnics).

Charles Fambrough – bass (deep in the pocket, walking like his rent depended on it—which it probably did).

Recorded live over a few nights at Keystone Korner, engineered by the great Phil Edwards (who somehow captured Blakey’s drums sounding like artillery without drowning everyone else). Concord Jazz released it later that year—Blakey’s first for the label after decades on Blue Note, Roulette, and every indie that would have him.

Five Tracks of Pure, Unfiltered Hard Bop Mayhem

Original LP clocks in at a lean 46 minutes, but every second is a knockout punch:

In Walked Bud (Thelonious Monk) – Swinging opener. Wynton tries a little growl plunger (cute, kid), then rips a solo that announces “I’m here to save jazz, y’all.” Branford follows with pure fire. Blakey just laughs and drops bombs.

In a Sentimental Mood (Duke Ellington) – Branford’s heartbreaking alto feature. Slow, lush, gorgeous. The one moment the Marsalis brothers shut up and play pretty. You’ll forgive them everything after this.

Fuller Love (Bobby Watson) – 6/8 modal burner dedicated to Curtis Fuller. Horns stab like assassins, Blakey pushes like a freight train. Peak Messengers energy.

Waterfalls (Donald Brown) – The 11-minute masterpiece. Ascending/descending horn lines that feel like the band is literally falling down stairs in the most elegant way possible. Wynton doubles time and tries to melt faces. Succeeds.

A La Mode (Curtis Fuller) – Classic Messengers closer. Hushed unison lines, Blakey building tension like a horror movie, then BAM—full explosion. Ends the set on a high that makes you want to flip the record and start again.

The sound? Crystal clear. You can hear every cymbal ping, every bass note thump, every time Blakey yells “Yeah!” like a proud dad watching his kids set the house on fire (in a controlled, artistic way).

The Album That Launched the Young Lions Revolution (And Gave Wynton His Superhero Origin Story)

In 1982, jazz was supposedly dying. Fusion had stolen the kids, smooth jazz was lurking, and free jazz had scared off the squares. Then comes Keystone 3—a straight-ahead hard bop album by a bunch of sharp-dressed twentysomethings led by a grandfather—and suddenly the future looked bright again.

This record is Patient Zero for the entire “Young Lions” movement of the ’80s and ’90s. Wynton and Branford left Blakey literally weeks after this gig to sign with Columbia, drag jazz back into suits and ties, and spark the whole neo-traditionalist wave. Love it or hate it (and plenty hate it—Branford included, later), the Marsalis Effect brought jazz back to Lincoln Center, PBS specials, and Grammy speeches about “preserving the tradition.” Without Keystone 3, no Wynton Marsalis Quintet debut, no Ken Burns Jazz doc with Wynton as narrator-in-chief, no endless debates about whether jazz should wear sneakers or wingtips.

It’s also one of the very best live Blakey documents—up there with A Night at Birdland, Moanin’, and Free for All. Critics routinely rank it in the top tier of the 200+ Messengers albums (yes, there are that many). The 2005 red-vinyl reissue and the ongoing digital availability keep introducing new generations to the night two New Orleans brothers got baptized in Blakey’s fire—and came out ready to rule the world.

So yeah, Keystone 3 isn’t just a great album. It’s the moment jazz said, “Hold my pocket square—we’re coming back.” And Art Blakey? He just smiled, counted off the next tune, and kept swinging till the day he dropped the sticks in 1990.

Put this on loud, pour something strong, and thank Buhaina for never retiring. The man didn’t just keep the flame alive—he turned it into a blowtorch and handed it to the kids. Legend. Absolute legend.

Leong Lau - 1976 - Dragon Man

Leong Lau 

1976

Dragon Man

01. The Atlas Revolution 4:50

02. Ghost Drums 4:49

03. Rhythm Pounding 5:55

04. Dragon Man 4:19

05. Soul Baby 5:41

06. Deep In The Jungle 8:35

07. Love Poem 3:00

Drums, Percussion – Andrew Evans

Electric Bass – Alistair Bell

Electric Guitar, Classical Guitar – Paul Pallister

Vocals, Tenor Saxophone, Alto Saxophone, Flute, Harmonica, Cornet, Percussion, Guitar – Leong Lau

The Malaysian-Australian Madman Who Invented Psychedelic Funk Down Under (And Nobody Noticed for 40 Years)

Picture 1976 Australia: AC/DC are still wearing shorts, Skyhooks are shocking the suburbs, and the entire country thinks “funky” means a bad smell. Then, out of nowhere, drops this wild-eyed Malaysian-Chinese multi-instrumentalist preaching half-sung sermons over wah-wah guitars, jungle percussion, and flute solos that sound like Jimi Hendrix got lost in Kuala Lumpur and decided to stay. Dragon Man is that album—the private-press holy grail that sounds like Funkadelic, Xhol Caravan, and a Taoist street preacher all crashed a Sydney house party and refused to leave. It’s raw, weird, sexy, spiritual, and so ahead of its time that the 1970s basically said “nah mate, too much” and buried it until the crate-diggers resurrected it like a funky Lazarus.

Original pressings were tiny (hand-sold at gigs and a couple of Sydney shops), originals now fetch four figures, and even the 2024 Left Ear Records repress sells out faster than free beer at a barbie. This is the sound of one man saying “screw your labels” and creating his own genre: call it Rongeng-Psych-Funk, East-West Cosmic Groove, or just “Leong Being Leong.”

From Chinese Opera to Sydney Symphony to “Frank Zappa Told Me To Start My Own Label”: The Wild Life of Leong Lau

Born in Malaysia of Chinese ancestry, little Leong started with Chinese Opera and flute in the community orchestra—basically the Justin Bieber of traditional Malaysian music, minus the teenyboppers. Late ’60s he lands in Adelaide on an engineering scholarship (because smart kids do that), but quickly realizes bridges are boring and music is where the real magic happens.

He dances with the Sydney Dance Company (ballet, modern, the works), joins the Sydney Conservatorium, ends up playing concert flute with the Sydney Symphony Orchestra—yes, the same guy who later screams “DEEP IN THE JUNGLE!” over fuzz guitar once wore a tux and played Mozart for posh people. Somewhere along the line he meets Frank Zappa (casual), who drops the ultimate DIY wisdom: “Start your own label, bro, total artistic freedom.” Leong listens, creates Sunscape Records, and in 1976 unleashes Dragon Man.

He only made a handful of records (this debut, 1977’s That Rongeng Sound, a single or two), then basically vanished into legend—sculpting, philosophizing, living that enlightened rogue life. In 2013 the Left Ear Records crew tracked him down in a Brisbane library for a “transcendental conversation” (translation: they probably smoked something strong) and got his blessing to reissue everything. Leong Lau: part Hendrix, part Sun Ra, part kung-fu movie extra, all genius.

The Band: A One-Time-Only Super Session of Sydney’s Funkiest Mercenaries

This wasn’t a band—it was a miracle that happened once. Two rehearsals, one studio day at Earth Media Recording Co., and boom: immortality.

Leong Lau – vocals (half-sung rants in thick Aussie-via-Malaysia accent), tenor/alto sax, flute, harmonica, cornet, percussion, guitar, composer, producer, arranger, spiritual overlord

Paul Pallister – electric & classical guitar (the wah-wah wizard who channels Hendrix like it’s 1968)

Alistair Bell – electric bass (so deep and rubbery you’ll check if your subengine is running)

Andrew Evans (or Andy Evans) – drums & percussion (locks it down tighter than a kangaroo’s pouch)

Engineered by Ross Kirkland – the unsung hero who made it sound this filthy-good on a shoestring

Seven Tracks of Pure “What the Hell Did I Just Hear?” Brilliance

Side A grabs you by the collar and doesn’t let go:

The Atlas Revolution – Opens with a monster riff, Leong preaching revolution like a psychedelic televangelist. Instant head-nod.

Ghost Drums – Tribal percussion meets echoing flute; you’ll feel ancestors dancing in your living room.

Rhythm Pounding – Six minutes of pure groove assault. The bass line should be illegal.

Dragon Man – Title track flute-funk workout. Leong declares himself the Dragon Man and you believe him.

Side B goes full jungle:

Soul Baby – The closest thing to a radio hit here—sexy, slinky, still weird as hell.

Deep In The Jungle – Nearly nine minutes of psychedelic descent: phased sax, fuzz solos, Leong howling like Tarzan on acid. The crown jewel.

Love Poem – Short, tender closer dedicated to “Kuan.” After all the madness, he reminds you he’s got a heart.

That’s it. No overdubs, no second takes, just pure spontaneous combustion.

The sound? Raw Aussie psych-funk with heavy Hendrix/Krautrock vibes, but filtered through Malaysian-Chinese mysticism and a fat dose of jazz fluency. Leong’s vocals are the star—part spoken-word shaman, part blues shouter, all delivered in that unmistakable ocker-meets-Asia twang. It’s like Captain Beefheart decided to make a funk album after ten years in Bali.

The Private-Press Prophecy That Took Four Decades to Explode

In 1976 Australia, this sold a few hundred copies max. Radio? Zero. Charts? Laughable. Meanwhile Cold Chisel were the future of Aussie rock.

Fast-forward: Dragon Man becomes the ultimate crate-digger myth. Originals trade for $1,000–$3,000+. Strawberry Rain reissued it in 2014, Left Ear did the deluxe treatment in 2024 (complete with poster—grab it before it’s gone again). It’s now hailed as one of the wildest, most original Australian albums ever—proof that world-class psychedelic funk didn’t need London or LA; it could bloom in Sydney with a bunch of session cats and one visionary madman.

Leong pioneered the Australian private-press underground, fused East-West sounds decades before “global bass” was a buzzword, and did it all on his own terms. Today it influences everyone from psych revivalists to funk beatmakers sampling those killer breaks. It’s the missing link between ’70s Afro-rock, German kosmische, and the kind of free-spirited weirdness we all secretly wish music still had.

So yeah, Dragon Man isn’t just a great lost album—it’s a middle finger to an entire industry that wasn’t ready for a flute-playing, cornet-blowing, Malaysian-Australian guru preaching love, revolution, and jungle vibes over the funkiest rhythm section Sydney ever saw.

Put it on, turn it up, and let the Dragon Man possess you. Your neighbors might complain, but your soul will thank you. Legendary stuff, mate. Absolute bloody legend.

Joao Donato - 1973 - Quem E Quem

Joao Donato 

1973

Quem E Quem

01. Chorou, Chorou

02. Terremoto

03. Amazonas (Keep Tking)

04. Fim De Sonho

05. A Rã

06. Ahiê

07. Cala Boca Menino

08. Nana Das Águas

09. Me Deixa

10. Até Quem Sabe?

11. Mentiras

12. Cadê Jodel?

Drums [Uncredited] – Lula Nascimento

Electric Piano [Rhodes, Uncredited] – João Donato

Guitar [Uncredited] – Hélio Delmiro

Percussion [Uncredited] – Naná Vasconcelos

The Comeback Album Where the Quiet Genius Finally Sang (And Brazil Wasn’t Ready for How Good It Was)

Picture this: it’s 1973, Brazil is under military dictatorship, Tropicália has been beaten into submission, and the radio is full of weepy romantic schlock and the occasional funky protest song. Into this mess strolls João Donato—39 years old, fresh off a 14-year American exile, armed with a Fender Rhodes that sounds like liquid sunshine, a voice that’s basically a sleepy whisper with perfect pitch, and a batch of songs so ridiculously catchy they should come with a health warning. The result? Quem É Quem, the album that turned the mythical “musician’s musician” into a singing, crooning, electric-piano-tickling national treasure. It’s the Brazilian equivalent of Bob Dylan going electric… except nobody booed, because you can’t boo when your hips are involuntarily swaying.

This record is pure joy concentrated into 35 minutes of groove. It’s bossa nova on psychedelic mushrooms, samba that accidentally wandered into a jazz club and decided to stay, MPB that flirts shamelessly with funk and wins. And the best part? Donato sings the whole damn thing himself in that half-asleep, couldn’t-care-less baritone that somehow makes you believe every word about earthquakes, frogs, and lost girlfriends.

The Man, The Myth, The Guy Who Invented the Bossa Nova Beat (According to João Gilberto Himself)

João Donato de Oliveira Neto was born in 1934 in the middle of the Amazon jungle, in Rio Branco, Acre—literally the last place on earth you’d expect a sophisticated jazz pianist to come from. His dad flew planes and played mandolin; his mom sang; his sister played piano. Little João started on accordion at age 8 (composing waltzes, because of course he did), then switched to piano and never looked back.

By 15 he was in Rio, playing with legends, hanging with Jobim, writing tunes with João Gilberto (who later swore Donato invented the bossa beat—take that, revisionist historians). He recorded his first sides in the ’50s, but Brazil wasn’t ready for his weird harmonies and off-kilter rhythms. Club owners literally told him, “Great playing, man, but nobody can dance to this crap.” So in 1959 he split for the USA, where Latin jazz cats like Cal Tjader, Mongo Santamaría, Tito Puente, and Eddie Palmieri welcomed him like the prodigal son.

He spent the ’60s and early ’70s being the coolest sideman you never heard of—cutting the psychedelic jazz-funk masterpiece A Bad Donato in 1970 (with a young Eumir Deodato arranging), living in LA, chilling with Herbie Mann, basically being the Brazilian Ron Carter. Meanwhile back home, a new generation (Marcos Valle, Caetano, Gil, Gal Costa) treated him like a god who’d ascended and might return any day.

He did return in 1972–73, and a friend (the singer Agostinho dos Santos) gave him the best/worst advice ever: “João, you should sing your own songs.” Donato, who had the confidence of a man who’d already survived exile and color-blind pilot exams, said “sure, why not?” and made Quem É Quem. He died in 2023 at 88, still touring, still smiling like he knew a secret the rest of us didn’t.

The Musicians: A Murderers’ Row of Brazilian Groove Assassins

This is peak 1973 Rio studio wizardry, directed/arranged by the maestro Lindolfo Gaya (the “Brazilian Quincy Jones” if Quincy had better taste in caipirinhas).

João Donato – Fender Rhodes, piano, all vocals, compositions, and general vibe overlord

Hélio Delmiro – electric and acoustic guitars (the guy who made the guitar cry happy tears)

Lula Nascimento – drums (subtle as a feather, funky as hell)

Luiz Alves or Novelli – bass (depending on the track—both absolute pocket monsters)

Naná Vasconcelos – percussion wizardry (the man who made berimbaus and water drums sound sexy)

Guests: Marcos Valle (backing vocals on a couple), some flute and extra percussion from the usual Rio suspects

Engineered by a small army (Dacy, Reny Lippi, Toninho, Nivaldo Duarte) who somehow made a Rhodes sound warmer than a beach bonfire.

The Album: 12 Tracks of Pure “How Is This Legal?” Pleasure

Side A kicks off with “Chorou, Chorou” – a mid-tempo killer where Donato croons about crying like it’s the best thing that ever happened. Then “Terremoto” (Earthquake) hits—funky bass, Rhodes stabs, and Naná going berserk on percussion. It’s the closest Brazil ever got to a James Brown track without actually hiring James Brown.

“Ahiê” is three minutes of pure seduction—Donato whispering sweet nothings over the grooviest bass line known to man. “Até Quem Sabe” is the hit that never was (later covered by everyone with taste). “Cala Boca Menino” is Dorival Caymmi’s gift to the project—Donato telling a noisy kid to shut up, in the nicest possible way.

Side B has “Nana das Águas” (pure rainforest mysticism), the frog-obsessed “A Rã” (yes, it’s literally about a frog and it slaps harder than it has any right to), and the sublime “Mentiras”—a ballad so beautiful it should be illegal after midnight.

The sound? Electric piano that sparkles like Copacabana at sunrise, rhythms that sneak up and hijack your skeleton, vocals that sound like your cool uncle who’s secretly a genius telling you life’s gonna be okay. It’s funky without trying, psychedelic without the tie-dye, and impossibly chill while still making you dance.

The Album That Saved Brazilian Music from Terminal Schmaltz

In 1973, MPB was in danger of drowning in its own tears. Then comes Donato—exile returned, singing his own tunes for the first time—with an album that basically says, “Hey kids, remember joy? Here’s a double dose.”

Critics slept on it at first (Brazil gonna Brazil), but history has been kinder: Brazilian Rolling Stone put it in the Top 100 Brazilian albums ever. It’s been reissued a million times (the latest ones sound like heaven on vinyl), and crate-diggers lose their minds over the breaks—“A Rã” and “Terremoto” have been sampled more times than your uncle’s barbecue recipe.

Quem É Quem single-handedly proved that bossa nova didn’t die—it just put on platform shoes, plugged in a Rhodes, and learned to funk. It influenced everyone from Marcos Valle’s sunshine pop to the nu-bossa revival of the 2000s to Madlib and his Brazilian obsessions. Without this album there’s no Beleza Tropical compilations, no Gilles Peterson swooning over Brazilian grooves, no hipsters in Brooklyn paying $300 for original Odeon pressings.

Fifty years later it still sounds like the future arriving fashionably late with a caipirinha in each hand. João Donato didn’t just make a comeback in 1973—he reminded an entire country how to smile with its whole ass.

Put it on, close your eyes, and let the man from the jungle take you somewhere better. You’ll thank me. And if you don’t start involuntarily humming “doot-doot-doo-doo” within five minutes, check your pulse—you might be dead.

Joe Bataan - 1975 - Afrofilipino

Joe Bataan

1975

Afrofilipino

01. Chico And The Man (Main Theme)

02. The Bottle (La Botella)

03. X-Rated Symphony

04. Laughing And Crying

05. Hey, Girl

06. When You're Down (Funky Mambo)

07. Women Don't Want To Love Me

08. Ordinary Guy (Afrofilipino)

09. What Good Is A Castle (Part 1)

10. What Good Is A Castle (Part 2)

Bass – Bill Terry (tracks: B1 to B3)

Bass – Gordon Edwards (tracks: A1 to A6)

Congas, Bongos – Louis Palomo (tracks: B1 to B3)

Drums – James Madison (tracks: A1 to A6)

Drums, Timbales – Munyungo (Darryl Jackson) (tracks: B1 to B3)

Guitar – Cornell Dupree (tracks: A1 to A6)

Guitar – Randy Russell Pigeé (tracks: B1 to B3)

Percussion – Peter (Choki) Quintero (tracks: A1 to A6)

Piano – Frank Owens (tracks: A1 to A6)

Piano – Richard Tee (tracks: A1 to A6)

Piano, Organ – Sammy Garcia (tracks: B1 to B3)

Saxophone [Alto, Baritone] – Dave Sanborn (tracks: A1 to A6)

Strings – Swinging Salsoul Strings (tracks: A1 to A6)

Trombone – Barry Rogers (tracks: A1 to A6)

Trumpet – John Faddis (tracks: A1 to A6)

Trumpet – Lou Soloff (tracks: A1 to A6)

Trumpet – Randy Brecker (tracks: A1 to A6)

Joe Bataan’s Afrofilipino (1975): The Salsoul Disco Bomb That Proved a Filipino Kid from Spanish Harlem Could Out-Latin the Latinos—and Then Some

Let’s get this out of the way upfront: in 1975, the idea of a Filipino-American former juvenile delinquent turned street-corner doo-wop singer deciding to record a full-on salsa dura album with Spanish lyrics he barely spoke fluently was so absurd that it should’ve come with a laugh track. Instead, Joe Bataan dropped Afrofilipino on Salsoul Records and accidentally created one of the hardest, funkiest, most defiant New York Latin albums of the decade. This is the sound of a man who looked at Tito Puente, Willie Colón, and Eddie Palmieri and said, “Hold my adobo, watch this.”

The result? A record so good that Puerto Ricans in El Barrio played it thinking Joe was one of theirs, only to do a double-take when they saw the album cover: a grinning Filipino guy in a dashiki, looking like he just won a bet with God.

From Gang Leader to Latin Soul King to… Wait, He’s Filipino?

Born Bataan Nitollano in 1942 (yes, named after the Bataan Death March—his mother had a dark sense of humor or an even darker sense of patriotism) to a Filipino father and African-American mother, Joe grew up in East Harlem’s 112th Street, a place where the main currencies were fists, pride, and the ability to sing harmony on a tenement stoop.

By 15 he was leader of the Dragons gang, did a stretch in Coxsackie state prison, and came out reformed—sort of. He formed a doo-wop group, sold enough “Latin soul” 45s on Fania to buy nice shirts, and coined the term “Latin boogaloo” with his 1967 monster “Gypsy Woman.” Joe was the original crossover hustler: too Black for the Latin scene, too Latin for the Black scene, too street for the clubs, and—crucially—100% Filipino in a genre that didn’t have a box for that yet.

By the early ’70s, boogaloo was declared dead by the Fania mafia (too American, not “authentic” enough), so Joe pivoted like a man who’d already survived prison and multiple musical funerals. He cut some sweet soul albums, discovered disco early, and then—in the ultimate act of “watch me” energy—decided to go full salsa dura… in Spanish. The man spoke kitchen Spanish at best. The result was Afrofilipino, the album equivalent of showing up to a gunfight with a spork and still winning.

The Musicians: A Murderers’ Row of Nuyorican Heavyweights (Who Probably Thought Joe Was Crazy Until They Heard the Playback)

Recorded at Good Vibrations Studio in NYC and released on Salsoul (the label that would soon birth disco’s golden age), Afrofilipino is stacked with the kind of players who made the ’70s New York Latin sound dangerous.

These cats had played on classic Fania albums. They walked in expecting another Latin-soul crossover cash-in and left having cut some of the nastiest, funkiest salsa of 1975. Rumor has it half the band learned the arrangements on the spot because Joe kept changing his mind like a man ordering at a Filipino buffet.

The Album: Eight Tracks of Pure “How Dare You” Energy

Side A alone should be illegal in 49 states.

“The Bottle (La Botella)” – A salsa remake of Gil Scott-Heron’s anti-addiction anthem that somehow turns into the most danceable song about alcoholism ever. Joe screams “¡No hay parque!” like he’s personally offended by every empty lot in Harlem.

“Chico And The Man (Theme)” – Yes, he salsa-fied the theme from a sitcom starring Freddie Prinze (another half-Filipino pretending to be Puerto Rican). This is meta before meta was a thing.

“The Message” – Not Grandmaster Flash, this one came first. Pure barrio philosophy set to a groove so tough it could beat up your father.

“Ordinary Guy (Afrofilipino)” – Joe literally raps/sings his résumé: ex-con, junkie turned singer, Filipino in Spanish Harlem. The hook—“Just an ordinary guy!”—is delivered with the swagger of a man who knows he’s anything but.

Side B keeps the heat: “X-Rated Sally,” “Sadie (She Smokes),” and the monster closer “When Sunny Gets Blue” turned into a 9-minute descarga that makes grown percussionists weep.

The sound? Hard salsa with disco’s low-end theory already creeping in—fat bass lines, punchy horns, breaks that would later be sampled to death (the drum intro to “Ordinary Guy” is a crate-digger’s wet dream). Joe’s Spanish pronunciation is… let’s call it “creative.” He rolls R’s like he’s trying to start a lawnmower and occasionally throws in random Tagalog syllables, but somehow it all works. The band is so ferocious they carry him like a triumphant emperor on a throne made of congas.

Importance and Legacy: The Ultimate Middle Finger to Purity Police

In 1975 the Latin establishment was obsessed with “keeping it real.” You had to be Puerto Rican (or at least pretend very hard). Joe Bataan showed up Filipino, singing half-baked Spanish, with a Jewish trombone player and a sitcom theme in his setlist—and made one of the decade’s best salsa albums. That’s not just crossover; that’s conquest.

Afrofilipino predicted everything:

The coming Salsoul disco explosion

The Nuyorican identity crisis/celebration

The idea that “Latin” music could belong to whoever had the cojones to claim it

The future sampling frenzy (everyone from Cypress Hill to Lou Vega to every underground house producer in the ’90s jacked breaks from this record)

Today it’s a holy grail: original Salsoul pressings go for stupid money, and the 2019 Mr. Bongo reissue sold out instantly. DJs spin “Ordinary Guy” and watch dance floors lose their minds. It’s the ultimate proof that authenticity is overrated—what matters is soul, hustle, and not giving a damn what neighborhood you’re from.

Joe Bataan didn’t just make a great album in 1975. He walked into the salsa kitchen, cooked with ingredients nobody thought belonged together, and served a dish so delicious that fifty years later we’re all still licking the plate.

Respect the king. The Filipino king of salsa. Who’d have thunk it? Joe Bataan did—and then he made the rest of us believe it too. ¡Dale!

Doug Hammond - 1975 - Reflections In The Sea Of Nurnen

Doug Hammond 

1975 

Reflections In The Sea Of Nurnen

01. Fidalgo Detour 7:32
02. Space II 0:35
03. Wake Up Brothers 3:05
04. Reflections 4:23
05. For Real 2:56
06. Space I 2:00
07. Sea Of Nurnen 4:34
08. Moves 4:29

Alto Saxophone – Otis Harris
Bass – Charles Metcalf
Percussion – Frederick Boon, Thomas (Turk) Trayler
Piano, Electric Piano, Synthesizer – David Durrah
Violin – Charles Burnham, Trevis Mickeel
Vocals, Drums, Melodica, Synthesizer – Doug

Doug Hammond's Reflections in the Sea of Nurnen (1975): A Laid-Back Spiritual Jazz Gem from the Tribe Vaults

Ah, Reflections in the Sea of Nurnen—the album with a title that sounds like J.R.R. Tolkien got lost in a Coltrane meditation and emerged with a jazz record. Released in 1975 on Detroit's legendary Tribe Records, this is the debut leader effort from drummer/vocalist/composer Doug Hammond, co-credited to keyboard wizard David Durrah (sometimes spelled Durra or Durrah—jazz spelling bees are brutal). It's a serene, synthesizer-kissed slice of spiritual jazz that feels like a warm bath after the fiery political broadsides of some other Tribe releases. Recorded back in 1971–72 in San Francisco but shelved until Tribe gave it a home, it's often hailed as a "masterpiece" today, though back then it probably sold about as many copies as a hobbit sells pipe-weed in Detroit. Let's dive deep into this underrated beauty, with a biography detour, some Tribe context, the lineup, a track-by-track-ish romp, and why it still matters—all with the gentle ribbing it deserves for being so chill in an era of revolution.

Who Is Doug Hammond, Anyway? (The Man Who Could Do It All, Except Stay in One Place)

Born December 26, 1942, in Tampa, Florida, Douglas Hammond grew up in a musical hotbed but started humbly: a year on trombone at age 9 (he wisely switched to drums before embarrassing himself forever). By high school, he was banging away in marching bands, then headed north for the jazz life. Hammond is one of those quietly ubiquitous figures in avant-garde and free jazz—drummer, vocalist (with a warm, spoken-sung style that's more poetic than belting), composer, poet, producer, and even professor later in life.

He's played with everyone who matters: Earl Hooker, Sonny Rollins, Nina Simone, Betty Carter, Donald Byrd, Ornette Coleman, James "Blood" Ulmer, Arthur Blythe, Paquito D'Rivera... the list reads like a who's-who of jazz rebels. Most famously, Charles Mingus recorded Hammond's tune "Moves" on his 1974 album Mingus Moves—a moody closer that Hammond himself reprises here (spoiler: his version slaps harder). In the '80s, he formed a groundbreaking trio with a young Steve Coleman (yes, that Steve Coleman of M-Base fame), releasing the influential Spaces (1982). Later work includes tentets, tributes, and even techno crossovers with Carl Craig. Hammond's career is a masterclass in versatility: free funk one day, heartfelt ballads the next. At 82 (as of late 2025), he's still active, with documentaries and reissues keeping his flame alive. The guy's like jazz's Forrest Gump—always popping up in the right revolutionary moment, drumsticks in hand.

Tribe Records: Detroit's DIY Jazz Revolution (Because Motown Wouldn't Return Their Calls)

Picture Detroit in the early '70s: auto industry crumbling, riots still echoing from '67, Black empowerment in the air thicker than exhaust fumes. Enter Tribe—a collective/magazine/label founded in 1971–72 by trombonist Phil Ranelin and saxophonist Wendell Harrison (both ex-Motown session cats tired of the assembly line). Inspired by Chicago's AACM and New York's Strata-East, Tribe was full-on self-determination: musicians controlling their art, distribution, and message. They published a magazine (also called Tribe) with Afrocentric editorials, concert listings, and calls to action—circulation hit 25,000 at its peak. The label released about a dozen albums from 1973–77, heavy on spiritual jazz, socio-political fire, and community vibes: Ranelin's The Time Is Now!, Harrison's An Evening with the Devil, Harold McKinney's cosmic explorations.

Tribe wasn't just records; it was education programs, concerts with dancers and poets, a blueprint for Black artistic independence in a city bleeding jobs. It folded by '77 (money, life, the usual), but morphed into Rebirth Inc., keeping the spirit alive. Today, thanks to reissues (shoutout Now-Again's deluxe box sets), Tribe is canonized as one of the great underground imprints—proof that Detroit could birth more than cars and techno.

Reflections is a bit of an outlier: not Detroit-recorded, not as overtly militant as, say, Ranelin's anthems. Hammond and Durrah cut it on the West Coast, shopped it to Strata-East (deal fell through), then trumpeter Marcus Belgrave (a Tribe affiliate) nudged them toward Detroit. It became one of Tribe's mellowest entries—perfect for late-night reflection rather than raising fists.

The Musicians: A Tight Crew of Unsung Heroes (Plus Enough Synthesizer to Make Herbie Hancock Jealous)

This is very much a Hammond/Durrah co-lead, with Hammond on drums, vocals, melodica, and Arp synth; Durrah manning piano, Fender Rhodes, Moog, and more Arp (early electronic jazz experimentation alert!). The core band:

Otis Harris: Alto saxophone—soulful, Coltrane-tinged lines that weave like smoke.

Charles "Chuck" Metcalf: Acoustic bass (sometimes called "bass violin") and electric bass—steady, walking heart of the groove.

Charles Burnham: Violin (improvisations that add ethereal string magic).

Trevis Mickeel: Second violin for extra texture.

Frederick Boon and Thomas "Turk" Trayler: Percussion—congas and shakers for that Afro-Latin pulse.

Art by Grace Williams, photos by Karma Stanley—vibes immaculate.

Recorded at Different Fur Trading Co. in San Francisco (a haven for experimental sounds), engineered by John Viera and David Litwin. Produced by Hammond himself. It's intimate: no big horns, no screaming solos—just hypnotic interplay.

The Album Itself: Chill Vibes in a Sea of Cosmic Calm (With a Tolkien Title for Extra Nerd Points)

Clocking in at under 30 minutes (vinyl efficiency!), Reflections blends soul jazz, modal exploration, early fusion, and spiritual introspection. It's laid-back where peers like Pharoah Sanders went full ecstasy—no yodeling here, folks. Think Alice Coltrane's serenity meets Lonnie Liston Smith's cosmic keys, but with Hammond's gentle vocals adding a poetic, almost folk-jazz touch.

Track highlights:

Fidalgo Detour (7:32): Opens with a killer alto riff you'll hum for days. Groovy mid-tempo funk, bossa hints—pure earworm.

Space II and Space I (short interstitials): Pure synthesizer weirdness—Moog/ARP doodles like floating in zero gravity. Hammond and Durrah geeking out.

Wake Up Brothers (3:05): Righteous vocals over percolating percussion. The closest to a "message" track—uplifting without preaching.

Reflections (4:23): Lush Rhodes reverie. Meditative title track; close your eyes and float.

For Real: Funky, vocal-led swing—Hammond's voice shines, warm and sincere.

Sea of Nurnen (4:34): Title homage to Tolkien's salty slave sea in Mordor. Moody, oceanic groove—ironic for such a peaceful tune.

Moves (4:29): Hammond's own composition, later gifted to Mingus. Brooding closer, full of tension and release.

Overall sound: Warm, skittering rhythms; electric keys that shimmer; acoustic bass anchoring the spirituality. It's "spiritual jazz" without the fire-and-brimstone—more healing force than revolution. Critics call it hypnotic, comforting, freeing. One reviewer nailed it: memorable hooks that'll "rattle around your brain for months."

The Quiet Giant of the Tribe Catalog

In 1975, this flew under radar—spiritual jazz was niche, Tribe was hyper-local. But today? A cult classic, reissued multiple times (Now-Again's versions are gorgeous). It's prized for bridging '70s soul jazz with electronic experimentation, influencing everyone from floating-point cosmic revivalists to crate-diggers. "Moves" alone links it to Mingus lore. In the broader spiritual jazz canon (think Strata-East, Impulse!'s late era), it's the mellow counterpoint—proof the genre could be introspective, not just ecstatic.

Legacy-wise, it underscores Tribe's ethos: artist control in turbulent times. Hammond's career arc (from this to mentoring Steve Coleman) shows its ripple. And in a world still needing "wake up" calls, its gentle positivity feels timeless. Plus, any album named after a Tolkien inland sea deserves props for sheer whimsy.

If you love Pharoah, Lonnie Liston, or just good vibes with your avant-garde, spin this. It's not the loudest Tribe record, but sometimes the quiet ones heal deepest. Namaste, jazz nerds—or as they'd say in Nurnen, "Pass the melodica."

Ron Everett - 1977 - The Glitter Of The City

Ron Everett

1977

The Glitter Of The City

01. Royal Walk 5:05

02. Glitter Of The City (Song By Tahira) 5:21

03. Tipsy Lady 3:28

04. Mood Two Latin For You 7:47

05. Pretty Little Girl 2:05

06. Musicman New Rock Joy 11:34

07. Let Your Spirits Be Free 8:29

08. Fanfare For Coltrane 14:51

09. Untitled I 9:01

10. Untitled II 11:05

Alto Saxophone – Jimmy Savage (tracks: 1)

Alto Saxophone, Baritone Saxophone – Bobby Zankel (tracks: 1)

Bass – Bean Chandler (tracks: 2, 4 to 6)

Bass – Earl Womack (tracks: 3, 5)

Bass – Lenard Fletcher Bey (tracks: 1)

Bass – William P. Bennett (tracks: 1)

Congas – Adib (tracks: 2, 4, 6, 7)

Drums – Lex Humphries (tracks: 3, 5)

Drums – Nate Jones (tracks: 2, 4, 6, 7)

Flugelhorn – Hakim Yusef Sadiz (tracks: 1)

Guitar – Warren Marcus (tracks: 2, 4, 6, 7)

Percussions – Ron Mitchell Howerton (tracks: 1)

Piano – Charles King (tracks: 2, 4, 6, 7)

Piano – Dennis Fortune (tracks: 1)

Piano – Ron Everett (tracks: 3, 1)

Saxophone – Jim Miller (tracks: 2, 4, 6, 7)

Saxophone – Robert Shabazz (tracks: 2, 4, 6, 7)

Trumpet – Bill Walsh (tracks: 1)

Trumpet – Ron Everett (tracks: 1, 2, 4, 6, 7)

Vocals – Ron Everett (tracks: 1, 3, 5)

Vocals – Tahira (tracks: 2)

Ron Everett: The Unsung Philly Jazz Maverick and His 1977 Gem, The Glitter of the City

Ah, Ron Everett – the kind of musician who makes you wonder if the jazz gods were playing a cosmic prank by keeping him under the radar for so long. Born Ronald McCoy Everett on July 9, 1936, in the City of Brotherly Love (Philadelphia, for those not up on their cheesesteak geography), Ron kicked off his musical journey not with a trumpet blast, but as a bass singer in the doo-wop scene. Yep, this future jazz-funk alchemist was harmonizing with The Castelles, a classic 1950s vocal group known for hits like "My Girl Awaits Me." He joined around 1951-1953, replacing members and adding his deep tones to their sweet, street-corner serenades. Imagine: a guy who could croon like a lovesick teen one decade, then pivot to soulful sax and trumpet wizardry the next. By the 1970s, he'd evolved into a free/soul jazz saxophonist (though he'd grab the trumpet for this album), blending Philly's gritty vibes with spiritual grooves. Sadly, Ron passed away in August 1990 at just 54, leaving behind a legacy that's equal parts enigmatic and tragically overlooked – like a hidden speakeasy in a city full of flashy nightclubs. His story? One of selflessness, determination, and a dash of tragedy, as unearthed by dedicated diggers like "Philly Dave" Louis.

Now, onto The Glitter of the City, Ron's 1977 solo album – a shimmering, self-released oddity that's less "glitter" in the disco sense and more like the sparkle of Philly's underbelly reflecting off cracked sidewalks. Recorded on a shoestring budget (think " ramen-noodle-level funding"), this was no glossy studio affair. Ron poured his heart into it as a love letter to Philadelphia's vibrant musical heritage, capturing the city's soul-jazz pulse amid the disco fever that was dominating the airwaves. Picture this: while everyone else was boogieing to "Stayin' Alive," Ron was out here crafting funky jams infused with blues, spiritual jazz, and Latin rhythms – basically thumbing his nose at trends like a rebellious uncle at a family disco party. The sessions? Shrouded in mystery, but we know it was a DIY Philly affair, with Ron handling trumpet, vocals, and even piano on a couple tracks. No big-label polish here – just raw, community-driven energy from local talents. The original pressing was under his Vagabond King label, limited to tiny quantities, and circulated mostly in the Philadelphia region. Fun fact: the cover was a plain white sleeve with a black-and-white Xerox glued on, because why spend on graphic design when you can DIY like a punk rocker in jazz drag?

Speaking of the crew, Ron didn't go solo – he assembled a who's-who of Philly's underground scene, like a jazz Avengers team on a budget. Here's the breakdown by track, because why not geek out over credits?

Royal Walk: Alto sax by Jimmy Savage and Bobby Zankel (who also handles baritone); flugelhorn by Hakim Yusef Sadiz; flexotone and bongos by Ron Mitchell Howerton; piano by Dennis Fortune; trumpets by Bill Walsh and Ron himself (plus his voice).

Glitter of the City (Song by Tahira): Bass by Bean Chandler; congas by Adib; drums by Nate Jones; guitar by Warren Marcus; sax by Jim Miller; trumpet by Ron; vocals by the ethereal Tahira.

Tipsy Lady: Bass by Earl Womack; drums by Lex Humphries; piano and voice by Ron.

Mood Two Latin for You: Bass by Bean Chandler; congas by Adib; drums by Nate Jones; guitar by Warren Marcus; trumpet by Ron.

Pretty Little Girl: Bass by Earl Womack; drums by Lex Humphries; piano and voice by Ron.

New Rock Joy (or "Musicman New Rock Joy" in some listings): Bass by Bean Chandler; congas by Adib; drums by Nate Jones; guitar by Warren Marcus; voice and trumpet by Ron.

Let Your Spirits Be Free: Bass by Bean Chandler; congas by Adib; drums by Nate Jones; guitar by Warren Marcus; trumpet by Ron. (Composed by Alvin "Bean" Chandler – yes, that's the bassist pulling double duty.)

These folks were Philly lifers, bringing that authentic, street-honed flair. Lex Humphries, for instance, was a drumming legend who'd played with everyone from Dizzy Gillespie to Sun Ra – talk about upgrading your session like adding hot sauce to a bland sandwich. Ron's multi-instrumental prowess shines, but it's the ensemble's synergy that makes the album pop.

This album's backstory is comedy gold wrapped in vinyl tragedy. Ron didn't bother with stores or distribution; he sold copies straight from Philly street corners, like a one-man lemonade stand for jazz heads. In the disco-drenched '70s, pushing an avant-garde jazz LP was like trying to sell kale smoothies at a candy convention – surprising anyone bought it at all! Originals are so rare, they're owned by "literally just a handful of collectors worldwide," and even in Philly, they're unicorn-level elusive. One tale from the reissue hunt: Researchers stumbled on a master tape for an unreleased follow-up album, yielding three bonus tracks – like finding buried treasure in your grandma's attic. And the controversy? Whispers of it being "obscure, controversial, and mysterious" abound, perhaps tied to Ron's enigmatic life or the album's raw, unpolished edge that defied categorization. 

The Glitter of the City is the ultimate "holy grail" – Jazzman Records saved it from oblivion in 2021 as part of their Holy Grail Series (catalog #100, no less, like reserving the VIP table). Limited to 1,500 copies with restored audio, liner notes, and photos, it's now accessible to mere mortals. But its true impact? A testament to Philly's unsung jazz scene, blending soulful grooves with experimental flair that influenced underground funk and jazz-funk revivals. Ron's determination shines through – a reminder that great art doesn't need billboards; sometimes, street-corner hustle is enough. In a world of auto-tuned pop, this album's raw glitter feels like a rebellious wink from the past.

Clocking in at about 45 minutes across seven tracks, The Glitter is a genre-hopping joyride that's equal parts soothing and surprising. Opener "Royal Walk" struts in with horns and percussion like a Philly parade gone cosmic – those saxes and flugelhorn weave a tapestry that's regal yet relaxed, as if the band is tipsy on inspiration. The title track? A soul-jazz stunner with Tahira's vocals floating over congas and guitar, evoking a hazy city night where the glitter isn't sequins, but streetlights on rain-slicked pavement. "Tipsy Lady" lives up to its name: Ron's piano and voice stumble charmingly through a boozy blues, like a lounge act after one too many. Then "Mood Two Latin for You" heats up with Latin rhythms and trumpet flares – it's eight minutes of infectious groove that could've soundtracked a '70s cop show if anyone had noticed.

The B-side gets introspective: "Pretty Little Girl" is a tender, two-minute vocal-piano ditty, sweet as a stolen kiss. "New Rock Joy" stretches to 11 minutes of funky fusion, with Ron's trumpet and voice riffing over guitar licks – irregular beats add that "strange" free-jazz edge, like the track's trying to escape its own genre. Closer "Let Your Spirits Be Free" is spiritual jazz at its finest, uplifting and expansive, composed by bassist Bean Chandler as a freeing anthem. Overall, the album's a funky, bluesy celebration of Philly's musical melting pot, with half the tracks vocal-led for that soulful punch. It's not flawless – production's raw, like a bootleg gem – but that's the charm. In a humorous twist, it's jazz that's too cool for its era, now rediscovered like that forgotten mixtape that blows your mind. If you're into spiritual jazz with a side of funk (think Pharoah Sanders meets Roy Ayers, but on a budget), this is your new obsession. Ron Everett, we salute you – the glitter may have faded, but the city's soul shines eternal.

Agustus Pablo - 1976 - King Tubbys Meets Rockers Uptown

Agustus Pablo

1976

King Tubbys Meets Rockers Uptown

01. Keep On Dubbing

02. Stop Them Jam

03. Young Generation Dub

04. Each One Dub

05. 555 Dub Street

06. Braces Tower Dub

07. King Tubby Meets Rockers Uptown

08. Corner Crew Dub

09. Say So

10. Skanking Dub

11. Frozen Dub

12. Satta Dub

Bass – Aston (Family Man) Barrett, Leroy Horsemouth, Robert (Robby) Shakespear*

Drums – Carlton (Carlie) Barrett

Guitar – Earl (Chinna) Smith*

Organ, Piano, Clarinet – Agustus Pablo

Saxophone [Tenor] – Richard (Dirty Harry) Hal

Trombone – Vincent (Don D Junior) Gordon*

Trumpet – Bobby Ellis

Augustus Pablo's 1976 Dub Masterpiece: King Tubbys Meets Rockers Uptown – Where Melodica Meets Echo in a Jamaican Jam Session

Ah, Augustus Pablo – the melodica maestro who turned a kid's toy instrument into the sonic equivalent of a Rastafarian sermon. Born Horace Swaby on June 21, 1954, in St. Andrew, Jamaica, Pablo grew up in a musical hotbed, attending Kingston College where he tickled the ivories on the organ like a prodigy in short pants. By his teens, he was already experimenting with the melodica, that quirky wind keyboard that sounds like a harmonica got cozy with a piano. His big break came through producer Herman Chin Loy, leading to early hits that blended roots reggae with dub's spacey echoes. Pablo wasn't just a player; he was a producer, keyboardist, and dub innovator who helped birth the genre's golden era. Tragically, he passed away on May 18, 1999, at 44 from a nerve disorder (myasthenia gravis), but not before leaving a legacy that's as enduring as a well-rolled spliff. Think of him as the dub world's Gandalf – mystical, influential, and always one step ahead of the orcs (or in this case, mainstream pop).

Now, dive into King Tubbys Meets Rockers Uptown, the 1976 album that's basically dub's Declaration of Independence – declaring freedom from vocals and straight-up rhythms. This wasn't just an album; it was a cosmic collision between Pablo's Rockers International label and the mixing wizardry of King Tubby (Osbourne Ruddock), the engineer who treated the studio console like a mad scientist's lab. Recorded amid Jamaica's mid-70s reggae boom, when roots sounds were evolving into dub's echo-heavy experiments, the sessions happened at Randy's Studio in Kingston – a legendary spot where hits were born faster than you could say "irie." Pablo brought in his original Rockers band tracks, mostly instrumentals he'd produced earlier, and handed them to Tubby for remixing at his Waterhouse studio. Tubby, with assistant Errol Thompson, flipped them into dub versions, stripping away elements, adding reverb, delay, and echo like a chef overdosing on spices. The result? A 30-minute trip that's sparse yet immersive, proving dub could stand alone without the original songs' baggage. Fun background: This was during reggae's "rockers" era, with militant rhythms and social commentary, but Pablo and Tubby turned it into something meditative – like yoga for your eardrums, if yoga involved bass drops that could rattle your ribcage.

The musicians? Pablo didn't skimp – he assembled the Rockers All-Stars, a supergroup of Jamaica's finest, like the Avengers but with more dreadlocks and less CGI. Pablo himself handled melodica, piano, organ, clavinet, and production duties, his signature melodica weaving through like a ghostly whistle in the wind. On the mixing board: King Tubby, the dub godfather, with Prince Jammy (Lloyd James) occasionally lurking as an apprentice. The core band featured:

Drums: Carlton "Santa" Barrett (of Wailers fame, bringing that one-drop rhythm like a heartbeat on steroids).

Bass: Aston "Family Man" Barrett (Carlton's brother, laying down lines so deep they could plumb the Mariana Trench) or Robbie Shakespeare (of Sly & Robbie, adding funky precision).

Guitar: Earl "Chinna" Smith (whose riffs slice through the haze like a machete through sugarcane).

Percussion: Various, including Pablo's own touches.

Horns: Dirty Harry (tenor sax), Vin Gordon (trombone), and Bobby Ellis (trumpet), adding brass bursts that pop like fireworks in a echo chamber.

These were session pros who'd backed everyone from Bob Marley to Burning Spear, but here they served Pablo's vision – tight grooves turned inside out by Tubby's tweaks. No egos, just vibes; it's like they all showed up to a party where the DJ decided to remix reality itself.

Anecdotes from these sessions read like a stoner's fever dream. Tubby's studio was a tiny shack in Waterhouse, crammed with gear that looked like it could launch a rocket – or at least send your mind into orbit. One tale: Tubby would drop out instruments mid-track, creating "space" that felt revolutionary, like he was inventing silence as a instrument. Pablo, ever the mystic, reportedly chain-smoked while laying down melodica lines, turning the room into a foggy dub sanctuary. There's a humorous bit about how the title track became a hit single in 1975 before the album dropped – it was a dub of Jacob Miller's "Baby I Love You So," but Tubby mangled it so beautifully it outshone the original, proving remixes could steal the spotlight. And get this: After this album, Tubby's studio became legendary, with artists queuing up like it was the hottest club in Kingston. Pablo once joked (or so legend says) that the melodica was his "far east sound," blending Asian influences with Jamaican roots – imagine explaining that to your grandma over tea. On X, fans still geek out: One user blasted it on a sunny day with windows open, daring neighbors to complain, while another pairs it with spring vibes like a seasonal ritual.

Legacy? Oh boy, this album didn't just influence dub – it defined it, like how pizza defines "comfort food." Released on Clocktower Records, it's hailed as one of the finest dub records ever, shaping everything from punk (John Lydon was a fan) to electronic music (think early Massive Attack or even modern bass-heavy genres). It popularized the "rockers" style – militant, stepping rhythms – and proved dub was art, not just B-sides. Critics call it a "landmark," "seminal," and "revolutionary," influencing artists like Simon Raymonde (Cocteau Twins) and Adrian Sherwood. In Jamaica, it cemented Pablo and Tubby as icons; globally, it's a gateway drug to reggae for newcomers. Even today, reissues fly off shelves, and X threads recommend it as essential listening – one post calls it a "trance-setter." In a world of overproduced beats, its raw, echoey minimalism is a hilarious rebuke: "Why add more when less hits harder?"

As for the in-depth review: Clocking in at 12 tracks (plus bonuses on reissues), King Tubbys is a dub odyssey that's hypnotic, sparse, and groovy – like floating in a zero-gravity bass bin. Opener "Keep on Dubbing" sets the tone with echoing horns and dropping rhythms, as if the band is playing hide-and-seek with the listener. The title track? A stone-cold classic – Pablo's melodica dances over a riddim that's equal parts militant march and laid-back stroll, with Tubby's effects making it feel like the music's breathing. "Each One Dub" strips "Each One Teach One" to its bones, all bass thumps and ghostly echoes, perfect for pondering life's mysteries (or just zoning out). "Frozen Dub" chills with icy delays, while "Satta Dub" (a dub of "Satta Massagana") elevates spiritual vibes to nirvana levels.

The album's genius is in its restraint: No filler, just pure dub alchemy where silence speaks volumes. Humorously, it's the anti-disco of 1976 – while everyone boogied, Pablo and Tubby were out here engineering echoes that could make a mirror jealous. Production's raw and revolutionary, with Tubby's four-track mixer pushing boundaries like a budget Einstein. If you're into dub, reggae, or just sounds that massage your soul, this is essential – a timeless trip that's as fresh as a Jamaican breeze. Augustus Pablo and King Tubby, we dub thee legends; your glitter (or should I say echo) still shines.

Maze featuring Frankie Beverly - 1978 - Golden Time of Dayz

Maze featuring Frankie Beverly

1978

Golden Time of Day

01. Travelin' Man 5:06

02. Song For My Mother 5:02

03. You're Not The Same 5:13

04. Workin' Together 5:30

05. Golden Time Of Day 5:30

06. I Wish You Well 4:37

07. I Need You 10:00

Bass Guitar – Robin Duhe

Congas, Vocals – Ronald "Roame" Lowry*

Drums – Ahaguna G. Sun

Drums – Joe Provost (tracks: A1, B2)

Keyboards – Sam Porter

Lead Guitar – Wayne Thomas

Vocals, Rhythm Guitar – Frankie Beverly

Vocals, Percussion – McKinley (Bug) Williams

Golden Time of Day – Where Funk Meets Sunset Vibes

Ah, Frankie Beverly – the smooth-voiced architect of feel-good R&B who turned life's ups and downs into grooves so infectious, they could make a statue tap its toes. Born Howard Stanley Beverly on December 6, 1946, in Philadelphia's East Germantown neighborhood, Frankie kicked off his musical odyssey as a gospel-singing kid in the local church, belting out hymns like a pint-sized preacher with a side of soul. He graduated from Germantown High School, but his real education came on the streets, forming doo-wop groups like The Blenders (an a cappella crew inspired by The Dells and The Moonglows) and later The Butlers in 1963. By the late '60s, as Frankie Beverly and the Butlers, they dropped Northern soul gems like "If That's What You Wanted," catching the ear of Philly producer Kenny Gamble – though their raw edge didn't quite fit the slick Philly Sound. Undeterred, Frankie toured relentlessly, eventually relocating the band (then called Raw Soul) to San Francisco in the early '70s. There, a fateful connection via Marvin Gaye's sister-in-law led to opening slots for the Motown legend himself. Gaye, in a stroke of genius (or perhaps just good branding), suggested renaming them Maze – because navigating the music biz felt like one big labyrinth. Signed to Capitol Records, Maze became synonymous with uplifting, groove-heavy R&B, releasing nine Gold albums and building a cult following that adored their live energy. Frankie's signature? Performing in all-white outfits – slacks, shirts, and baseball caps – inspiring fans to dress like a collective wedding party at concerts. His son Anthony even drummed for the band, turning Maze into a family affair. Tragically, Frankie passed away on September 10, 2024, at 77, leaving a void in soul music bigger than a disco ball's shadow – but not before racking up honors like the 2012 BET Lifetime Achievement Award, the 2024 NAACP Image Awards Lifetime Achievement, and even having his childhood street renamed Frankie Beverly Way.

Enter Golden Time of Day, Maze's sophomore album from 1978 – a sun-kissed slab of soul-funk that's less about chasing trends and more about capturing that magical hour when the light hits just right, turning everyday chaos into pure bliss. Released on Capitol Records, this was the follow-up to their self-titled debut, building on their Bay Area roots with a mellow yet funky vibe that screamed "California cool" amid the late-'70s disco frenzy. Recorded at Applewood Studios in Golden, Colorado – a fittingly "golden" location that might explain the title, or perhaps Frankie just liked the irony of recording sunset anthems in a mountain town – the sessions were helmed entirely by Beverly as producer, songwriter, and multi-instrumentalist. Clocking in at about 41 minutes, it's a concise seven-track affair in the soul/funk genre, emphasizing positive messages and tight musicianship over flashy production. No over-the-top strings or synthesizers here – just organic grooves that feel like a backyard barbecue with your wisest uncles dropping life lessons. The album dropped in a year when R&B was evolving, and Maze positioned themselves as the anti-disco: thoughtful, uplifting tracks that prioritized feel over flash, much like how Frankie navigated his career – steady, soulful, and stubbornly authentic.

The musicians? Maze was a well-oiled machine, with Frankie at the center like a benevolent bandleader in white. Here's the core lineup for Golden Time of Day, blending Philly grit with West Coast smoothness:

Frankie Beverly: Lead vocals, rhythm guitar, piano – the heart and soul, writing every track and producing like a one-man Motown.

Wayne Thomas: Lead guitar – adding those shimmering riffs that sparkle like afternoon sunlight.

Sam Porter: Keyboards – laying down the melodic foundations with organ and piano swells.

Robin Duhe: Bass – providing the funky backbone, groovy enough to make your hips sway involuntarily.

Joe Provost: Drums on "Travelin' Man" and "I Wish You Well" – precise beats for the more introspective cuts.

Ahaguna B. Sun: Drums on the remaining tracks – bringing a percussive punch that's pure energy.

Ronald "Roame" Lowry: Congas, backing vocals – infusing Latin flair and harmonious support.

McKinley "Bug" Williams: Percussion, backing vocals – the rhythmic glue, shaking things up with congas and vibes.

This crew wasn't just session players; they were Maze's touring band, honing their chemistry on the road, which translated to the studio like a well-rehearsed comedy routine – seamless and full of heart.

Anecdotes from the Golden Time era read like feel-good tales from a soul survivor's memoir. Frankie once admitted he never imagined singing for 50 years when he started out, let alone creating anthems that still pack arenas – talk about underestimating your own groove! The title track became a tear-jerker for fans; singer Jill Scott shared on X how she'd cry every time Frankie performed it live at Philly's Dell Music Center, calling it "bliss recorded" – like emotional therapy set to music. Post-Frankie's passing, tributes flooded in: Bands like Alabama State's Mighty Marching Hornets honored him with medleys of "Golden Time of Day" at events like the Magic City Classic, proving his tunes are marching band-approved. And in a humorous twist, the album's recording in Golden, CO, sparked whispers that the "golden time" was inspired by the town's name – or maybe just the high-altitude inspiration (wink, wink). Fans on X still blast it for nostalgic vibes, with one user pairing it with spring days like a seasonal soundtrack. Frankie’s all-white stage look? It started around this time, turning concerts into flash mobs of purity – because nothing says "soul legend" like coordinating outfits with 10,000 strangers.

Legacy-wise, Golden Time of Day solidified Maze as R&B royalty, peaking at #27 on the Billboard 200 and #9 on the R&B charts, with singles like "Workin' Together" hitting #9 R&B. It was part of Maze's string of Gold-certified albums, influencing the quiet storm subgenre with its mellow, introspective funk – think the blueprint for later acts blending soulful lyrics with danceable beats. Frankie's work inspired covers galore, like Beyoncé's take on "Before I Let Go" (from a later album, but the vibe echoes here), and tributes from Mary J. Blige to Mint Condition. In the UK, Maze exploded thanks to DJs like Robbie Vincent, making them bigger overseas than some American pop stars – a hilarious reversal for a Philly boy. Today, the album's enduring appeal lies in its positivity; as one fan put it on X, it's the ultimate "golden" mood booster. Maze's live legacy – staples at Essence Festival and beyond – ensures Golden Time isn't just vinyl; it's a living, breathing part of Black music history, proving Frankie navigated the maze of fame with grace and groove.

This 41-minute gem is a masterclass in understated funk, where every track feels like a warm hug from an old friend. Opener "Travelin' Man" struts in with breezy guitars and Frankie's velvety vocals, painting a wanderer's tale over a mid-tempo groove – perfect for road trips or pondering life's detours. "Song for My Mother" tugs heartstrings with piano-led tenderness, a heartfelt ode that's equal parts gospel and gratitude. "You're Not the Same" amps the funk with bass slaps and conga rhythms, calling out changes in love like a sassy therapist. Side A's closer, "Workin' Together," is the hit single – an upbeat call for unity with infectious horns (wait, no horns listed, but the energy feels brassy) that hit #9 on R&B charts, urging harmony in a divided world.

Flip to the B-side: The title track "Golden Time of Day" is the crown jewel, a five-and-a-half-minute sunset symphony of piano, guitar, and Frankie's soaring falsetto, evoking that magical dusk hour where worries melt away – it's pure auditory therapy, peaking at #39 R&B but timeless in impact. "I Wish You Well" keeps the mellow flow with reflective lyrics and smooth percussion, while the epic 10-minute closer "I Need You" stretches out into a jam session of longing, building layers of guitar and keys like a slow-burn romance. Overall, the album's production is clean yet raw, emphasizing Maze's live-band synergy over studio tricks – three stars from AllMusic, but fans rate it higher for its emotional depth. In a humorous nod, it's funk that's too laid-back for the disco crowd, yet groovy enough to outlast them all. If you're craving soul that soothes the spirit (think Earth, Wind & Fire meets quiet storm), Golden Time of Day is your golden ticket – Frankie and Maze, you still amaze.