Joachim Kühn - 1978 - Sunshower

Joachim Kühn

1978

Sunshower

01. Orange Drive 3:31

02. O.D. 5:02

03. Shoreline 4:01

04. You're Still On My Mind 4:17

05. Midnight Dancer 4:28

06. Short Film For Nicky 4:13

07. Sunshower 4:12

08. Preview 6:28

Bass – Tony Newton

Drums – Glenn Symmonds

Electric Guitar, Synthesizer [Roland] – Ray Gomez

Guitar – Jan Akkerman

Keyboards – Joachim Kühn

Recorded Feb./March 1978 at Kendun Recorders, Elektra Studios, Warner Bros. Studios and Soundpush Studios. Mixed March/April 1978 at Soundpush Studios.

Joachim Kühn’s 1978 Atlantic release (sometimes credited to the Joachim Kühn Band featuring Jan Akkerman & Ray Gomez), is a slick, high-octane slice of late-’70s jazz-rock fusion that sounds exactly like what happens when a classically trained German virtuoso decides to chase the California sun and plug his keyboards into the wall socket alongside two of the era’s flashiest guitar slingers. Clocking in at a lean 36 minutes, it’s energetic, occasionally over-the-top, and unapologetically of its time—like a European classical refugee crashing a Hollywood fusion party and somehow making it swing.

Born in Leipzig in 1944, Joachim Kühn was a genuine child prodigy who debuted as a concert pianist and studied classical composition before his older brother, clarinetist Rolf Kühn, pulled him headfirst into jazz. By the mid-1960s, he was already pioneering free jazz in East Germany, defecting to the West in 1966, and quickly becoming a fixture in the European avant-garde scene. He collaborated with heavyweights like Don Cherry, Jean-Luc Ponty, and later Ornette Coleman, while dabbling in electronic keyboards with Pierre Courbois’ Association P.C. Influences included Bach (a lifelong foundation), free improvisation, post-bop, and the exploding fusion wave of the 1970s. By the mid-’70s, Kühn had relocated to California, diving into the West Coast scene and recording with the likes of Alphonse Mouzon and Billy Cobham. Sunshower captures him in full fusion mode—ambitious, flashy, and ready for American radio play.

The album landed on Atlantic Records during the label’s aggressive fusion push. Recorded across studios in Hollywood, Burbank, and the Netherlands between February and March 1978, it features a crack quintet: Kühn on piano, electric piano, and alto sax; the legendary Dutch guitarist Jan Akkerman (of Focus fame) bringing his unmistakable tone and fluidity; American guitarist Ray Gomez adding fire and Roland guitar synth textures; Tony Newton (formerly with Santana) on electric and piccolo bass; and drummer Glenn Symmonds holding down the pocket. Vocalist Willie Dee appears on a couple of tracks, adding a soulful layer that some listeners have found… divisive.

The music is pure late-’70s fusion exuberance. Opener “Orange Drive” struts with punchy riffs and sparkling keyboard/guitar interplay, while “O.D.” and “Preview” deliver the high-energy jazz-rock fireworks that fans came for—Akkerman and Gomez trading sizzling lines over Kühn’s driving electric piano. Mid-tempo groovers like “Shoreline” and the title track “Sunshower” offer more atmospheric breathing room with lyrical guitar and buoyant rhythms. “Short Film For Nicky” stands out as a delicate, introspective piano solo that reminds you of Kühn’s classical roots amid the electricity. The vocal tracks add a pop-soul flavor that can feel a bit dated or superfluous depending on your tolerance for 1978 studio gloss, but they never derail the instrumental momentum. It’s fusion that aims for both chops and accessibility—think a European twist on Return to Forever or Santana’s instrumental workouts.

Technically, the playing is sharp and the production (engineered by a team including Jan Schuurman and Rick Heenan) is polished to a high ’70s sheen. Kühn’s keyboards provide harmonic depth and textural sparkle, moving effortlessly between acoustic warmth and electric bite. The twin-guitar attack gives the record real bite and variety—Akkerman’s singing sustain contrasting with Gomez’s more aggressive, synth-enhanced edge—while Newton and Symmonds lock in a fat, danceable pocket. The sound is clear, dynamic, and spacious, with excellent separation that lets every solo breathe, though it occasionally leans into that era’s slightly glossy, compressed aesthetic.

The artwork embodies classic late-’70s Atlantic fusion vibes: bold, colorful photography with a sunny, slightly abstract feel that matches the album’s optimistic title. It’s not particularly groundbreaking or conceptual, but it has that warm, inviting period charm—perfect for an LP sleeve you’d spot in a record bin and think, “This looks like it might groove.”

Upon release, Sunshower earned mixed but generally positive notices in fusion circles. Some critics praised the fiery guitar work and Kühn’s versatility, while others found the vocal experiments and commercial leanings a bit too slick compared to his more avant-garde roots. It didn’t become a massive seller but found an audience among jazz-rock fans. Over time, the album has developed a quiet cult following, especially among admirers of Akkerman’s guest spots and ’70s fusion completists. Reissues on CD (including Wounded Bird) have kept it circulating, and it stands as a fun, energetic detour in Kühn’s long, shape-shifting career—a snapshot of the German pianist happily embracing the electric excesses of California before returning to more acoustic and exploratory paths.

In the end, Sunshower is Joachim Kühn letting his hair down (metaphorically) and proving he could hang with the big-league fusion crowd without losing his European elegance or improvisational spark. It may not be his most profound work, but it’s one of his most entertaining—a bright, breezy burst of late-’70s optimism that still sounds like sunshine after a rainstorm. Crank it up on a sunny afternoon and enjoy the ride.

Ike White - 1976 - Changin' Times

Ike White

1976

Changin' Times

02. Comin' Home

03. Antoinette

04. I Remember George

05. Happy Face

06. Love & Affection

Bass – Doug Rauch

Drums – Greg Errico

Guitar, Mellotron, Keyboards, Vocals – Ike White

Producer – Greg Errico, Jerry Goldstein

Changin’ Times, Ike White’s one and only album from 1976, is a startling, deeply funky soul-jazz gem that sounds far too polished and alive to have been recorded inside a California state prison—yet that’s exactly where this miracle happened, turning what could have been a tragic footnote into one of the most extraordinary underdog stories in 1970s music. At just under 40 minutes, it grooves with a mix of hope, frustration, sensuality, and spiritual yearning that feels both of its time and somehow timeless, like a man singing his way toward freedom while the walls were still very much around him.

Born Milton David White in 1945 in California, Ike White was a self-taught musical prodigy who could play guitar, keyboards, bass, and drums with natural flair. His life took a dark turn at age 19 when he was sentenced to life in prison for second-degree murder during a botched robbery. Behind bars, he poured his energy into music, eventually catching the ear of producer Jerry Goldstein (known for his work with War and connections to Jimi Hendrix and Sly Stone) through a prison concert tape featuring Eric Burdon and Jimmy Witherspoon. Goldstein, along with co-producer and drummer Greg Errico (ex-Sly & the Family Stone), arranged for a mobile recording studio to be brought into Tehachapi State Prison. The result was nothing short of miraculous: a fully realized album cut under the most unlikely circumstances imaginable.

The core team was small but mighty. Ike handled lead vocals, guitar, and keyboards with impressive versatility, while Doug Rauch (Santana) laid down rubbery, melodic bass lines and Greg Errico provided tight, swinging drums. A trio of female backup singers (including members of The Waters) added lush harmonies, and the production team brought in just enough support to make it feel expansive without losing the intimate, personal edge. Stevie Wonder, who was recording Songs in the Key of Life at the time, became a champion of the project and contributed glowing sleeve notes—high praise that helped draw attention to this most unusual debut. It was released on the L.A. International label, a short-lived imprint with ties to the Groove Merchant soul-jazz world.

Musically, Changin’ Times delivers a rich blend of soul, funk, jazz, and a touch of psychedelic edge. The title track opens with a mid-tempo, reflective groove that perfectly sets the tone of transformation and hope. “Love and Affection” became the underground dancer, a sly, funky burner complete with witty prison-themed puns and irresistible rhythmic bounce that later earned it sampling love from Ice Cube, Snoop, and others. Tracks like “Antoinette” and “I Remember George” venture into spacier, jazz-funk territory with dreamy synths and expressive guitar work that has drawn fair (if hyperbolic) Hendrix comparisons. “Comin’ Home” and “Happy Face” balance raw emotion with optimistic strut, while the whole album maintains a warm, lived-in feel that somehow transcends its confined origins. It’s music that swings between sensuality and social awareness without ever feeling forced.

Technically, the album is a triumph of ingenuity and execution. Ike’s multi-instrumental talents shine through with confident, soulful playing—his guitar tone warm and vocal-like, his keyboards adding harmonic depth and texture. Errico and Rauch form a locked-in rhythm section that drives everything with pocket and finesse, while the mobile studio setup (engineered under prison constraints) somehow captured rich, full-bodied sound with excellent separation and warmth. The production has that classic mid-’70s soul polish—fat bass, crisp drums, airy vocals, and just enough reverb to make the small ensemble feel grand. It doesn’t sound like a prison record; it sounds like a lost classic that could have sat comfortably next to Stevie, Sly, or Shuggie Otis.

The artwork is straightforward yet striking for the era: a confident, handsome portrait of White on the cover that radiates charisma and quiet intensity, paired with bold typography that hints at the “changin’ times” both personal and cultural. It avoids sensationalism about the prison backstory while still carrying an undeniable weight—simple, soulful, and perfectly matched to the music inside.

Upon release, Changin’ Times earned critical acclaim in soul and jazz circles for its quality and sheer improbability, with some hailing White as a potential superstar. Stevie Wonder’s endorsement helped, but commercial success was modest at best. White was eventually paroled in the late 1970s (thanks in part to Wonder’s advocacy), but he largely stepped away from the spotlight, living in relative obscurity until his death in 2014. A 2020 documentary, The Changin’ Times of Ike White, brought renewed attention to his story. In recent years, especially with the 2026 Record Store Day reissue, the album has gained cult status among crate-diggers, funk enthusiasts, and anyone who loves remarkable tales of resilience. Its legacy is that of a one-off masterpiece born from adversity—proof that great music can emerge from the most restrictive environments when talent and determination align.

In the end, Changin’ Times isn’t just a funky soul album—it’s a testament to the human spirit’s refusal to be caged. Ike White walked into that mobile studio wearing prison clothes and walked out (figuratively) with something timeless. It may have taken decades for the wider world to fully catch up, but this record still grooves with undeniable life, heart, and a touch of defiant joy. If you haven’t heard it yet, do yourself a favor: clear some space on the turntable and let the changin’ times roll.

George Freeman - 1975 - New Improved Funk

George Freeman

1975

New Improved Funk

01. New Improved Funk 2:26

02. Daffy 3:34

03. Happy Fingers 4:30

04. All In The Game 4:31

05. Big Finish 6:25

06. Guitar Lover Man 3:16

07. Good Morning Heartache 5:02

08. Some Enchanted Evening 5:12

09. Confirmed Truth 4:14

Bass – LeRoy Jackson (tracks: A3 to A5)

Drums – Marion Booker (tracks: A1, A2, B1 to B3), Bob Guthrie (tracks: A3 to A5)

Guitar – George Freeman

Organ – Bobby Blevins (tracks: A1, A2, B1 to B3)

Piano – John Young (tracks: A3 to A5)

Tenor Saxophone – Von Freeman

New Improved Funk, George Freeman’s 1974 Groove Merchant release (recorded in 1973), is a gloriously greasy, no-nonsense slab of Chicago soul-jazz that does exactly what it says on the tin—delivering upgraded, street-ready funk with a side order of bluesy guitar fireworks and zero interest in subtlety. At a brisk 39 minutes, it’s the kind of record that struts into the room, cracks its knuckles, and dares you not to move your shoulders.

Born in Chicago on April 10, 1927, George Freeman was a lifelong Windy City fixture who soaked up big-band swing, bebop, and the raw electric blues of his hometown like a sponge. Influences ranged from Charlie Christian and T-Bone Walker to the horn-heavy drive of players like Gene Ammons (with whom he logged serious miles) and the sophisticated soul-jazz grooves of the era. Brother to tenor titan Von Freeman and drummer Bruz Freeman, George developed a warm, singing tone on the guitar that blended jazz sophistication with blues bite and funk attitude. He’d already made his mark on sessions with everyone from Charlie Parker to Buddy Rich and Jimmy McGriff before stepping out as a leader with 1969’s Birth Sign. By the early ’70s, he was ready to get downright funky.

The album landed on Groove Merchant, one of producer Sonny Lester’s reliable soul-jazz/funk imprints that specialized in gritty, danceable grooves for the post-hard bop crowd. Recorded in New York City, it features two slightly different backing units but keeps the family DNA strong with brother Von Freeman’s unmistakable, gritty tenor saxophone lighting up several tracks. Core contributors include organist Bobby Blevins (laying down those churchy, swirling Hammond tones), bassist LeRoy Jackson, drummers Marion Booker (who once backed a young Jimi Hendrix on the chitlin’ circuit) and Bob Guthrie, and pianist John Young on select cuts. It’s a tight, telepathic crew that knows when to lock in and when to let George cook.

The music is a delightful stylistic whiplash that somehow holds together. The title track kicks things off with a punchy, riff-driven funk strut—short, sharp, and instantly hummable. “Daffy” and “Happy Fingers” showcase Freeman’s nimble, blues-inflected lines dancing over organ and rhythm, while standards like “All in the Game,” “Good Morning Heartache,” and the surprisingly swinging “Some Enchanted Evening” get the full Freeman treatment: warm chords, stinging single-note runs, and a soulful depth that elevates them beyond mere filler. Extended workouts like “Big Finish” and “Confirmed Truth” let the band stretch into deeper jazz territory, with Von’s sax and George’s guitar trading spirited blows. It’s funk that swings, soul that grooves, and jazz that never forgets where it came from—pure Chicago muscle with a wink.

Technically, Freeman’s playing is a masterclass in tasteful fire. His tone is round and vocal-like even when he’s burning, never flashy for its own sake but always melodic and rhythmic. The interplay between organ and guitar creates that classic soul-jazz warmth, while the dual-drummer setup (on different tracks) keeps the pocket fat and responsive. Sonny Lester’s production and the era’s engineering give it a punchy, present sound—the bass thumps, the organ swells richly, and George’s guitar cuts through with clarity and bite. It’s not audiophile pristine, but it feels alive, sweaty, and built for late-night spins or backyard cookouts.

The artwork perfectly captures the era’s straightforward charm: a bold, no-frills design with photography by the great Chuck Stewart, often featuring Freeman looking cool and confident alongside vibrant typography that screams “funk upgrade in progress.” It’s not trying to win design awards or cosmic conceptual points—it just looks like what it is: a solid, fun soul-jazz record ready to hit the turntable.

Upon release, New Improved Funk earned solid underground love among soul-jazz and funk fans, fitting right into Groove Merchant’s reliable catalog without setting the mainstream charts on fire. Critics like AllMusic’s Jason Ankeny dug its scattershot energy, calling it a “fun house ride” that veers wildly but ultimately delivers the best showcase of Freeman’s guitar work, held together by gutbucket grooves and Von’s fiery sax. It didn’t make George a household name, but it became a quiet favorite among crate-diggers and DJs. Its legacy has grown through sampling (tracks have popped up in hip-hop beats) and reissues, cementing its status as one of the funkiest entries in Freeman’s long discography. Even after his passing in 2025 at age 97, it remains a joyful reminder of his ability to bridge eras with style and swing.

In the end, New Improved Funk is George Freeman doing what he did best: taking familiar ingredients, adding that unmistakable Chicago seasoning, and serving up something that feels both fresh and deeply rooted. It may not be his most profound statement, but it’s one of his most enjoyable—proof that sometimes all you need is a better funk, and George was happy to deliver it with a grin and a grin-inducing solo. Spin it loud, preferably with good friends and something cold nearby.

Dry Jack - 1979 - Whale City

Dry Jack

1979

Whale City

01. Hammerhead 6:10

02. Heads In The Clouds 6:38

03. Neener Nawner (Part One) 3:22

04. Neener Nawner (Part Two) 3:55

05. Wimpy Thing 4:40

06. Butch And Bruce Go Under The Sea 5:20

07. Whale City 12:40

Drums, Percussion – Jon Margolis

Electric Bass – Rich Lamb

Electric Guitar – Rod Fleeman

Piano, Synthesizer, Clavinet – Chuck Lamb

Recorded and mixed at Secret Sound Studios, New York City, July 1979

Whale City, Dry Jack’s 1979 sophomore effort (and swan song), is a buoyant, keyboard-drenched deep dive into late-’70s jazz fusion that feels like the Midwest’s cheeky answer to Spyro Gyra and Jeff Lorber—polished, playful, and unafraid to wear its influences on its sleeve while still carving out a distinctive, good-humored identity. If Magical Elements was the band finding its sea legs, Whale City is them fully submerged and having a blast, splashing around with tighter compositions, bigger dynamic swings, and a title track that stretches like a friendly ocean giant.

Hailing from Kansas City, Missouri, Dry Jack formed in 1973 around the core of keyboardist and main composer Chuck Lamb and his brother Rich on electric bass. By the time of this album, the classic quartet was locked in: Chuck Lamb (acoustic piano, Fender Rhodes, Mini-Moog, Clavinet), Rich Lamb (bass), guitarist Rod Fleeman, and drummer/percussionist Jon Margolis. These were road-tested regional players who had gigged extensively, opened for major acts, and absorbed the fusion explosion of the era without losing that heartland sense of fun. Chuck’s writing draws from funk, rock, straight-ahead jazz, and a touch of pop accessibility—never overly serious, always grooving. The band’s name itself came from a wry comment on their early sound, and their output reflects that self-aware spirit.

Released on Inner City Records (catalog IC 1075), Whale City was recorded and mixed in July 1979 at Secret Sound Studios in New York City, produced by the band themselves, engineered by Michael Barry with assistance from Jason Corsaro, and mastered by the legendary Bob Ludwig at Masterdisk. Clocking in at a tidy 43:52, it’s a crisp, professional-sounding affair that benefits from the era’s studio polish without sacrificing warmth.

The music opens with purpose. “Hammerhead” launches with taut, driving energy—sharp guitar lines from Fleeman cutting through Lamb’s Rhodes and synth stabs, Margolis laying down a propulsive pocket that demands movement. “Heads in the Clouds” floats into more atmospheric territory with airy textures and swelling dynamics, showcasing the band’s ability to shift moods without losing cohesion. The quirky two-part “Neener Nawner” offers concise, almost sketch-like pulses that blend playfulness with intricate unisons—short but memorable palate cleansers. “Wimpy Thing” brings a lighter, funkier strut, while “Butch and Bruce Go Under the Sea” (the sole co-write with Rich Lamb) stands out as the most straight-ahead jazz moment: mid-tempo bop leanings with deft acoustic piano from Chuck and tight ensemble work that proves these fusion guys could swing convincingly.

The crown jewel is the 12-and-a-half-minute title track “Whale City,” an epic closer that evolves through multiple sections—dreamy Rhodes intros, muscular grooves, exploratory solos, and a sense of oceanic vastness that lives up to the name. It’s the kind of extended piece that rewards repeated listens, with everyone getting room to shine while the arrangements stay focused. Throughout, the interplay is telepathic: Chuck’s keyboards provide both harmonic foundation and sparkling leads, Rich’s bass lines are rubbery and melodic, Fleeman’s guitar adds rock-edged fire and fluid jazz lines, and Margolis drives it all with crisp precision and tasteful percussion accents. It’s fusion that grooves hard, thinks smart, and never takes itself too seriously.

Technically, the album shines. The playing is clean and confident, the arrangements meticulously charted yet loose enough to breathe. Bob Ludwig’s mastering gives it excellent punch and clarity: the low end is full and defined, the keyboards sparkle without harshness, the guitar cuts through nicely, and the stereo field feels wide and immersive. It’s a step up in sophistication and execution from their debut—more refined, more varied, and more memorable.

The artwork, featuring photography by Charles Reynolds and art by Michael Flanagan with liner design by Bill Shuyler, leans into that classic late-’70s fusion aesthetic—evocative oceanic or abstract imagery that matches the album’s title and vibe. Fans have praised it as particularly strong and period-appropriate, with a charm that holds up better than many of its contemporaries.

Upon release, Whale City earned positive notices in fusion circles and found a home on college and jazz radio, though like its predecessor it never achieved blockbuster status. Many listeners and retrospective reviewers consider it the stronger of the band’s two albums—tighter, more inspired, and more fully realized. It marked the end of Dry Jack’s recording career (they continued gigging into the early ’80s), but it has since cultivated a quiet cult following among fusion enthusiasts. Vinyl copies remain collectible, CD reissues brought it to new audiences, and it earns regular recommendations as a fun, overlooked gem from the tail end of the fusion boom—pop-flavored yet substantive, with enough chops to satisfy and enough hooks to entertain.

In the end, Whale City is Dry Jack at their most confident and playful peak—a buoyant love letter to the possibilities of electric jazz from a band that never forgot how to smile while stretching out. It may not have changed the course of music history, but it sure makes for a delightful swim through the warmer waters of late-’70s fusion. Drop the needle, let the whales sing, and enjoy the ride.

Dry Jack - 1978 - Magical Elements

Dry Jack

1978

Magical Elements

01. Americana Hoedown 4:32

02. Lit Spinners (A Tribute To The Pinball God, Zeftag) 3:15

03. Laurel's Dream 6:40

04. Magical Elements 6:30

05. Sunday Boogie - Nookie Stomp 6:40

06. Strollin' On Jupiter 5:15

07. Earth Daze 9:16

Drums, Percussion – John Margolis

Electric Bass – Rich Lamb

Electric Guitar – Rod Fleeman

Piano, Clavinet, Synthesizer – Chuck Lamb

Recorded at RPM Studios, N.Y.C. (October 1978).

Magical Elements, the 1979 debut by Dry Jack (often dated to its 1978 recording sessions), is a sparkling, somewhat overlooked slice of late-’70s American jazz fusion that barrels in like a Midwest tornado wrapped in Fender Rhodes sparkles and tight-as-a-drumkit pocket—proof that not every fusion band needed to relocate to New York or Los Angeles to cook up something electric and ambitious.

Formed in 1973 in Kansas City, Missouri (with ties to upstate New York scenes), the quartet coalesced around keyboardist Chuck Lamb and his brother Rich on bass. Drummer Jon Margolis climbed aboard shortly after, and guitarist Rod Fleeman completed the classic lineup by 1977. These were seasoned players who had paid dues in regional scenes, absorbing the high-flying energy of Return to Forever, the Eleventh House, Weather Report, and Mahavishnu Orchestra while filtering it through a distinctly American, heartland sensibility—less mystical incense, more wide-open prairie grooves with a wink. Chuck Lamb, the primary composer, drew from a broad palette of funk, rock, boogie, and straight-ahead jazz, naming the band after a dryly humorous patron’s quip about their sound: “That’s really dry, jack.” They shared bills with heavyweights like Pat Metheny, Freddie Hubbard, and McCoy Tyner, earning a nod in Rolling Stone’s music history as one of the cutting-edge outfits in the electric jazz wave.

The album landed on Inner City Records, a boutique label with a keen ear for fusion and progressive sounds in the post-Brexker era. Recorded in October 1978 at RPM Studios in New York City and co-produced by the band with Aimee Chiariello (engineered by Mike Barbiero, mastered by the legendary Bob Ludwig), Magical Elements clocks in at a breezy 43 minutes of mostly instrumental firepower. The core foursome—Chuck Lamb on keyboards (piano, Rhodes, Clavinet, Mini-Moog), Rich Lamb laying down rubbery bass lines, Fleeman’s agile guitar, and Margolis’ crisp, propulsive drums and percussion—handle everything with pro-level tightness and joyful flash.

The music struts with confident eclecticism right from the jump. “Americana Hoedown” kicks things off with a cheeky title that delivers: fusion meets country-funk hoedown energy, complete with twangy guitar lines and keyboard stabs that wouldn’t sound out of place at a barn dance on Jupiter. “Lit Spinners” tightens the screws into brisker, more intricate territory, while the dreamy “Laurel’s Dream” floats on lush Rhodes chords and graceful guitar. The title track delivers swirling, almost cosmic textures that live up to the name, and “Sunday Boogie-Nookie Stomp” brings the funk with a greasy, good-time strut that earns its cheeky title—pure Saturday-night-in-the-basement joy translated to vinyl. “Strollin’ On Jupiter” feels like a weightless cruise through the solar system on a low-rider bass line, and the epic closer “Earth Daze” (co-written by Lamb and Fleeman) stretches nearly ten minutes of exploratory jamming, shifting dynamics, and tight ensemble interplay that showcases just how locked-in this band could get. It’s RTF-inspired virtuosity tempered with Midwestern accessibility—no endless solo wankery, but plenty of chops on display.

Technically, the playing is sharp and the arrangements are meticulously charted without feeling stiff. Lamb’s keyboards provide both harmonic glue and textural fireworks, moving seamlessly between acoustic warmth and electric bite. Rich Lamb’s bass anchors everything with melodic flair and pocket depth, while Fleeman’s guitar work blends rock edge with jazz fluidity—think a slightly more grounded Bill Connors or early Pat Metheny influence. Margolis keeps the engine humming with dynamic precision, never overplaying but always driving. Ludwig’s mastering gives it that polished yet punchy late-’70s sheen: the low end thumps convincingly, the highs sparkle on the cymbals and synth leads, and the stereo image feels alive and separated without artificial gloss. It’s fusion that grooves hard enough for the dance floor but has enough harmonic sophistication for headphone scrutiny—flash with some genuine depth.

The artwork leans into that delightfully cheap-looking late-’70s/early-’80s fusion aesthetic: bold, somewhat dated graphic design with cosmic and elemental motifs that try a bit too hard to scream “magical” but end up charmingly earnest. It won’t win any modern design awards and might even elicit a chuckle at its dated flair, but it perfectly encapsulates the era’s optimistic, slightly naive spirit—much like the music itself.

Upon release, Magical Elements earned decent underground traction among fusion aficionados and college radio programmers, though it never broke into mainstream consciousness. Critics noted the tight execution and energetic vibe while sometimes gently chiding its adherence to established fusion tropes—“well-played but stuck in a time warp” was one retrospective take. It didn’t make Dry Jack household names (they followed up quickly with Whale City before fading), but the album has aged into quiet cult status. Vinyl hunters still snag originals for pocket change, and it gets warm recommendations in fusion circles as an essential, fun listen in the RTF vein—reissues on CD helped it reach new ears in the digital age. Its legacy is that of a spirited regional contender that captured a moment when jazz-rock still believed it could conquer the world with tight charts, big dreams, and a sense of humor.

In the end, Magical Elements isn’t trying to reinvent the wheel—it just wants to spin it at exhilarating RPMs while cracking a smile. Dry Jack may have stayed relatively dry in the history books, but this debut remains a thoroughly enjoyable, toe-tapping reminder that fusion’s golden era had room for heartland heroes who could boogie on Jupiter and still find their way home by Sunday. Spin it loud, preferably with friends and something cold to drink.

Centipede - 1971 - Septober Energy

Centipede

1971

Septober Energy

01. Septober Energy - Part 1 (21:43)

02. Septober Energy - Part 2 (23:34)

03. Septober Energy - Part 3 (21:21)

04. Septober Energy - Part 4 (18:45)

- Wendy Treacher, John Trussler, Roddy Skeaping, Carol Slater, Louise Jopling, Garth Morton, Channa Salononson, Steve Rowlandson, Mica Gomberti, Colin Kitching, Philip Saudek, Esther Burgi / violins

- Wilf Gibson / lead violin, conductor

- Michael Hurwitz, Timothy Kramer, Suki Towb, John Reese-Jones, Katherine Thulborn, Catherine Finnis / cellos

- Peter Parkes, Mick Collins, Ian Carr, Momgesi Fesa, Mark Charig / trumpet, flugelhorn, cornet

- Elton Dean, Jan Steel, Ian MacDonald, Dudu Pukuwana / Alto saxophone, Flute, Soprano saxophone

- Larry Stabbins, Gary Windo, Brian Smith, Alan Skidmore / Tenor saxophone

- Dave White, Karl Jenkins, John Willimas / Baritone saxophone, bass saxophone, oboe, clarinet

- Nick Evans, Dave Amis, Dave Perrottet, Paul Rutherford / trombon

- John Marshall, Tony Fennell, Robert Wyatt / drums, percussion

- Brian Godding / guitars

- Brian Belshaw, Roy Babbington, Jill Lyons, Harry Miller, Jeff Clyne, Dave Markee / basses

- Maggie Nicholls, Julie Tippett, Mike Patto, Zoot Money, Boz / vocals

- Keith Tippett / piano

- Robert Fripp / producer

Septober Energy, the sole recorded outing by Centipede in 1971, is a sprawling, ambitious, occasionally unhinged double-album beast that feels less like a polite jazz-prog fusion experiment and more like someone handed Keith Tippett the keys to a musical circus, a few crates of wine, and told him “go wild, mate—no one’s stopping you.” Clocking in at a hefty 85 minutes across four side-long movements, it’s the kind of record that makes you wonder whether the early ’70s British scene was fueled by pure creative optimism or just really strong tea and even stronger herbs.

Keith Tippett, born in 1947, had already established himself as a daring pianist and composer by the late 1960s, blending modern jazz, free improvisation, and rock elements in ways that made traditionalists clutch their pearls. His work with his own group and notable contributions to King Crimson (on albums like Lizard and Islands) showcased a restless spirit unafraid of grand gestures. Influences included the avant-garde edges of free jazz, the exploratory Canterbury scene, South African township rhythms via exiled musicians, and the boundary-pushing ethos of contemporaries like Soft Machine and Nucleus. Tippett didn’t just want to mix genres—he wanted to throw them into a blender with fifty friends and see what glorious (or gloriously messy) smoothie emerged. The name “Centipede” was a cheeky nod to the ensemble’s 50-ish legs (give or take a few pairs), and the project was very much a labor of love among mates rather than a calculated commercial venture.

The lineup is a who’s-who of the vibrant London underground: strings, horns, reeds, rhythm section, and voices drawn from King Crimson, Soft Machine, Nucleus, Blossom Toes, and the South African exile community. Highlights include Elton Dean (alto sax and saxello), Dudu Pukwana (alto), Ian Carr (trumpet/flugelhorn), Mongezi Feza (pocket cornet), Karl Jenkins (baritone sax/oboe), Robert Wyatt and John Marshall on drums, Roy Babbington and Harry Miller on basses, vocalists like Julie Tippett (née Driscoll), Maggie Nicols, Zoot Money, Boz Burrell, and Mike Patto, plus guitarist Brian Godding and a battalion of classical string players. Robert Fripp produced the sessions at Wessex Studios over just three intense days in June 1971, somehow wrangling the chaos into something releasable. It was issued on RCA’s Neon imprint in the UK—a major label taking a flyer on something this bonkers speaks volumes about the era’s adventurous spirit.

Musically, Septober Energy is a four-part suite that careens between tightly composed passages, loose collective improvisation, funk grooves, lyrical vocal sections (with words by Julie Tippett), roaring big-band energy, and moments of near-anarchic free blowing. Part 1 opens with brooding pedal tones before erupting into marching drums, ascending horns, and string motifs that dissolve into smaller chamber-like episodes—think Gothic cathedral meets ramshackle jazz party. Part 2 locks into a more assertive rhythmic pocket with standout solos from Ian Carr and others, while Part 4 features a gorgeous Tippett piano solo with McCoy Tyner-ish fire before settling into groove territory. It’s equal parts majestic and messy: soaring communal highs followed by sections that feel like the orchestra is politely (or not so politely) arguing in public. The South African horns bring a joyous, earthy lift, the strings add cinematic sweep (or sometimes just luxurious dissonance), and the rhythm section keeps things from floating completely into the ether. Technical execution is impressive given the scale—engineer Mike Thompson captured the massive forces with reasonable clarity, though the sheer density can occasionally turn into a glorious wall of sound. Fripp’s production keeps it from total collapse, but this is no pristine studio confection; it pulses with live, communal electricity.

The original UK artwork leans into stark, minimalist design befitting the ambitious scope—simple yet striking in a gatefold package that hints at the contained explosion inside. The US RCA version went for a more photographic, cosmic-abstract approach that feels very much of its time: dramatic, slightly trippy, and perfectly suited to an album that wants to transport you somewhere between a symphony hall, a jazz club at 3 a.m., and a very stoned picnic.

Upon release, Septober Energy earned a fair share of critical side-eye—many reviewers found it overreaching, directionless, or just too much, with the sheer size and stylistic whiplash alienating as many as it delighted. Sales were modest, and it didn’t turn Centipede into a going concern (the band played a handful of live dates before Tippett wisely retired the idea to avoid logistical insanity). Yet its reputation has grown steadily over the decades. Reissues, especially the well-remastered Esoteric and BGO editions, have brought fresh appreciation for its ambition and heart. It’s cited as an influence on everyone from Mike Oldfield (who saw a live performance and drew ideas for Tubular Bells) to later generations of boundary-pushing musicians. In prog, jazz, and avant-garde circles, it stands as a legendary “what if” monument—a flawed but magnificent testament to a time when a pianist could assemble fifty mates, book studio time, and create something that still sounds daring half a century later.

I have always had the feeling that Septober Energy reminded me of Eddie Gale’s two late-’60s Blue Note albums, Ghetto Music and Black Rhythm Happening, so let’s delve into it.

That comparison hits me every time I drop the needle on Keith Tippett’s sprawling 1971 double album. Both projects radiate this rare, almost ritualistic communal energy — the kind of music that feels less like a conventional jazz record and more like a gathering of souls trying to summon something bigger than themselves through sheer force of horns, voices, and collective will. Eddie Gale, with his background in hard bop, Sun Ra’s Arkestra, and Cecil Taylor’s fire, built his albums around a core group but exploded them outward with the large Noble Gale Singers choir. The result is raw, gospel-soaked, street-level funk fused with free jazz eruptions — marching rhythms, ecstatic call-and-response shouts, polyrhythmic layers, and a deeply spiritual yet gritty sense of Black American community and resilience.

Septober Energy, on the other hand, takes that same impulse and blows it up to almost ridiculous British proportions with a 50-plus member “orchestra” of jazz, prog, and classical players. When those massed horns, strings, and voices (including Julie Tippett and Maggie Nicols) swell into those towering, chant-like peaks, I get the exact same spine-tingling, chest-expanding rush I feel during the choral climaxes on Gale’s records. The South African exiles in Centipede (Dudu Pukwana, Mongezi Feza) bring an earthy, joyous township flavor that echoes the celebratory, parade-like spirit in Gale’s work. Both feel like spiritual revivals — Gale’s version happening on a vibrant city block, Tippett’s unfolding in a smoky London arts collective that’s equal parts symphony hall and chaotic underground happening.

Personally, I love how both reject polite small-combo restraint in favor of something sweaty, inclusive, and a little unhinged. Gale keeps things tighter and more viscerally funky, anchored in soul and gospel with a direct emotional punch. Tippett, true to form, goes gloriously overboard — why use ten musicians when fifty will do? — resulting in an 85-minute suite that careens between majestic composed passages, tender chamber moments, and free-jazz free-for-alls that can feel like the entire ensemble is joyfully arguing and then suddenly hugging it out. There’s a touch of delightful British eccentricity and prog indulgence in Septober Energy that Gale’s more grounded, streetwise fire doesn’t have, and the production (captured live-in-the-room by Robert Fripp in just three days) has a raw, chaotic beauty compared to Rudy Van Gelder’s punchier clarity on the Blue Note sides.

At the end of the day, the resemblance isn’t note-for-note but spiritual. Both capture that late-’60s/early-’70s hunger for large-scale, boundary-smashing ensemble music that blends jazz, improvisation, folk elements, and a deep yearning for transcendence and community. Eddie Gale delivers the fiery, heartfelt sermon from the streets; Keith Tippett builds a slightly wobbly but magnificent progressive-jazz cathedral around the same idea. Whenever I listen to Septober Energy, it reinforces why that connection has always stuck with me — both albums make me feel like I’m witnessing something alive, hopeful, messy, and profoundly human. They’re not easy or casual listens, but when they hit those ecstatic peaks, they remind me exactly why this kind of audacious music still matters.

In the end, Septober Energy isn’t an easy listen or a casual spin—it’s a commitment, a wild ride, and a glorious middle finger to restraint. Keith Tippett and his Centipede didn’t just aim high; they built a wobbly ladder out of every available instrument in 1971 London and climbed it anyway. The result is messy, magnificent, and utterly unforgettable. If you’ve got the stamina (and perhaps a stiff drink), dive in. Just don’t expect it to behave.

Buster Williams - 1975 - Pinnacle

Buster Williams 

1975

Pinnacle

01. The Hump 11:26

02. Noble Ego 6:52

03. Pinnacle 4:41

04. Tayamisha 6:29

05. Batuki 14:10

Bass Clarinet – Earl Turbinton (tracks: A1, A3)

Bass [Fender] – Buster Williams (tracks: A1)

Double Bass [Acoustic Bass] – Buster Williams

Drums – Billy Hart

Electric Piano – Onaje Allan Gumbs

Flute – Sonny Fortune (tracks: B2)

Flute [Alto] – Sonny Fortune (tracks: A3, B1)

Percussion – Guilherme Franco

Piano – Onaje Allan Gumbs

Soprano Saxophone – Earl Turbinton (tracks: A3, B1,B2), Sonny Fortune (tracks: A1, A3)

Synthesizer [Arp String Ensemble] – Onaje Allan Gumbs

Synthesizer [Moog] – Onaje Allan Gumbs

Trumpet – Woody Shaw (tracks: A3, B2)

Vocals – Buster Williams (tracks: A3), Marcus (36) (tracks: A2, A3), Suzanne Klewan (tracks: A2, A3)

Recorded at Blue Rock Studios, New York City August 6,7,11,14, 1975

Pinnacle, Buster Williams' 1975 debut as a leader, stands as a shimmering, under-the-radar gem from the golden era of 1970s jazz exploration—a record that somehow manages to feel both deeply rooted in tradition and blissfully untethered from it.

Born Charles Anthony Williams in 1942 in Camden, New Jersey, Buster grew up literally surrounded by bass. His father, Charles Sr., was a working musician who rehearsed at home and passed on gigs to his son in the late 1950s. Young Buster cut his teeth with Gene Ammons, backed vocal greats like Sarah Vaughan and Nancy Wilson, and logged serious miles with the Jazz Crusaders on the West Coast. But it was his time anchoring Herbie Hancock’s legendary Mwandishi ensemble (where he went by the Swahili name Mchezaji, meaning “player”) that truly defined his profile in the early ’70s. That band’s heady mix of post-bop, electronics, African rhythms, and cosmic ambition left an indelible mark. Williams, ever the humble team player with a deep Nichiren Buddhist practice, didn’t rush into the spotlight. He waited until the right moment—and the right label.

That label was Muse Records, a respected independent run by Joe Fields that had already hosted some of Williams’ sideman dates. Recorded over several days in August 1975 at Blue Rock Studios in New York (a space with impressive pedigree, designed by the same folks behind Electric Lady), Pinnacle was produced by Williams’ manager Elliot Meadow. The core band included Mwandishi drummer Billy Hart (“Jabali”), the versatile Onaje Allan Gumbs on keys and synths, Brazilian percussionist Guilherme Franco for those swirling polyrhythmic spices, and a formidable reed section featuring Sonny Fortune and Earl Turbinton (the latter on soprano and bass clarinet). Guests like trumpeter Woody Shaw and vocalists Suzanne Klewan and “Marcus” (Jon Lucien under alias) rounded out a lineup that could swing from street-funk to spiritual ether without breaking a sweat.

The music itself is a masterclass in controlled eclecticism. Opener “The Hump” launches with Williams’ funky Fender bassline locked into an odd meter, Gumbs laying down spacey Rhodes and Moog washes, Franco’s percussion dancing like fireflies, and the reeds (Fortune’s soprano and Turbinton’s bass clarinet) trading swaggering, almost vocalized lines. It’s got that post-Head Hunters commercial edge but refuses to dumb down—think Mwandishi with a wink and a groove you can actually nod your head to without needing a star chart. “Noble Ego” shifts into more incantatory territory with gospel-tinged vocals and a powerful bass solo from the leader, while the brief title track “Pinnacle” is pure mesmerism: a winding, vocal-scat melody (Williams himself contributes) floating over lush percussion and keys, with Shaw’s trumpet cutting through like a beacon. “Tayamisha,” named for his daughter, brings a lighter, swinging feel with playful soprano and piano touches—proof that even in fusion mode, Williams never forgot how to make the bass sing. Closer “Batuki” (by Gumbs) is the epic, a 14-minute suite that evolves through post-bop, exotic textures, flute, and trumpet, giving everyone room to stretch while Williams’ acoustic bass anchors it all with that signature warm, elastic tone.

Technically, the playing is impeccable yet never clinical. Williams’ bass work—both upright and electric—combines rhythmic precision with melodic invention; he’s not just holding it down but actively shaping the harmonic and textural landscape. The interplay between Hart’s drums and Franco’s percussion creates a buoyant, multi-layered pocket that feels organic rather than programmed. Gumbs channels some Hancock spirit on the synths without imitation, and the reed players evoke Bennie Maupin’s textural role in Mwandishi while adding their own fire. Engineer Eddie Korvin captured it all with beautiful depth: the low-end is rich and present, the highs sparkle without harshness, and the stereo field feels alive and three-dimensional. It’s fusion that still breathes acoustic air.

The artwork, photographed by Price Givens, perfectly captures the era’s spiritual-jazz vibe: a striking, somewhat enigmatic cover image that feels cosmic yet grounded, often evoking the album’s blend of introspection and outward groove. The classic Muse-era design (reissued beautifully in tip-on jackets for modern vinyl) has that warm, slightly mysterious 1970s aesthetic—nothing flashy, but it draws you in like the music itself.

Upon release, Pinnacle earned favorable reviews and solid radio play, fitting neatly into the diverse jazz landscape of the mid-’70s where independents thrived and spiritual/fusion hybrids found audiences. It didn’t catapult Williams into full-time leadership (he remained a first-call sideman for decades), but it quietly built a cult following. Its legacy has only grown, especially through hip-hop sampling—“The Hump” and the title track found new life in tracks by A Tribe Called Quest and Showbiz & AG, introducing the grooves to fresh generations. Reissues, including a stellar 2026 Time Traveler/Craft edition, have brought renewed acclaim, with critics praising its exemplary playing, lush sonics, and bridge between Mwandishi’s cosmic experiments and more accessible soul-jazz.

In the end, Pinnacle isn’t just a debut—it’s a statement of quiet mastery. Buster Williams didn’t need to shout to reach the top; he simply laid down a foundation so solid and inventive that the music still climbs toward its namesake heights today. If you haven’t spun it, do yourself a favor: it’s one of those records that rewards deep listening while happily grooving in the background, proving once again that the best bassists often make the highest peaks feel effortless.

Cha Cha Shaw - 1979 - Kingdom Come

Cha Cha Shaw

1979 

Kingdom Come

01. Melted Soul
02. Kid Zaro
03. Right On
04. Chain Re-Action
05. Mr. Zip
06. Postage Paid

Alto Saxophone – Brian Ross 
Bass – Frank Clayton, Ronnie Bykin
Congas – Betsy
Drums – Art Blakeley Jr., Toe Joe 
Flute [Bag Flute] – Charles Cha Cha Shaw
Guitar – James Greggo, Tom Lee Harris
Piano – Billy Lyles, Zeid Alleem
Tenor Saxophone – Glenn Spears
Trumpet, Flugelhorn – Charles Cha Cha Shaw


The title Kingdom Come came about as a result of Vivian and Cha-Cha thinking one night about this album. How it would fit into their lives and relate ot other people's. I thought this music would dance and talk to God and people at the same time. And I hope this title will help Cha-Cha's Image and other people as well. He would like to dedicate this album to our newborn baby. Cha-cha would like to thanks each and all the musicians for their help with these songs.

Written by Mrs. Vivian L. Shaw

Kingdom Come, Charles “Cha Cha” Shaw’s 1979 sophomore effort for Folkways Records (often dated to late ’70s sessions but carrying that quintessential 1975–76 spiritual jazz energy in spirit), is a delightfully oddball, soul-drenched slice of post-bop and free-tinged exploration that feels like it was recorded in a Harlem church basement after the Sunday service turned into an all-night cosmic jam. With its short, punchy opener giving way to extended modal workouts and quirky originals, the album is equal parts streetwise and skyward-gazing—think a slightly tipsy Sun Ra sideman who decided to lead his own modest Arkestra instead of chasing interstellar overkill. It’s warm, textural, and unpretentious, the kind of record that sneaks up on you with its funky spirituality while making you chuckle at how joyfully it refuses to fit neatly into any one box.

Born Charles Shaw in New York, Cha Cha earned his colorful nickname through his energetic, danceable approach to the trumpet and a personality that lit up any bandstand. A working-class trumpet-for-hire in the city’s bustling scene, he cut his teeth contributing to sessions with heavyweights like Curtis Mayfield, The Temptations, and even brushing shoulders with the spirit of Coltrane’s circle. By the mid-1970s, like many of his peers, Shaw was drawn to the spiritual jazz underground—seeking deeper expression beyond straight-ahead bop or commercial soul. His debut Into Morning (1976, also on Folkways) established him as a thoughtful leader blending post-bop lyricism with freer explorations. Influences pour in from Miles Davis’ modal periods, the fiery spirituality of Pharoah Sanders and Alice Coltrane, the earthy grooves of the New York loft scene, and a healthy dose of gospel and funk from his sideman days. Shaw’s voice on the horn is passionate yet approachable—never overly austere, always ready to swing or soar.

Released on the venerable Folkways Records (FTS 32870, later reissued by Smithsonian Folkways and Kindred Spirits), Kingdom Come perfectly embodied the label’s mission of documenting authentic, non-commercial American creative expression. Moe Asch’s imprint was a safe haven for eccentric jazz voices that major labels wouldn’t touch—raw, cultural, and often spiritually charged. The core ensemble is a loose, soulful collective: Shaw handles trumpet, flugelhorn, and the delightfully eccentric “bag flute” (adding quirky, breathy textures). Ronnie Boykins (famed Sun Ra bassist) anchors the low end with his deep, resonant tone, while Art Blakey Jr. (yes, the drummer’s son) brings propulsive, swinging energy to the kit alongside Toe Joe on additional percussion duties. Brian Ross contributes alto saxophone for some sharp, conversational interplay, with Frank Clayton and others filling out the bass and conga roles. It’s a small-group setup that feels communal and lived-in rather than rigidly arranged.

The album kicks off with the brief, atmospheric “Melted Soul,” a warm-up that melts into the nearly 11-minute “Kid Zaro,” a sprawling modal journey where Shaw’s flugelhorn lines dance over Boykins’ hypnotic bass ostinatos and punchy drumming. “Right On” delivers exactly what the title promises—a groovy, affirmative strut with call-and-response horns and a churchy fervor that’ll have you nodding along. “Chain Re-action” tightens things up with more boppish energy, while the extended “Mr. Zip” stretches out into freer, more abstract territory laced with psychedelic edges. Closer “Postage Paid” wraps it up on a concise, funky note. All tracks are Shaw originals, showcasing his gift for memorable heads that serve as launchpads for collective improvisation rather than mere vehicles for solos.

Technically, the music is a masterclass in controlled looseness. Shaw’s trumpet tone is bright and vocal, capable of tender lyricism on flugelhorn or more assertive, searching cries when the spirit moves. The rhythm section creates deep, infectious pockets—Boykins’ bass is a warm, woody presence that grounds the flights of fancy, while the drums and percussion add tactile, hand-drum-infused swing. There’s plenty of space and dialogue; solos feel like conversations at a family reunion rather than academic exercises. The Folkways recording captures a natural, roomy sound with good separation for the era—intimate yet alive, letting every breath, valve click, and cymbal splash breathe without artificial gloss. It’s spiritual jazz with a funky, street-level heartbeat: post-bop foundations meeting free excursions and gospel soul, all delivered with a wink and a grin rather than solemn piety. If Horace Silver had wandered into a Sun Ra rehearsal and everyone decided to keep it relatively short and groovy, something like this might emerge.

The artwork, true to Folkways form, leans into straightforward, almost homemade vibes—bold lettering, perhaps a striking photo or symbolic illustration of Shaw and the ensemble that radiates quiet pride and spiritual intent. No flashy gatefolds or psychedelic explosions here; it’s earnest, culturally rooted, and inviting in that documentary-style way that says “this is real music from real people,” perfectly suiting the album’s unpretentious charm.

Upon its quiet 1979 release, Kingdom Come didn’t exactly storm the charts or get heavy rotation on commercial radio—Folkways releases thrived in libraries, universities, and among dedicated jazz seekers rather than the masses. Contemporary notices were sparse but appreciative of its soulful eccentricity, while retrospective love from crate-diggers, reissue labels, and spiritual jazz enthusiasts has grown steadily. Critics and connoisseurs praise its warm grooves, genuine feeling, and refusal to overstay its welcome. In the broader landscape, it stands as a charming under-the-radar gem from the late-’70s New York scene. Its legacy is that of a humble beacon: proof that profound, spiritually charged music could be made on modest budgets by working musicians with big hearts and curious ears. For Cha Cha Shaw, it captures a vital chapter in a career that balanced sideman reliability with personal vision. Decades later, reissues have introduced it to new generations who appreciate its textural warmth and joyful exploration. Kingdom Come may not be the loudest voice in the spiritual jazz choir, but it’s one of the most endearing—inviting you to melt into its soul and come out the other side a little more right on. Dig deep; the kingdom is groovy.

Charles Cha Cha Shaw - 1976 - Into Morning

Charles Cha Cha Shaw

1976

Into Morning

01. Eternal

02. K.Z.

03. Jugetty

04. Super Slik

Bass – Ronnie Boykins

Percussion – Art Blakey Jr.

Piano, Guitar – Billy Lyles

Tenor Saxophone – Brian Ross

Trumpet, Flugelhorn – Charles Cha Cha Shaw

Into Morning, Charles “Cha Cha” Shaw’s 1976 debut album on Folkways Records, is a warm, introspective, and occasionally fiery plunge into spiritual-tinged post-bop that feels like a sunrise jam session in a Harlem loft—intimate enough to hear every breath, ambitious enough to reach for the cosmos, and funky enough to keep your toes tapping while your soul does the heavy lifting. Clocking in with just four extended tracks, it’s the kind of record that rewards deep listening without demanding you sit in lotus position or burn incense (though both are encouraged). In an era when spiritual jazz was exploding in all directions, Shaw delivered something personal, grounded, and refreshingly unpretentious—like a working-class trumpet player who’d paid his dues on pop sessions deciding it was time to chase enlightenment on his own terms.

Born in New York, Charles “Cha Cha” Shaw earned his nickname from his lively, rhythmic approach to the horn and a personality that could light up any bandstand. A versatile sideman, he had already lent his trumpet to heavyweights like Curtis Mayfield, The Temptations, and even sessions linked to the Coltrane circle and Rashied Ali. By the mid-1970s, like many of his generation, he was drawn to the spiritual jazz underground, seeking deeper expression beyond commercial gigs. His influences blend Miles Davis’ modal elegance, the searching spirituality of John Coltrane and Pharoah Sanders, the earthy loft-scene energy of New York’s underground, and plenty of gospel and soul from his pop/R&B background. Shaw’s trumpet voice is bright, vocal, and expressive—technically strong yet full of heart, never afraid to stretch out or get a little gritty.

Released on the iconic Folkways Records (FTS 32863), Into Morning fits perfectly into the label’s mission of capturing authentic, non-commercial American creativity. Moe Asch’s imprint was a haven for voices too quirky or deep for major labels, and this was one of their rare modern jazz outings in the 1970s. The core group is a tight yet loose collective of fellow travelers: Shaw on trumpet and flugelhorn, the legendary Ronnie Boykins (Sun Ra’s longtime bassist) laying down deep, resonant foundations, Art Blakey Jr. on percussion bringing swinging family pedigree energy, Brian Ross on tenor saxophone for sharp, conversational interplay, and Billy Lyles contributing piano and guitar for harmonic warmth and texture. It’s a small-group setup that feels communal and lived-in, like friends turning a rehearsal into something transcendent.

The album opens with the title track “Eternal” (10:53), a glowing, expansive modal journey that lets Shaw’s flugelhorn sing long, lyrical lines over Boykins’ hypnotic bass and subtle percussion. It sets the spiritual tone without pretension—searching yet welcoming. “K.Z.” tightens things with more rhythmic drive and some post-bop edge, while the epic “Jugetty” (over 11 minutes) stretches into freer, more impassioned territory, full of call-and-response horns and building intensity. Closer “Super Slik” brings a groovier, almost funky strut that showcases the group’s versatility and Shaw’s knack for memorable heads that launch extended improvisations. All compositions are Shaw originals, highlighting his gifts as both melodist and conceptual leader.

Technically and sonically, Into Morning is a masterclass in organic small-group jazz. Shaw’s tone is clear and projective—capable of tender lyricism on flugelhorn or more assertive, crying statements on trumpet—while his improvisations balance technique with genuine emotional depth. The rhythm section creates a buoyant, breathing pocket: Boykins’ bass is a warm anchor, the percussion adds tactile swing, and Lyles’ piano/guitar provides just enough harmonic color without crowding. There’s real dialogue happening; solos emerge naturally from the collective rather than feeling like spotlight turns. The Folkways recording has that classic natural, roomy quality—intimate and present, with good separation that lets every nuance breathe. It’s spiritual jazz with post-bop roots and a soulful heartbeat: introspective yet energetic, avant-leaning without losing the groove. If a young Woody Shaw had crashed a Sun Ra Arkestra rehearsal but everyone agreed to keep things relatively earthly and swinging, something like this might result.

The artwork, designed by Ronald Clyne, embodies classic Folkways minimalism—straightforward, earnest, and culturally proud, with bold lettering and imagery that feels handmade and intentional. No cosmic gatefold explosions or flashy graphics; it radiates quiet dignity and says “this is real music by real people exploring something deeper,” perfectly matching the album’s unflashy sincerity.

Upon its 1976 release, Into Morning remained a quiet affair—typical for Folkways, it found its audience through libraries, educators, jazz collectors, and word-of-mouth rather than radio play or charts. Contemporary reviews were limited but appreciative of its soulful depth, while retrospective praise from spiritual jazz fans, crate-diggers, and reissue enthusiasts has grown warmer over the decades. Critics laud its balance of accessibility and exploration, Shaw’s strong trumpet work, and the genuine feeling that permeates every track. In a crowded field of 1970s spiritual jazz heavyweights, it stands as a charming, under-the-radar gem.

Its legacy is that of a humble but heartfelt debut: proof that a working musician with big ears and spiritual hunger could carve out something personal and lasting on a shoestring budget in the underground. For Cha Cha Shaw, it launched a small but meaningful discography (including the follow-up Kingdom Come) and captured him at a vital creative peak. Reissues on Smithsonian Folkways and independent labels have introduced it to new generations who crave authentic, warm-toned jazz with soul. Into Morning may not shout the loudest in the spiritual jazz pantheon, but it glows with quiet conviction—inviting you to ease into its world and emerge refreshed, maybe even a little more eternal. If you’re digging through the crates for hidden treasures, this one’s worth waking up early for. The morning is groovy, and the journey feels just right.

Jerome Cooper - 1988 - Outer and Interactions

Jerome Cooper

1988

Outer and Interactions

01. Moments 9:48

02. Outer And Interactions 10:35

03. Monk Funk 4:24

04. The Hteb Of Hanavel 13:03

05. The Crouch Opinion 6:14

06. Arcunum II 3:38

Bass – William Parker

Drums – Thurman Barker

Drums, Oboe, Balafon, Flute, Percussion, Frame Drum, – Jerome Cooper

Tenor Saxophone, Flute – Joseph Jarman

Violin – Jason Hwang

Recorded at Acoustilog, New York, February 1987, 24-track Dolby.

Mixed at A&R Studios, New York, August 1987, Mitsubishi X-80 digital

Outer and Interactions, Jerome Cooper’s 1988 quintet date on the independent About Time label, is a sparkling, rhythm-drenched adventure in late-’80s creative jazz that feels like a secret society meeting where everyone brought their most eclectic instruments and a shared love of swinging while bending the rules. Recorded in February 1987 but released the following year, this album crackles with joy, precision, and playful invention—less a stern avant-garde lecture and more like a lively family reunion where the relatives just happen to include AACM heavyweights and downtown visionaries. At under 50 minutes across six tracks, it strikes a perfect balance: challenging enough to keep your brain engaged, funky and melodic enough to keep your body moving. In short, it’s one of those delightful “how did I not know about this sooner?” records that rewards both casual spins and deep immersion.

Born in Chicago in 1946, Jerome Cooper was a multi-dimensional percussionist, drummer, and multi-instrumentalist whose career embodied the spirit of creative freedom. He studied under legendary educators like Walter Dyett, absorbed the rich Chicago scene of the 1960s, and later became a key member of the Revolutionary Ensemble alongside Leroy Jenkins and Sirone—one of the most important and long-running collectives in free jazz. Cooper lived in Europe for a spell, absorbing global influences, and brought an unusually broad palette to the kit: trap drums, balafon, chirimia (a double-reed wind instrument), flutes, and various percussion. Influences included Art Blakey’s fiery spirit, the AACM’s boundary-pushing ethos, pre-Columbian rhythms, and a deep respect for melody and groove even in free contexts. He was known for rigorous precision paired with infectious joy, never content to merely keep time but always sculpting soundscapes.

Released on About Time Records (AT-1008), a small but vital New York imprint dedicated to adventurous yet accessible creative music, Outer and Interactions captures Cooper leading a dream quintet. The lineup is stellar: Joseph Jarman (of the Art Ensemble of Chicago) on tenor saxophone and flute, Jason Hwang on violin, William Parker on bass, and Thurman Barker on additional drums and percussion. Cooper himself handles drums, chirimia, balafon, flutes, and more percussion, creating a rich, layered ensemble texture that feels both orchestral and intimate. Recorded at Acoustilog in New York with engineering by David Baker, it’s a studio date that retains the spontaneous spark of live interaction.

The album opens with the glowing “Moments,” a nearly 10-minute excursion full of shifting rhythms and lyrical horn lines. The title track “Outer and Interactions” expands into a spacious, conversational epic where everyone gets room to breathe and dance. “Monk Funk” delivers exactly what the cheeky title suggests—a grooving, quirky tribute to Thelonious that somehow makes diaper-changing inspiration (as Cooper once noted) sound profound and swinging. The side-long “The Hteb of Hanavel” stretches out into more exploratory territory with balafon and chirimia adding exotic, earthy colors, while “The Crouch Opinion” and the brief closer “Arcunum II” wrap things up with tight interplay and melodic grace. All compositions are by Cooper, showcasing his gift for structures that feel both composed and freely unfolding.

Technically, the music is a masterclass in collective listening and multi-layered rhythm. Cooper’s drumming is crisp, propulsive, and full of subtle detail—never overbearing, always supportive—while his balafon and chirimia bring glowing, otherworldly textures that lift the music into truly “outer” realms. Jarman’s sax is passionate and vocal, Hwang’s violin adds string shimmer and folk-like expressivity, Parker’s bass provides deep, singing foundation, and Barker’s second drum kit creates a rolling, conversational percussion bed. The result is avant-garde jazz that’s decidedly funky and melodic—challenging without being abrasive, spiritual without solemnity. The recording is clear and natural, with excellent separation that lets every percussion nuance and instrumental conversation shine through. It’s like the Revolutionary Ensemble decided to throw a party and invited the whole creative music village.

The artwork, featuring a cover drawing by Beth Cummins and design by Judith Ziegler, has that classic late-’80s independent jazz feel—thoughtful, slightly abstract, and warm rather than cold or corporate. It radiates quiet creativity and cultural depth without flashy psychedelia, perfectly mirroring the album’s blend of inner reflection and outward exploration.

Upon its 1988 release, Outer and Interactions flew somewhat under the radar in a jazz world increasingly split between smooth fusion and hardcore free blowing, but it earned deep respect from those who found it. Critics like Brian Olewnick have called it one of the finer group recordings of the late ’80s avant scene—tightly performed, melodic, propulsive, and full of incisive details—while later writers praise its joyful, funky defiance of easy categorization. Retrospective love from crate-diggers and creative music fans has only grown.

Its legacy is that of a hidden gem in Jerome Cooper’s too-small discography as a leader. It stands as a beautiful bridge between the ’70s collective ethos and the ’80s downtown/New York creative explosion, showcasing a musician who could lead with both precision and playfulness. For fans of William Parker, Joseph Jarman, or the broader AACM/creative music continuum, it’s essential listening—proof that avant-garde jazz can swing, sing, and smile all at once. Jerome Cooper passed in 2015, but Outer and Interactions remains a vibrant testament to his multi-textured vision. Dig it up, turn it up, and let the outer interactions pull you right in. The funk is deep, the moments are magical, and the kingdom of creative rhythm is wide open.

Sam Rivers - 1975 - Hues

Sam Rivers 

1975

Hues

01. Amber 4:26

02. Turquoise 4:01

03. Rose 5:13

04. Chartreuse 3:17

05. Mauve 4:17

06. Indigo 1:28

07. Onyx 4:04

08. Topaz 4:02

09. Ivory Black 4:13

10. Violet 5:48

Sam Rivers - soprano saxophone, tenor saxophone, flute, piano

rild Andersen (track 7 & 8), Richard Davis (tracks 5 & 6), Cecil McBee (track 1–4, 9 & 10) - bass

Barry Altschul (tracks 7–10), Norman Connors (tracks 1–4), Warren Smith (tracks 5 & 6) - drums, percussion

Recorded at The Jazz Workshop in Boston, Massachusetts, on February 13 (tracks 1–3) & 14 (track 4), 1971, at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan, on October 27, 1972 (tracks 5 & 6), at the Molde Jazz Festival in Molde, Norway, on August 3, 1973 (tracks 7 & 8), and at Battell Chapel, Yale University in New Haven, Connecticut, on November 10, 1973 (track 9 & 10)

Hues, Sam Rivers’ 1975 Impulse! release, is a vibrant, shape-shifting live mosaic of free-spirited improvisation that feels like someone spilled a rainbow of musical paint across a trio stage and then decided to conduct the resulting chaos with pure genius. Compiled from performances between 1971 and 1973, the album colors its way through nine relatively concise tracks (by Rivers standards), each named after a hue, creating a conceptual through-line that’s equal parts clever and trippy. It’s energetic, multi-instrumental, and unapologetically adventurous—think a one-man avant-garde carnival where the ringmaster keeps switching instruments mid-act while the rhythm section tries to keep up without falling off the tightrope. In the wild landscape of early-’70s free jazz, Hues stands as a more accessible, almost playful entry point into Rivers’ world: less marathon than his epic Streams, but every bit as colorful and alive.

Born in 1923 in Oklahoma and raised in Chicago and Little Rock, Samuel Carthorne Rivers was a towering figure whose life read like a jazz epic. Son of gospel musicians, he studied at the Boston Conservatory, served in the Navy, and emerged as a multi-instrumentalist (tenor and soprano sax, flute, piano) with a voracious appetite for both structure and freedom. He gained early notice with Miles Davis in 1964, contributed to landmark Blue Note dates, and by the 1970s had become a central force in New York’s loft jazz scene via his Studio Rivbea. Rivers was deeply influenced by the bebop foundations of Bird and Diz, the harmonic daring of Coltrane and Ornette Coleman, classical modernism, and the raw emotional power of the Black church and blues. His playing and composing were defined by “spontaneous creativity”—dense, intricate lines that could pivot from lyrical beauty to ferocious energy in a heartbeat. He was a true polymath: composer, bandleader, educator, and tireless advocate for creative music.

Released on the mighty Impulse! Records (AS 9302), the label that had become synonymous with adventurous post-Coltrane jazz, Hues captured Rivers during a fertile period of live experimentation. The album draws from various trio performances, primarily featuring a rotating cast of superb rhythm partners: bassists Cecil McBee, Richard Davis, and Arild Andersen; drummers/percussionists Norman Connors, Barry Altschul, and Warren Smith. Rivers himself handles tenor and soprano saxophones, flute, and piano across the tracks, showcasing his remarkable versatility. These were not fixed groups but inspired collaborators who fed off Rivers’ restless energy in real time.

The tracklist unfolds like a painter’s palette: “Amber,” “Turquoise,” “Rose,” “Chartreuse,” “Mauve,” “Indigo,” “Onyx,” “Topaz,” and “Ivory Black” (with “Violet” sometimes rounding things out). These are mostly shorter, focused improvisations rather than the 40-minute epics Rivers could unleash. “Mauve” and “Indigo,” for instance, highlight the trio’s ability to generate heat and nuance in compact spaces, while pieces featuring flute or piano offer textural contrast. The music flows with Rivers’ signature density—intricate themes, sudden shifts in dynamics, and a conversational interplay that makes every performance feel like a living organism. It’s free jazz with memory: rooted in blues, swing, and melody even as it ventures into the unknown.

Technically, Hues is a showcase of controlled exuberance. Rivers’ tenor sound is robust and vocal, his soprano more piercing and bird-like, while his flute brings airy lyricism and his piano offers percussive, orchestral depth. The rhythm sections provide both anchor and propulsion—McBee and Davis deliver rich, singing bass lines, while the drummers supply loose, responsive fire without overwhelming the leader. Recorded live, the sound has that raw Impulse! presence: roomy, dynamic, and full of air, though some tracks carry the inevitable inconsistencies of different venues and lineups. It’s avant-garde music that still grooves, spiritual without solemnity, and intellectually rigorous without losing its sense of play. If Coltrane’s Ascension had been broken into bite-sized, rainbow-colored fragments and performed by a mischievous genius, this might be the joyful result.

The artwork, in classic Impulse! fashion, leans into bold, colorful minimalism—vibrant hues against a stark background that visually echoes the album’s conceptual hook. It has that unmistakable orange-and-black Impulse! spine energy, with photography and design that feel both modern and timeless, signaling “serious creative music” without alienating the eye. It’s inviting yet abstract, perfectly suiting Rivers’ blend of accessibility and experimentation.

Upon its 1975 release, Hues earned respectful notices in the jazz press as a strong, varied document of Rivers’ live prowess, though it never became a massive seller in a market increasingly divided between fusion and pure free blowing. Critics appreciated the multi-instrumental range and the album’s relatively digestible format compared to some of his longer works. Over the decades, retrospective love has grown among connoisseurs of ’70s creative music, with many praising it as an excellent introduction to Rivers’ trio magic and a vibrant snapshot of his restless creativity.

Its legacy is that of a colorful bridge in Sam Rivers’ remarkable career—connecting his Blue Note roots to the loft scene explosions and later big-band explorations. It remains a favorite for listeners who want free jazz with groove, melody, and a sense of fun rather than unrelenting intensity. In an era when Rivers’ vast catalog is being rediscovered through reissues and archival digs, Hues stands as a bright, multifaceted gem: proof that even in the avant-garde, there’s room for every color of the musical rainbow. Dig into these hues and you’ll come out the other side a little more vibrant yourself. The man didn’t just play jazz—he painted with it.