Clifford Jordan - 1975 - Night Of The Mark VII

Clifford Jordan

1975

Night Of The Mark VII

01. John Coltrane 7:45

02. Highest Mountain 6:02

03. Blue Monk 7:20

04. Midnight Waltz 10:49

05. One For Amos 10:53

Bass – Sam Jones

Drums – Billy Higgins

Piano – Cedar Walton

Tenor Saxophone – Clifford Jordan

Recorded: Paris, France, March 26, 1975

Night of the Mark VII, the Clifford Jordan Quartet’s 1975 live recording (released on Muse Records), is a swinging, soulful slice of hard bop heaven captured in Paris that sounds like four old friends decided to turn a nightclub into a masterclass while the audience quietly lost its mind. It’s the kind of album that makes you wonder why more jazz wasn’t recorded in Parisian clubs in the ’70s—apparently the wine and existential vibes did wonders for the swing. Clocking in at a brisk 43 minutes across five tracks, this isn’t some sprawling free-jazz odyssey; it’s tight, muscular post-bop with spiritual undertones, delivered by a supergroup that treats every solo like a conversation worth eavesdropping on. And yes, the “Mark VII” refers to Jordan’s shiny new Selmer saxophone model, giving the whole affair a cheeky “new horn, new attitude” energy.

Born in 1931 in Chicago, Clifford Jordan (sometimes called “Cliff”) was a tenor saxophonist who embodied the Windy City’s hard-blowing tradition while developing a distinctive, slightly husky tone and a flexible, storytelling style. He came up in the fertile Chicago scene alongside figures like John Gilmore and Von Freeman, cut his teeth on early classics like Blowing In from Chicago with Gilmore, and later became a reliable sideman and leader in New York. Jordan worked with everyone from Horace Silver and Max Roach to Charles Mingus, always bringing a grounded yet searching quality to his playing. By the 1970s, he was in a particularly rich creative period, leading strong small groups and channeling influences from Sonny Rollins’ rhythmic vitality, John Coltrane’s spiritual depth, Thelonious Monk’s angularity, and the soulful hard bop of the Blue Note and Prestige eras. He never chased fusion trends or went fully avant-garde; instead, he doubled down on swinging, honest jazz with heart and intellect.

Night of the Mark VII was recorded live on March 26, 1975, in Paris (originally for Dolphy Productions) and released on the Muse label (MR 5076), one of the key independent homes for soulful, straight-ahead jazz in the 1970s when major labels were chasing fusion dollars. Muse specialized in giving veteran players room to breathe, and this date is a perfect example. The quartet is pure dream-team material: Clifford Jordan on tenor saxophone (that fresh Mark VII model cutting with extra authority), Cedar Walton on piano (whose hard-driving, bluesy comping and solos often threaten to steal the show), Sam Jones on bass (rock-solid and melodic), and Billy Higgins on drums (the epitome of loose, dancing swing). This rhythm section—veterans of countless classic sessions—locks in with telepathic ease, turning the live setting into an intimate yet explosive chamber.

The set opens with Bill Lee’s “John Coltrane,” a hypnotic, modal tribute that lets Jordan stretch out with searching, Coltrane-inflected lines while the rhythm section builds a deep, rolling groove. Jordan’s original “Highest Mountain” climbs with purposeful intensity, full of triumphant peaks. Thelonious Monk’s “Blue Monk” gets a joyous, stomping workout that honors the master’s quirky spirit without imitation. Things get waltzy (and slightly swapped in titling on some pressings) with Cedar Walton’s “Midnight Waltz” and Sam Jones’ “One for Amos,” both extended workouts that showcase the group’s ability to sustain interest across long tracks through interplay rather than showboating. The music blends hard bop fire, modal exploration, and a touch of spiritual uplift—earthy yet elevated.

Technically, the playing is superb. Jordan’s tenor has a robust, vocal quality—warm in the mid-range, biting when needed—with impeccable phrasing and a sense of narrative flow. Walton’s piano is percussive and harmonically rich, driving the band like a benevolent general. Jones and Higgins create one of those rhythm sections that makes time feel elastic: deep pocket, perfect swing, and constant subtle conversation. Recorded live, the sound has that natural room ambience—somewhat dry piano tone and balance quirks are minor complaints in a sea of genuine excitement and presence. It’s not overly polished, which adds to the you-are-there charm; you can almost smell the Gauloises and red wine in the air. This is spiritual-tinged hard bop at its most communicative—serious without solemnity, swinging without cliché.

The artwork, credited to Hal Wilson, features one of those classic tight-cropped musician portraits typical of Muse releases—earnest, straightforward, and a bit generic, with Jordan looking pensively into the camera. It’s not the most imaginative or psychedelic cover of the era (no cosmic visions or wild typography here), but it radiates quiet dignity and says, “This is serious jazz played by serious cats.” Functional rather than flashy, it perfectly matches the album’s no-nonsense yet deeply felt approach.

Upon release, Night of the Mark VII earned solid respect in jazz circles rather than massive commercial success—typical for Muse albums that thrived among collectors and radio programmers rather than chart-toppers. Critics and connoisseurs praised the high-level interplay, Jordan’s strong leadership, and the group’s ability to make familiar material feel fresh. Retrospective reviews (including AllMusic’s Scott Yanow) call it high-quality hard bop from four masters, easily recommended. In a decade when jazz was fragmenting, it stood as a reminder that straight-ahead swinging music could still feel vital and forward-looking.

Its legacy endures as a high point in Jordan’s discography and a shining example of 1970s mainstream-yet-inspired jazz. It captures a superb working band in peak form during a fertile period of live recordings for Jordan (including the related Highest Mountain). Reissues have kept it circulating among fans of classic quartet jazz, and it remains a go-to for listeners craving substance over spectacle. For Clifford Jordan, who passed in 1993, it’s a fine testament to a career built on taste, swing, and soul. Night of the Mark VII may not be the loudest or most revolutionary record of its time, but it swings with genuine joy and depth—like a perfectly cooked steak in a world suddenly obsessed with molecular gastronomy. Dig it out, pour something nice, and let these four giants take you to the mountaintop and back. The night (and the Mark VII) still delivers.

East New York Ensemble de Music - 1974 - At the Helm

East New York Ensemble de Music

1974

At the Helm

01. Mevlana (based on Turkish religious melody) 12:01
02. Ti-Ti (Ameen Nuraldeen) 7:17
03. Sun Flower (Freddie Hubbard) 13:30
04. Bent-el-Jerusalem (Ameen Nuraldeen) 5:20

Bilal Abdurahman – Soprano Sax, Korean Reed
Ameen Nuraldeen – Vibraphone

guests :
Qasim Ubaindullah – Drums
James Smith – Bass
Jay Rose – Turkish Drum
Bobby Harvey – Conga Drums
Rahkiah Abdurahman – African Twin-Gong

At The Helm, the sole recorded document by the East New York Ensemble de Music from 1974, is a delightfully eccentric, globe-spanning spiritual jazz gem that sounds like it was beamed in from a parallel universe where Sun Ra’s Arkestra took a wrong turn at the Suez Canal and ended up jamming in a Brooklyn basement with some Turkish mystics and African percussionists. It’s loose, joyous, percussive, and unapologetically eclectic—less a polished studio product than a living room ritual that somehow got captured on tape. In the fertile 1970s underground where spiritual jazz, world music fusions, and community-driven experimentation bloomed, this album stands as a charmingly oddball one-off that rewards repeated listens with new layers of hypnotic groove and unexpected instrumental color.

The Ensemble was the brainchild of multi-reedist and cultural polymath Bilal Abdurahman (sometimes spelled Abdurrahman), a Brooklyn-born (1927) pioneer who had already logged serious miles in the jazz and world music worlds. Abdurahman partnered with trailblazing bassist/oudist Ahmed Abdul-Malik in the late ’50s and early ’60s, contributing to groundbreaking albums like Jazz Sahara and Eastern Moods that mixed jazz with Middle Eastern, African, and Asian elements years before such fusions became trendy. A community activist, educator, percussionist, illustrator, and more, he ran cultural spaces in East New York that hosted figures like Malcolm X and emphasized Black Magical Music—a holistic, spiritually charged approach blending heritage, improvisation, and enlightenment. Collaborating here with vibraphonist and composer Ameen Nuraldeen, Abdurahman formed the group around 1972 as a vehicle for these expansive ideas. Influences draw heavily from Coltrane’s spiritual quests, Abdul-Malik’s cross-cultural experiments, Sun Ra’s cosmic eccentricity, and the broader Black Arts Movement, all filtered through a street-level Brooklyn eclecticism that embraces everything from Turkish religious melodies to funky modal grooves without a hint of pretension.

Released originally on the Folkways Records label (FTS 33867), a not-for-profit imprint famous for its vast, documentary-style catalog of folk, ethnic, and vernacular musics, At The Helm perfectly fit the label’s mission of preserving cultural expressions outside the commercial mainstream. It was a small-pressing affair that largely flew under the radar at the time but has since found new life through reissues on Ikef Records and Smithsonian Folkways. The core ensemble features Abdurahman on soprano saxophone and an exotic Korean reed instrument, Nuraldeen on vibraphone, with a rhythm section of Qasim Ubaindullah on drums, James Smith on bass, Jay Rose on Turkish drum, Bobby Harvey on congas, and Rahkiah Abdurahman on African twin-gong. This percussion-heavy lineup creates a rich, tactile bed that feels both ancient and immediate.

The album opens with the nearly 12-minute “Mevlana,” based on a Turkish religious melody. It unfolds like a slow-building trance: shimmering vibes, layered percussion, and Abdurahman’s searching soprano lines weaving through modal spaces with a devotional intensity that’s equal parts hypnotic and invigorating. “Ti-Ti” keeps the energy percolating with tighter, more danceable rhythms and playful interactions between the vibes and reeds. The centerpiece is a bold, 13-plus-minute take on Freddie Hubbard’s “Sun Flower” (listed as “Sun Flower”), which daringly launches with extended improvisation on that mysterious Korean reed—raw, untamed, and soulful—before blossoming into a gorgeous, groove-oriented exploration that turns the familiar standard into something delightfully otherworldly. Closer “Bent-El-Jerusalem” brings a shorter, punchier Middle Eastern-inflected closer with soaring lines and propulsive percussion. All but one track are Nuraldeen originals, showcasing a composer who blends exotica, Afro-modal jazz, and a touch of prog/psych looseness into something utterly distinctive.

Technically and sonically, the music is a masterclass in organic collective improvisation. Abdurahman’s soprano tone is passionate and vocal, capable of both lyrical purity and raw-edged cries, while his Korean reed excursions add a thrilling, microtonal wildness that never feels like gimmickry. Nuraldeen’s vibraphone work is bright, percussive, and melodically inventive—avoiding the overly metallic clang that can plague the instrument and instead delivering bell-like sparkle and rhythmic drive. The rhythm section locks in with a loose-but-deep pocket: hand drums and gongs give the music a ritualistic, earthy pulse that supports rather than overwhelms the melodic elements. There’s plenty of space for spontaneous dialogue, yet everything circles back to groove and mood. The Folkways recording has a crisp, natural room sound—surprisingly clear and present for the era and label—letting every percussion hit and reed breath breathe. It’s spiritual jazz with strong world music DNA: funky when it wants to be, meditative elsewhere, and always suffused with a sense of joyful discovery. If Coltrane went on a pilgrimage to Istanbul and brought back some Brooklyn conga players, this might be the result.

The artwork, with cover design based on Bilal Abdurahman’s own vision, radiates that classic 1970s underground jazz ethos—evocative, symbolic, and proudly Afrocentric/spiritual without corporate gloss. Expect warm, earthy tones, perhaps ancestral or cosmic imagery that signals this is more than music; it’s a cultural and mystical transmission. It has that handmade, intentional feel typical of Folkways releases: inviting exploration rather than slick salesmanship, perfectly mirroring the album’s kitchen-sink eclecticism and community roots.

Upon its quiet 1974 release, At The Helm didn’t exactly set the charts ablaze—Folkways releases often found their audience through libraries, educators, and dedicated crate-diggers rather than radio airplay. Over the decades, however, it has earned deep respect from connoisseurs of spiritual jazz, global fusions, and underground ’70s sounds. Reissues have brought it to new generations, with critics praising its genuine cross-cultural synthesis, fiery yet accessible playing, and refreshing lack of pretension. In a scene full of heavy hitters, this obscure gem stands out for its unforced joy and kitchen-sink approach that somehow coheres beautifully. Its legacy is that of a hidden treasure: proof that profound musical conversations across continents and traditions could happen in East New York living rooms, driven by community rather than industry hype. For Abdurahman, whose multifaceted life included children’s music, education, and activism alongside these jazz explorations, it captures a peak of his “Black Magical Music” vision. At The Helm remains a funky, hypnotic invitation to loosen your expectations and let the rhythms carry you eastward—and inward. Dig in; the groove is timeless, the spirit infectious, and the journey well worth captaining.

Carlos Garnett - 1974 - Journey to Enlightenment

Carlos Garnett 

1974 

Journey to Enlightenment

01. Journey To Enlightenment 10:55

02. Love Flower 7:22

03. Chana 6:17

04. Caribbean Sun 6:18

05. Let Us Go (To Higher Heights) 6:15

Bass – Anthony Jackson

Congas – Charles Pulliam

Drums – Howard King

Guitar – Reggie Lucas

Keyboards – Hubert Eaves

Percussion – Neil Clarke

Reeds, Ukulele – Carlos Garnett

Vocals – Ayodele Jenkins (tracks: A1, A2, B3), Carlos Garnett (tracks: A1, B2, B3)

Recorded at Minot Sound Studios, 9.20.1974

Journey to Enlightenment, Carlos Garnett’s 1974 sophomore effort for the Muse label (following hot on the heels of Black Love the same year), is a sparkling, groove-drenched slice of spiritual jazz-funk that feels like a cosmic passport stamped in Panama, New York, and the outer reaches of the soul. In an era when many jazz players were either doubling down on free-form abstraction or chasing fusion’s electric dragon, Garnett carved out a joyful middle path: modal explorations wrapped in funky backbeats, chants that could raise the ancestors, and melodies sunny enough to make you forget the oil crisis. It’s the kind of record that makes you want to wear a dashiki, light some incense, and ponder the universe while your hips refuse to stay still.

Born in 1938 in Red Tank, Panama Canal Zone, Carlos Garnett’s life reads like a jazz novel with chapters in calypso bands, Army base jam sessions, and eventual relocation to New York in 1962. Self-taught on saxophone after falling for Louis Jordan and James Moody via short films, he absorbed everything from Latin rhythms to rock ’n’ roll before Freddie Hubbard gave him a major break in 1968. Garnett’s résumé is enviable: stints with Art Blakey’s Jazz Messengers, Charles Mingus, Miles Davis (appearing on On the Corner and Big Fun), and Pharoah Sanders. By the mid-1970s, he was leading his own groups and channeling the spiritual jazz wave—think John Coltrane’s modal questing mixed with James Brown’s pocket, all filtered through a Panamanian-Caribbean lens that added extra sunshine and swing. Influences like Sonny Rollins, Hubbard, and the broader Black Consciousness movement of the era shine through, but Garnett’s voice remains distinct: passionate yet accessible, never afraid to let the funk lead the way to higher consciousness.

Journey to Enlightenment was recorded on August 20, 1974 (some sources note September sessions), at Minot Sound Studios in White Plains, New York, and released on Muse Records (MR 5057), a label that became a haven for soulful, post-bop, and spiritual-leaning jazz in the 1970s. Co-produced by Garnett and Joe Fields, it captures a tight septet (with guests) in a warm, lively room. The core band features the formidable Anthony Jackson on bass (his lines are rubbery and authoritative, locking in with Howard King’s crisp, propulsive drums), Reggie Lucas on guitar (tasteful, clean-toned lines that bridge jazz and funk), Hubert Eaves on keyboards (delivering both sparkling Rhodes electric piano and soulful comping), and Charles Pulliam on congas for that essential Latin-tinged percussion layer. Ayodele Jenkins provides ethereal, chant-like vocals on several tracks, adding a communal, almost ritualistic dimension, while Garnett himself handles reeds (primarily tenor sax, with its raw, searching tone), ukulele for a surprising Caribbean flair, and some vocals.

The album opens with the epic, nearly 11-minute title track, a spiritual jazz masterpiece that begins with hypnotic, chant-like vocals (“Journey to Enlightenment…”) before exploding into an instrumental workout. Garnett’s sax soars with Coltrane-esque intensity over a rolling groove, Eaves takes a gorgeous, melodic keyboard solo that feels like sunlight breaking through clouds, and the whole thing cycles back to the vocals with renewed energy. It’s ambitious yet immediately catchy—a perfect encapsulation of the album’s blend of enlightenment-seeking depth and danceable joy. “Love Flower” keeps the romantic-spiritual vibe alive with lush, flowing lines and Jenkins’ vocals, while “Chana” offers a tighter, more percussive excursion. “Caribbean Sun” brings the Panama heat with Garnett’s ukulele and sunny rhythms, evoking island breezes and ocean horizons. Closer “Let Us Go (to Higher Heights)” is an uplifting call to ascension, funky and fervent, sending listeners off on a high note. All compositions are Garnett originals, showcasing his gifts as a melodist and arranger.

Technically, the music is a masterclass in controlled combustion. Garnett’s tenor tone is robust and vocal-like—raw when needed, lyrical elsewhere—drawing on modal frameworks but never lingering too long in austerity. The rhythm section (Jackson and King especially) creates deep, infectious pockets that nod to funk and Latin jazz without sacrificing swing. There’s plenty of improvisation, but it serves the song rather than derailing it; solos feel conversational, building collective energy rather than showboating. Production is crisp for the era, with good separation and a natural, roomy feel that lets the percussion breathe and the sax cut through. It’s spiritual jazz with a generous side of funk (or vice versa), summery and optimistic, yet substantial enough for repeat deep listens. If Coltrane and James Brown had actually collaborated in some parallel universe, this might be the offspring—boogieing baroque, as one reviewer aptly put it.

The artwork, featuring a painting and liner photo by Ron Warwell, perfectly mirrors the music’s Afrocentric spiritual vibe. Typical of 1970s jazz covers, it likely depicts evocative imagery—perhaps cosmic or ancestral figures bathed in warm, enlightening tones—that signals “this is more than just music; it’s a journey.” It has that righteous, handcrafted feel of the era: bold, colorful, and inviting, like a visual mantra. No generic corporate jazz sleeve here; it screams intention and cultural pride.

Upon release, Journey to Enlightenment found a dedicated audience among fans of spiritual and soul-jazz, though it didn’t exactly storm the Billboard charts in a mainstream sense—such records often thrived via word-of-mouth, college radio, and the underground scene. Critics and connoisseurs have since praised it as a highlight of Garnett’s Muse period, with its blend of accessibility and depth earning retrospective love. Reissues (including on Soul Brother Records) have kept it circulating, and tracks like the title cut and “Let Us Go” remain favorites in jazz-funk playlists and sample culture. Its legacy endures as a joyful artifact of 1970s Black creative expression: bridging modal jazz traditions with funk energy and global rhythms, it reminds us that enlightenment doesn’t have to be solemn—it can groove. Garnett’s later struggles with depression and drugs, followed by a spiritual awakening and comeback, only add poignancy; this album captures him at a peak of vitality and vision. In a catalog full of strong statements, Journey to Enlightenment stands as one of his brightest, funkiest beacons—proof that the path to higher heights can include a killer bass line and a killer sax solo. If you haven’t taken the trip yet, what are you waiting for? The groove is eternal.

Ray Pizzi - 1977 - Conception

Ray Pizzi

1977

Conception

01. Conception 5:30

02. Willow Creek 5:25

03. The Missing Link 7:33

04. Angel's Crest 4:05

05. Friday Night Rush Hour Blues 4:50

06. Rhapsodie 4:33

07. Digitations 4:52

Bass Joel Dibartolo

Drums Peter Donald

Guitar Dan Sawyer

Guitar John Morell

Keyboards, Organ, Piano Greg Mathieson

Bassoon, Flute, Sax Ray Pizzi

Recorded September 1976, Conway Studios, Los Angeles

Ray Pizzi’s 1977 outing Conception is essentially the musical equivalent of a guy showing up to a street race in a meticulously tuned Volvo—it shouldn't work, but it absolutely smokes the competition. While most jazz-fusion records of the era were busy trying to reach outer space with synthesizers, Pizzi decided the real frontier was making the bassoon, an instrument usually reserved for Peter and the Wolf or Vivaldi concertos, sound legitimately cool. He plays it with such nimble, funky authority that you’ll briefly forget it’s a giant wooden pipe typically found in the back of an orchestra, treating it more like a soulful, baritone-voiced relative of the saxophone.The album serves as a high-speed showcase for Pizzi’s multi-instrumental ADHD in the best way possible. On tracks like "The Missing Link," he oscillates between greasy, late-night tenor sax lines and flute work that’s far too muscular for a "gentle" instrument. The rhythm section holds down the fort with that specific brand of tight, mid-70s California studio polish—think precise drumming and bass lines that are just funky enough to make you nod your head without spilling your drink. It’s a sophisticated, slightly eccentric record that manages to be intellectually stimulating while still possessing enough "dig-it" energy to survive a basement party in 1977. Pizzi ultimately proves that as long as you have enough talent and a sense of humor, even the most "serious" classical instruments can find a home in a smoke-filled jazz club.

April 2026, State of the union, new fab releases and general ramblings.

Howdy my beloved band of musical brigands

Check It out!

April 2026 Dispatch: Fresh Grooves Incoming (Yes, I Finally Caved)

Listen, I’ve spent years here digging through dusty crates, championing forgotten ’70s boogie B-sides, and waxing poetic about records so obscure they smell like patchouli, Old Spice, and mild regret. And I love it. That’s my lane. But every once in a while even the most dedicated vinyl archaeologist needs to come up for air and check what the kids — and the not-kids — are actually releasing right now.

So here we are. I decided to sprinkle in proper reviews of brand-new 2026 albums this month. No dusty nostalgia goggles, no “this sounds like a lost ’74 private press” cop-outs (though some of them definitely do). Just honest reactions to music that dropped in the last thirty days.

Important public service announcement: you won’t find any shady download links here. I’m not trying to get us all blacklisted by the RIAA or whatever digital hall monitor is in charge these days. Stream them, buy them, support the artists — be a decent human with decent ears.

Consider this my way of keeping the page frosty instead of perpetually smelling like a head shop that time forgot. The old obscure gems aren’t going anywhere (don’t worry, I’ll still be annoying you with them), but mixing in current releases keeps the blood flowing and prevents this whole operation from turning into a retirement home for funk enthusiasts.

So buckle up. Below you’ll find ten fresh records that actually made April 2026 feel like a month worth celebrating. Some are instant classics, some are solid growers, and at least one made me laugh out loud at how ridiculously good it was.

Let’s get into it. 

April 2026: The Music Scene Is Thriving, and My Ears Are Grateful

Folks, if you needed proof that the music gods haven't abandoned us for some algorithmic void, April 2026 delivered a stacked month that felt like a warm, funky hug from the collective unconscious. No gimmicks, no desperate TikTok bait—just solid, soul-nourishing releases across jazz, soul, funk, disco, and that slippery "what even is this genre?" territory. The scene is healthy, vibrant, and apparently sipping the same optimism juice as the rest of us. Here's my deep-dive love letter to the standouts that had my playlists on repeat.

Adrian Younge - Younge (2026)

The maestro of psychedelic soul and retro-funk strikes again with a self-titled project that feels like the culmination of his lifelong obsession with '60s/'70s warmth. Younge layers lush strings, gritty drums, and those signature cinematic arrangements into something both nostalgic and forward-pushing. Standouts evoke Blaxploitation scores filtered through modern introspection—think Something About April grown up and a bit wiser. It's the kind of album that makes you want to dim the lights, pour a drink, and ponder life's grooves. Pure class.

Alsogood - 1000 Smiles (2026)

Italian producer Francesco Lo Giudice (aka Alsogood) serves up a breezy, 29-minute joy bomb blending jazz, hip-hop, dancefloor energy, and Brazilian flair. It's compact, introspective yet uplifting—melodies that sneak up and refuse to let go. Guests like Datsunn and Johnny Marsiglia add spice, but the core is Alsogood's organic rhythms and new-jazz intuition. If sunshine had a soundtrack after a long winter, this would be it. Smile count: exactly 1000.

Another Taste - Another Taste II (2026)

Rotterdam's concept band returns with more of that indefinable magic: boogie? 70s funk? Obscure disco? An ode to forgotten grooves? Yes to all. This sequel tightens the formula—keys, bass, and drums interlocking like old friends who never miss a pocket. It's playful, danceable, and weirdly comforting, like finding a pristine record in a thrift shop that somehow knows your exact mood. They continue proving that "forgotten sounds" were just waiting for the right revival.

Bill LaBounty - Love At The End Of The World (2026)

The yacht rock patron saint of adult heartache sails back in vintage form, now backed by Steely Dan-level players. In his 70s, LaBounty still croons with that soulful, slightly cracked delivery about fractured bonds and modern chaos, but with a wider lens—think global worries mixed with personal reflection. Sophisticated, polished, and emotionally raw; it's divorce yacht for the apocalypse, yet somehow hopeful. Pass the captain's hat and the tissues.

Gareth Donkin - Extraordinary (2026)

The young UK soul-savant delivers his sophomore triumph, blending Prince/Stevie Wonder virtuosity with Steely Dan polish and modern production. Self-contained and emotionally deep, Donkin explores longing, desire, and determination with intricate grooves and heartfelt lyrics. It's familiar yet fresh—sophisticated without being stuffy. At 26 (or so), he's already operating at a level that makes veterans nod approvingly. Extraordinary indeed.

Mamas Gun - Dig! (2026)

London's premier soul-pop outfit digs even deeper into rich, radio-friendly-yet-authentic territory. Five-piece tightness, infectious hooks, and that warm, live-band feel define this one. Dig! grooves with optimism and heart—perfect for spring drives or kitchen dances. They've been at it for years, and this feels like a confident peak and a candidate for favorite release of the year: soul that actually feeds the soul.

Nu Genea - People of the Moon (2026)

The Neapolitan duo (formerly Nu Guinea) keeps expanding their jazz-funk, disco, and electronic fusion rooted in Gulf of Naples history. Expect synthesizers dancing with acoustic instruments, Neapolitan vocals, and global rhythms reborn. It's hypnotic, dancefloor-ready, and culturally rich—music that connects past shores to future vibes. Another essential chapter in their revival of Italian groove heritage.

Odisea - Los Retros (2026)

This one leans into nu-disco, synthpop, and Latin-tinged dance-pop energy. Retro-futurist grooves with Havana/Cuban influences bubbling under, creating something sunny and propulsive. It's the soundtrack for imaginary beach clubs where the sun never sets and the basslines never quit. Odisea keeps the party reflective yet forward-moving.

Parlor Greens - Emeralds (2026)

Heavy instrumental organ trio alert! On Colemine, this project delivers gritty, powerful jams that feel like a lost '70s soul-jazz session cranked to modern levels. Jimmy James, Tim Carman, and Adam Scone lock in for psychedelic, fuzz-drenched grooves that hit the chest and the soul. Emeralds is raw power wrapped in emerald elegance—perfect for headphone workouts or road trips. Instrumental music this vital never gets old.

Thundercat - Distracted (2026)

The bass wizard returns with his long-awaited Brainfeeder gem, featuring A$AP Rocky, WILLOW, Tame Impala, and production from Flying Lotus and Greg Kurstin. Psychedelic soul, neo-psychedelia, and Thundercat's signature slippery funk tackle 2026's distractions head-on—static, anxieties, endless scrolls. It's triumphant, inventive, and weirdly grounding. Six years later, he's still one of the most singular voices out there.

And that, dear friends, was April 2026 — a month that reminded us the music scene is not only alive but throwing a proper party. Ten strong records, zero filler, and enough good vibes to make even the most jaded crate-digger crack a smile.

The music ecosystem is alive and kicking with creativity, cross-pollination, and genuine heart. These releases span generations, continents, and vibes, yet all feel connected in their commitment to craft over trends If this is what April served up, what in the name of all that is groovy do the music gods have in petto for the rest of 2026? More surprises, deeper pockets, and probably a few records that'll make us laugh, cry, and dance in the same afternoon.

So, what do you think? Did I miss a gem that dropped this month? Is there an upcoming release you’re ridiculously hyped about? Got an obscure 1978 private press you want me to suffer through in the name of content? Or should I lean even harder into the new stuff and retire my patchouli-scented detective hat for a bit?

Drop your suggestions, hot takes, and wild recommendations in the comments. The good, the bad, and the “why does this even exist?” — I read them all. This little corner of the internet stays frosty only because we keep it that way together.

Stay tuned, keep listening, and remember: in uncertain times, a great album is the best distraction of all. Until May drops another pile of heat on us… stay curious, keep listening, for the love of all that grooves, support the artists.

Turn it up.

See you in the next dispatch.

Ray Pizzi - 1975 - Appassionato

Ray Pizzi 

1975 

Appassionato

01. Maddalena 5:30

02. Pizza Machine 4:30

03. Ballad For M.P.Z. 4:10

04. Let Us Proclaim The Mystery Of Faith 6:55

05. Prayer For Simon 4:30

06. Trukonisous My Cat 4:25

07. Transmo 6:00

08. Winchester Belle 5:40

Bass – Joel DiBartolo (tracks: A1 to A3, B2, B3)

Bass – John Heard (tracks: A4, B1, B4)

Drums – Peter Donald

Electric Guitar – Dan Sawyer (tracks: A2, B2)

Electric Guitar – John Morell (tracks: A1, B3)

Piano – Mark Levine (tracks: A4, B1, B4)

Piano, Organ – Greg Mathieson (tracks: A1 to A3, B2, B3)

Saxophone, Flute, Bassoon – Ray Pizzi

WITH VERY SPECIAL LOVE and THANKS to MARILYN, ALICIA and MICHAEL

Appassionato by Ray Pizzi is a deliciously quirky slice of 1975 West Coast jazz that feels like it was recorded in a sun-drenched Los Angeles studio while everyone involved was halfway through a perfect Italian meal and a spirited debate about whether the bassoon deserved more respect. Self-released on P.Z. Records (catalog PZ 333), this private-press gem showcases the multi-reed virtuoso at his most passionate, blending post-bop lyricism, fusion grooves, jazz-funk energy, and moments of spiritual introspection into a warm, personal statement that’s equal parts sophisticated and charmingly offbeat.

Born Raymond Michael Pizzi in Everett, Massachusetts, on January 19, 1943 (and affectionately nicknamed “Pizza Man”), Pizzi started on clarinet before diving deep into saxophone, flute, and—most notably—the bassoon, an instrument he helped bring into modern jazz with genuine virtuosity and humor. He studied at the Boston Conservatory and Berklee College of Music, taught in public schools, and eventually migrated to the West Coast where he became a highly regarded session player and live performer. By the mid-1970s, he was already known for his versatility, contributing to various projects while carving out his own voice as a leader. Appassionato captures him in full creative bloom, handling soprano and tenor sax, flute, and bassoon with remarkable fluidity while also producing, writing most of the material, and even designing the cover.

The supporting cast is a tight, empathetic crew of L.A. session aces who lock in perfectly with Pizzi’s vision. Key contributors include pianists/keyboardists Greg Mathieson and Mark Levine, bassists Joel DiBartolo and John Heard, drummer Peter Donald, and guitarists John Morell and Dan Sawyer. Recorded at Independent Studios in Studio City and Conway Studios, with engineering and mixing by Buddy Brundo, the album has that clear, lively 1970s analog warmth—never overly glossy, but polished enough to let every reed squeak, bass thump, and piano chord breathe naturally. Liner notes by Frankie Nemko-Graham add a nice personal touch.

Musically, Appassionato is a showcase of Pizzi’s broad palette. It opens with the glowing “Maddalena,” a heartfelt dedication that moves between lyrical tenor lines and more urgent, fusion-tinged rhythms. “Pizza Machine” (you have to love the self-aware humor) brings funky, almost playful energy with tight guitar and keyboard work that would fit comfortably on a Grover Washington Jr. or early Crusaders date. Ballads like “Ballad For M.P.Z.” and “Prayer For Simon” reveal Pizzi’s tender, singing tone—especially when he switches to soprano or flute—while pieces such as “Let Us Proclaim The Mystery Of Faith” and “Transmo” venture into more spiritual and exploratory territory, blending post-bop sophistication with modal openness and occasional rhythmic drive. The bassoon gets its due in several spots, delivering woody, reedy textures that add an unusual color rarely heard in straight-ahead or fusion contexts at the time. Technically, Pizzi’s playing is impeccable: fluid technique, strong improvisational ideas, and an emotional directness that keeps even the more complex passages feeling human and inviting rather than academic. The rhythm section stays supple and supportive, shifting seamlessly between straight swing, funk grooves, and lighter Latin-tinged feels. It’s accessible without being simplistic—mainstream jazz with just enough edge and personality to stand out.

Visually, the original album artwork is pure 1970s private-press charm. Photography by Phil Teele captures Pizzi in a thoughtful or soulful pose that matches the album’s passionate title, while Pizzi himself handled the cover design. It has that warm, slightly homemade aesthetic—earthy tones, personal typography, and a straightforward elegance that avoids big-label slickness in favor of intimacy. The back cover includes warm thanks to family and notes about his “fashions” from Ben’s Surplus, adding a delightfully human, everyday touch that makes the package feel like a direct invitation into Pizzi’s world rather than a commercial product. It’s the kind of sleeve that makes you smile before you even drop the needle.

Upon its 1975 release, Appassionato flew mostly under the mainstream radar, as self-produced jazz albums often did. It earned appreciation among West Coast players and collectors who recognized Pizzi’s talent, but it never became a big commercial hit. In the decades since, it has grown into a quiet cult favorite among fans of thoughtful 1970s jazz and rare grooves. Reissues and digital availability have introduced it to new listeners who praise its melodic warmth, instrumental versatility (especially that bassoon!), and genuine heart. Critics and collectors now see it as a strong example of independent West Coast jazz from the era—professional yet personal, passionate without pretension. Pizzi followed it with other strong releases like Conception (1977), and his session work kept him busy for decades until his passing in 2021.

Its legacy is that of a hidden gem: a testament to a gifted, underrated multi-instrumentalist who poured real emotion and a touch of humor into every note. Appassionato isn’t trying to revolutionize jazz or chase trends—it simply invites you to sit down, listen closely, and feel something. In an era of overproduced music, this record still sounds refreshingly alive, like a good friend sharing his deepest musical passions over a glass of wine. If you’re exploring 1970s jazz beyond the usual Blue Note or CTI classics, Ray Pizzi’s Appassionato is a warm, rewarding discovery that fully lives up to its fiery Italian title. Just don’t be surprised if you start craving pizza afterward.

The Giuseppi Logan Quartet - 1965 - The Giuseppi Logan Quartet

The Giuseppi Logan Quartet 

1965 

The Giuseppi Logan Quartet

01. Tabla Suite 5:39

02. Dance Of Satan 5:16

03. Dialogue 7:15

04. Taneous 11:47

05. Bleecker Partita 15:24

Bass – Eddie Gomez

Tenor Saxophone, Alto Saxophone, Oboe – Giuseppi Logan

Drums – Milford Graves

Piano – Don Pullen

The Giuseppi Logan Quartet is a wild, uncompromising blast of mid-1960s free jazz that sounds like four extraordinarily talented musicians decided to hold a heated philosophical debate using only reeds, piano strings, bass, and percussion—while occasionally inviting ancient folk traditions and the devil himself to crash the party. Released in 1965 on Bernard Stollman’s fearless ESP-Disk label, this self-titled debut captures multi-reedist Giuseppi Logan at the dawn of his brief but incandescent moment in the New York avant-garde spotlight. At just under 48 minutes across five lengthy, fully improvised compositions, the album is equal parts exhilarating, disorienting, and strangely beautiful—like wandering into a Lower East Side loft session where the rules of harmony and rhythm have been politely asked to leave the building.

Born Joseph Logan in Philadelphia on May 22, 1935, Giuseppi Logan was largely self-taught, beginning on piano and drums before switching to reeds around age 12. By 15 he was already gigging with Earl Bostic, later studying at the New England Conservatory. He moved to New York in September 1964, right in time for the October Revolution in Jazz, a landmark series of avant-garde concerts. There he crossed paths with ESP-Disk founder Bernard Stollman and quickly assembled this quartet for his recording debut as a leader. Logan played alto and tenor saxophone, bass clarinet, flute, and the delightfully exotic Pakistani oboe, bringing a nasal, vocal-like wail and a restless exploratory spirit to every track. His tone could be sour and piercing one moment, almost folk-like the next, always carrying that raw, unfiltered urgency that defined the era’s most adventurous players.

The supporting cast is stellar and perfectly suited to the chaos. Pianist Don Pullen, making his recording debut here, already displays the percussive, inside-the-piano clusters and jagged runs that would later make him a free-jazz legend. Young bassist Eddie Gómez (soon to find fame with Bill Evans) provides loose, singing pizzicato lines and occasional arco groans that glue everything together without ever sounding conventional. Drummer Milford Graves—percussion revolutionary and one of the true architects of free-jazz drumming—brings explosive energy, tabla on the opening track, and a rhythmic concept that feels more like ritual than timekeeping. According to lore, Graves graciously stepped aside from leading his own date so Logan could record; the chemistry they achieve, despite reportedly never having played together as a full group before the session, borders on telepathic.

ESP-Disk, founded by lawyer Bernard Stollman, was the perfect (and perhaps only) home for this music. The label’s motto—“You never heard such sounds in your life”—was no exaggeration. Stollman gave artists total creative freedom, often with minimal rehearsal or post-production, resulting in raw, documentary-style recordings that captured the explosive New York underground scene. This album, cut at Bell Sound Studios in late 1964, has that trademark ESP immediacy: you can almost smell the cigarette smoke and hear the floorboards creaking.

Technically and musically, the album is a masterclass in controlled (and sometimes uncontrolled) freedom. It opens with the hypnotic “Tabla Suite,” where Graves’ Indian percussion grounds Logan’s Pakistani oboe in a droning, modal exploration that feels centuries old and brand new at the same time. “Dance of Satan” brings a more sinister, dance-like energy—Logan’s reeds slither and shriek while Pullen scatters notes like broken glass. The nearly nine-minute “Dialogue” lives up to its name with conversational interplay that can turn argumentative in a heartbeat. “Taneous” stretches past eleven minutes of pure group invention, featuring some of Pullen’s most flamboyant early work and Graves taking flight into polyrhythmic ecstasy. The epic closer, “Bleecker Partita” (over 15 minutes), gradually coalesces into something approaching thematic development, offering a rare moment of grounded beauty amid the abstraction—like the quartet finally agreeing on a destination after a long, argumentative journey through the outer reaches.

Logan’s multi-instrumentalism is central: his horns often sound like extensions of his voice rather than traditional jazz saxophones, blending microtonal wails, folk inflections, and pure sonic assault. The rhythm section rarely locks into swing or straight meter, preferring to create ever-shifting fields of texture and pulse. It’s free jazz at its most uncompromising—harmony, melody, and rhythm become raw materials for texture and emotional intensity rather than structural pillars. There are moments of almost unbearable tension followed by sudden, luminous clarity. Listening today, it still feels dangerous, like the music might bite if you get too comfortable.

Visually, the album’s original artwork perfectly mirrors its sonic intensity. Designed by Howard Bernstein with photography by Lee Greene, the cover features a stark, high-contrast black-and-white image that feels both intimate and confrontational—Logan himself often appears in a brooding, almost spectral pose that captures the intensity of the music inside. The textured cardstock and minimalist layout (typical of early ESP-Disk releases) give it a raw, underground zine-like quality rather than glossy commercial polish. It’s the kind of sleeve that doesn’t try to sell you easy pleasure; instead, it warns you that what’s inside is going to challenge your assumptions, much like the music itself. The folded slick and tactile feel make handling the physical LP part of the ritual, as if you’re unwrapping a secret communiqué from the avant-garde front lines.

Upon release, the album was exactly what you’d expect from an ESP-Disk title in 1965: admired by the tiny circle of downtown cognoscenti and avant-garde enthusiasts, largely ignored or dismissed by the mainstream jazz world and general public. Critics at the time had limited platforms to champion such extreme sounds, but in the decades since it has earned cult-classic status. AllMusic’s Stewart Mason awarded it 4.5 stars, calling it one of the most uncompromisingly “out” free jazz records of its era and a must for the faithful. The Penguin Guide to Jazz and later writers like Pierre Crépon in The Wire have hailed it as a classic, noting its prescient use of odd meters and non-Western instrumentation. Elliott Sharp even included it in his “Ten Free Jazz Albums to Hear Before You Die.”

Its legacy is that of a hidden cornerstone of 1960s free jazz. Logan himself became one of the music’s great tragic enigmas—disappearing from the scene in the early 1970s due to personal struggles, addiction, and mental health issues for over three decades before a remarkable (if intermittent) comeback in the late 2000s. He passed away in 2020 from COVID-19. This debut album stands as a fiery testament to his originality and the brief, incandescent moment when he helped push jazz into even wilder territory. It’s not easy listening, and it doesn’t want to be. But for those willing to surrender to its prickly, brilliant logic—and that striking, no-frills cover that sets the perfect tone—The Giuseppi Logan Quartet remains a thrilling, oddly life-affirming trip into the unknown—one that still sounds like the future even sixty years later. Dim the lights, abandon expectations, and let these four mad geniuses (and their equally uncompromising artwork) take you on a ride that’s equal parts exorcism and celebration. Just don’t be surprised if you come out the other side a little changed.

Heart-Soul And Inspiration - 1974 - Heart-Soul And Inspiration

Heart-Soul And Inspiration 

1974 

Heart-Soul And Inspiration

01. I'm Gonna Love You More 10:56

02. Can't Get Enough 7:09

03. Make Love To Your Mind 4:59

04. Can't Get Enough 7:09

05. My First, Last, My Everything 4:50

Bass – Jimmy Soul

Drums – Vince Howard

Guitar – Ron Carr

Piano – John True

Vocals – Martha Sims

Heart-Soul And Inspiration by Vince Howard and his Heart-Soul & Inspiration Orchestra is one of those gloriously over-the-top 1970s soul-funk artifacts that feels like it was recorded in a velvet-lined bedroom after way too much wine and Barry White records. Released in 1974 (though often dated to 1975 in some references) on the tiny Los Angeles imprint Viscojon Records, this private-press gem is a sweaty, ambitious love letter to the bedroom funk sound that ruled mid-70s dancefloors and slow jams alike. Clocking in at a lean but potent six tracks, the album drips with extended grooves, playful sensuality, and enough dramatic flair to make Isaac Hayes raise an eyebrow in approval.

Vince Howard himself is a fascinating character who lived several musical lives before this project. A crooner who got his start way back in 1957 on Herb Newman’s Era label with doo-wop and early soul singles, Howard spent the ensuing years grinding through the L.A. scene, releasing sporadic singles and slowly assembling his “Orchestra.” By the early 1970s he had gathered a tight crew including bassist Jimmy Soul, guitarist Ron Carr, and pianist John True. The group cut this sole full-length album under the watchful eye of R&B godfather Johnny Otis, who engineered the sessions at his Hawksound Studios. Howard handled drums and production duties himself, with additional orchestral arrangements from Nate Fortier. It’s a family affair of sorts—tight, live-sounding, and unapologetically steeped in the era’s lush, libidinous soul traditions.

The influences are worn proudly on the sleeve like a polyester leisure suit: think Barry White’s orchestral seduction, Isaac Hayes’ cinematic soul, and a hefty dose of raw 1970s funk energy. Howard doesn’t just borrow—he stretches the template into something almost comically extended and horny. The opener and undisputed centerpiece, “I’m Gonna Love You More,” is an eleven-minute tantric reinterpretation of Barry White’s “I’m Gonna Love You Just a Little More Baby.” Where White kept things subtly suggestive, Howard turns it into a marathon funk workout complete with slippery bass lines, break-heavy drums, and Marsha Sims delivering playful, moan-filled ad-libs that escalate from flirtatious to downright climactic. It’s the musical equivalent of a long, slow seduction that refuses to end until everyone involved needs a cigarette and a nap.

The rest of the album keeps the mood firmly in the boudoir. “Can’t Get Enough” delivers seven more minutes of groovy persistence, while “Make Love to Your Mind” stands out as a stone-cold killer—sensual vocals floating over a locked-in rhythm section that would make any bedroom (or nightclub) speaker beg for mercy. Covers like “My First, Last, My Everything” (another Barry White nod) fit right in, and shorter cuts like the punchy “Funk on Down” and the closer “Fallen Angel” show the group could tighten things up when they wanted to, injecting a bit of uptempo energy before the final emotional exhale. The playing throughout is professional yet loose enough to feel like the band is having an absolute ball in the studio—tight rhythms, soulful horns where they appear, and Howard’s confident, if not virtuosic, croon holding the center.

Viscojon Records was a classic small L.A. independent run by John Spriggs (sometimes spelled Springs), one of those hyper-local outfits that pressed just enough copies to service the West Coast soul circuit without ever cracking the national charts. That limited run, combined with the rise of disco and DJ culture, meant the album slipped into obscurity almost immediately after release. Howard and crew even followed it with a 7-inch single of “Funk on Down” b/w “Fallen Angel” that got some local nightclub play, but the momentum wasn’t there. Shortly after, the group disbanded as the musical winds shifted. Howard himself pulled off one of the great career pivots in music history, trading the drum kit for acting gigs—he popped up in everything from Star Trek and Mission: Impossible to Cheers, Knight Rider, and films like Trouble Man and Lethal Weapon. Talk about trading one kind of spotlight for another.

Upon its original release, Heart-Soul And Inspiration barely registered with the broader public. Private-press soul albums from the 1970s often suffered that fate—too funky for easy-listening crowds, too niche for major radio, and pressed in quantities that made them instant collector bait. Critics at the time didn’t widely review it (or if they did, those notices have vanished into the ether), but modern reissues have changed the narrative dramatically. When Numero Group and later Tidal Waves Music gave it proper vinyl reissues (complete with bonus 7-inch in some editions), crate-diggers and soul enthusiasts lost their minds. Reviewers now hail it as a “soul masterpiece,” praising its unbridled sensuality, extended grooves, and that perfect storm of Barry White/Isaac Hayes worship executed with genuine heart (and a fair bit of pelvic thrust).

Its legacy today is that of a cult classic in the deep funk and rare soul community. Original copies command serious money on the secondary market, and the reissues have introduced it to a new generation of listeners who appreciate its over-the-top charm in an era of polished, algorithm-friendly music. It’s the kind of record that sounds best played loud on a Saturday night when the lights are low and expectations are even lower. Vince Howard may not have set the charts on fire, but he left behind a gloriously funky, unapologetically sexy time capsule that still makes listeners grin, sway, and occasionally blush. If you’ve never experienced it, do yourself a favor—dim the lights, drop the needle, and let the Heart-Soul & Inspiration Orchestra take you on a ride that’s equal parts ridiculous and sublime. Just don’t blame me if you need a cold shower afterward.

Experience Unlimited - 1977 - Free Yourself

Experience Unlimited

1977

Free Yourself

01. It's All Imagination 3:25

02. Functus 4:59

03. Peace Gone Away 4:54

04. Free Yourself 8:06

05. Hey You 3:41

06. People 6:17

07. Funky Consciousness 9:18

Bass, Vocals – Gregory "Sugar Bear" Eliot

Congas, Vocals, Percussion – “Pops” Andre Lucas

Drums – Anthony “Block” Easton

Electric Guitar, Acoustic Guitar, Vocals – Donald R. Fields

Electric Piano, Organ, Clavinet – Michael Hughes

Percussion, Wood Block – "Nivram" Marvin Coward

Tenor Saxophone, Vocals – Clarence "Oscar" Smith

Timbales, Vocals, Percussion – David Williams 

Trombone, Vocals, Percussion – Greylin T. Hunter

Trumpet, Flugelhorn, Percussion – Philip Harris 

Vocals – Bobby Owens, Donna M. Taylor, Melva "Lady" Adams, Wayne Davis

Recorded on July 29th, 1976 at Bias Recording Studios, Falls Church, VA, issued on Black Fire Records, BF-19757, in 1977.

Experience unlimited had originally started out in 1973 when they met at Ballou Senior High School in South-East D.C. and came to the attention of Black Fire Records’ Jimmy Gray after winning a school talent competition. “Jimmy saw that we had a lot of potential and he put us into the studio,” remembers bandleader Gregory “Sugar Bear” Elliott. “That was our first experience recording - I remember that he just told us to be ourselves and we just gathered together and played. We were young kids then saying what we felt.”

Free Yourself is a free-flowing album, full of positive messages and infectious grooves. “We could play any style,” continues Sugar Bear. “The album has a lot of different songs and feelings – from ‘Peace Gone Away’ to ‘Funky Consciousness’ which features some heavy guitar work and ‘Free Yourself’ where you can hear early stylings of go-go – it’s all in one. We just wanted to record where we were at.”

Side A – The Party Starters

"It’s All Imagination" (3:26): Kicks things off with bright horns and a bouncy rhythm that says, “Good morning, neighbor—let’s get funky.” Catchy, optimistic, and the perfect “wake up your soul” opener. Sugar Bear’s vocals have that warm, inviting charm—like your cool uncle who gives life advice over barbecue.

"Functus" (4:51): An instrumental burner named like a Latin verb your high school teacher would love. Heavy Funkadelic-style riffage, tight rhythms, and horns that stab with precision. It’s the musical equivalent of watching a well-rehearsed marching band suddenly decide to get nasty. Donald Fields’ guitar is already flexing.

"Peace Gone Away" (4:47): A soulful mid-tempo plea with real emotional weight. The band shows they can slow down without losing the pocket. Think classic 70s conscious soul—smooth but never sleepy.

"Free Yourself" (8:03): The title track and undisputed champion. This is where early go-go percussion starts percolating like coffee on a hot stove. Extended groove, call-and-response energy, and a liberating message. At eight minutes it feels like a mini-journey: you start dancing, then pondering life, then dancing harder. Pure catharsis in wax form.

Side B – Deeper Cuts and Epic Closers

"Hey You" (3:40): A punchy, direct number with ties to local promoter Max Kidd. It’s got that “get on the dancefloor right now” urgency. Short, sweet, and effective—like a funk telegram.

"People" (6:10): The acoustic-guitar ballad detour. Haunting harmonies from Wayne Davis (I believe) and a moment of genuine introspection amid the funk storm. It’s beautiful, but in the middle of this album it hits like a slow song at a wedding reception—everyone sways awkwardly while waiting for the beat to drop again. Necessary breathing room, though.

"Funky Consciousness" (9:08): The grand finale. A marathon jam with screaming guitar solos (Fields goes full Eddie Hazel/Carlos Santana at points), breakbeat-like energy that would make early hip-hop DJs drool, and horns for days. This track alone justifies buying the record. It’s like the band said, “We saved the best chaos for last.” By the end you’re exhausted, enlightened, and possibly levitating.

Sound and Production: Raw, Punchy, and Alive

The rhythm section (Sugar Bear’s rubbery bass + Anthony “Block” Easton on drums + Andre “Pops” Lucas on congas) is locked tighter than a D.C. traffic jam. Horns punch through, guitars wail with rock attitude, and Michael “Professeur Funk” Hughes holds it down on keys. Production by Jimmy Gray and Charles Stephenson keeps it band-focused—no excessive gloss. Modern reissues (especially the Bernie Grundman-mastered ones from Now-Again, Strut, or Vinyl Me, Please) sound glorious: warm, dynamic, and full of air.

Strengths, Quirks, and a Touch of 1977 Reality

Strengths: Infectious grooves, genuine positivity, top-tier musicianship, and historical importance as a bridge between 70s funk and go-go. Themes of love, peace, freedom, and self-liberation feel earnest, not preachy. It’s party music with a brain.

Quirks: As a debut from young players, it’s a bit transitional. The ballad interrupts the flow like a yoga instructor at a kegger. Vocals are solid but the real star is the collective groove. Original pressings are rarer than a polite online argument—hence the cult status among crate-diggers.

Robert Christgau gave it a B, basically saying the grooves are great but some of the vibes felt a tad vacuous. Fair enough—1977 critics were tough.

Free Yourself is an 8.5/10 deep-funk treasure that still slaps in 2026. It’s not flawless perfection, but it’s alive—full of joy, sweat, community spirit, and enough percussion to power a small city. If you love 70s funk, jazz-funk hybrids, or the roots of go-go, this is essential listening. Put it on at a gathering and watch strangers become friends by the third track.

In short: Experience Unlimited didn’t just want you to dance—they wanted you to free yourself. And decades later, this record still does exactly that, one percolating conga at a time. Highly recommended, especially on vinyl with the fat liner notes. Turn it up, move your hips, and thank the D.C. gods for Sugar Bear and crew. Funk on.

One of the great forgotten sounds of mid-70s Funk was the Washington D.C.-based ensemble Experience Unlimited (later shortened to Eu). Though best later known as pioneers of the “go-go”subgenre of dance/funk, and for their Billboard-charting hit “Da Butt” in the late-80s. The group was a potent collective of Jazz-Funk musicians, in the vein of innovators like War, Earth, Wind, & Fire, and similarly overlooked DC contemporaries Oneness Of Juju. Experience Unlimited were renowned for their ostentatious instrumentals, winding and precise rhythms and grooves, and party-ready jams, all of which are on full display on their debut record Free Yourself, which came more than a decade before their greatest commercial success, but is no less heavy on the Classic Deep Funk sounds.

Abacothozi - 1976 - Night In Pelican

Abacothozi

1976

Night In Pelican

01. Dolly's Dish 13:37

02. Night In Pelican 13:10

Artwork – Zulu Bidi

Bass – Berthwel Maphumulo

Drums – Innocent Mathunjwa

Guitar – Joe Zikhali

Organ – Mac Mathunjwa

Some live albums try to recreate a concert. Live at the Pelican by Abacothozi feels more like it smuggles the entire venue into your living room, chairs, chatter, electricity, and all. Released in 1976, it is less a tidy document and more a living pulse from a scene that refused to be quiet, even when the world around it insisted otherwise.

Abacothozi were part of South Africa’s rich and resilient jazz tradition during the apartheid era, a time when artistic expression was both constrained and, paradoxically, supercharged. Like many groups of the period, they operated within a network of clubs, community spaces, and occasional recording opportunities that functioned as cultural lifelines.  Their name, which loosely evokes “the chosen ones” or “those set apart,” feels fitting. Bands like this were not just entertainers. They were carriers of sound, identity, and a kind of coded conversation that could slip past barriers even when words could not. Precise documentation of the lineup, as with many groups from this scene, is a bit like trying to pin down smoke. Musicians came together in shifting constellations, often overlapping with other ensembles in the broader South African jazz ecosystem. What matters is less the fixed roster and more the shared language they spoke.

To understand Live at the Pelican, you have to step into the broader current of South African jazz during the 1960s and 70s. This was a movement shaped by restriction but driven by extraordinary creativity. Artists blended American jazz influences with local traditions, church music, township rhythms, and a deep sense of spiritual and communal expression. While some musicians went into exile, others stayed and built a vibrant, if often under-documented, scene at home. Venues like the Pelican Club were more than just places to hear music. They were spaces of gathering, release, and subtle resistance. The music could be joyful, mournful, defiant, or all three at once, often within the same tune.

On Live at the Pelican, Abacothozi function as a collectiv e rather than a star system. You hear saxophones that speak in long, searching lines, keyboards that shimmer and anchor, bass that walks and occasionally runs, and drums that seem to understand both time and how to bend it. There is a strong sense of listening throughout. Solos emerge organically, not as spotlight moments but as extensions of a group conversation. It is less “now featuring” and more “now continuing.” The interplay suggests musicians deeply attuned to each other, able to pivot, stretch, and settle without losing cohesion. It is the kind of chemistry that cannot be faked and rarely survives outside of live performance, which makes this recording all the more valuable.

The rhythm section provides a steady, often danceable foundation, but it is not rigid. There is a looseness to the groove, a slight elasticity that gives the music its warmth. The bass lines are melodic as well as functional, often acting as a bridge between rhythm and harmony. The drums are responsive rather than domineering, shaping the flow of the music without dictating it. They nudge, accent, and occasionally push, like a conversation partner who knows exactly when to interject. Melodically, the horns and keyboards carry much of the emotional weight. Themes are introduced and then explored through improvisation, expanding and contracting like breath. There are moments of intensity where the music swells into something almost overwhelming, followed by passages of restraint that feel like a collective exhale.

The recording itself has that slightly rough, live quality. It is not pristine, ut it is honest. You hear the room, the audience, the small imperfections that remind you this is happening in real time. In a way, the imperfections are part of the charm. They are the fingerprints on the glass. In 1976, albums like Live at the Pelican existed within a complicated landscape. Locally, they resonated with audiences who understood the cultural and emotional context. The music spoke directly to lived experience, offering both escape and reflection. However, broader recognition was limited by the realities of apartheid-era South Africa. Distribution was restricted, international exposure was minimal, and much of the scene remained under the radar globally. Within its immediate environment, though, this kind of music mattered deeply. It was not background sound. It was part of the social fabric.

Over time, recordings like Live at the Pelican have taken on greater significance as documents of a vital musical tradition. The influence of South African jazz, including artists who remained in the country and those who went into exile, has rippled outward into global jazz and beyond. The blending of local rhythms with improvisational freedom has inspired musicians across continents. As more archival material has surfaced and been reissued, there has been a growing appreciation for the depth and diversity of this scene. Albums like this are now heard not just as historical curiosities, but as living music that still has something to say.

Listening to Live at the Pelican is a bit like stepping into a room where the air itself seems to hum. It is not polished, it is not overly structured, and it does not try to impress you with technical fireworks at every turn. Instead, it draws you in with feel, connection, and a sense of shared space. You can almost picture the musicians, the audience, the moment unfolding.    It is a reminder that jazz, at its core, is about communication. Sometimes that communication is subtle, sometimes it is exuberant, and sometimes it carries meanings that go far beyond the notes themselves. And if you find yourself wishing you had been there in person, well, that is probably the highest compliment a live album can receive.

Abacothozi - 1975 - Thema Maboneng

Abacothozi 

1975

Thema Maboneng

01. Thema Maboneng

02. Khwezela Mkhwezeli

03. Jika Sibongile

04. Cothozani Bafana

05. Igxababa Lembhadada

06. Pho Usolani

Berthwel Maphumulo - bass

Mac Mathunjwa - organ

Innocent Mathunjwa on - drums

Joe Zikhali - guitar

Recorded in 1975 under producer West Nkosi, Thema Maboneng was originally released with almost no fanfare and promptly vanished from public consciousness for over 40 years. This wasn’t because it lacked quality. Quite the opposite. It was a victim of timing, geography, and the cultural fragmentation of apartheid-era South Africa. The band itself—formed in 1973 by bassist Berthwel Maphumulo alongside organist Mac Mathunjwa, drummer Innocent Mathunjwa, and guitarist Joe Zikhali—was essentially a nightclub unit, honing its sound in the charged, fertile environment of township nightlife.Their home base, venues like The Pelican in Soweto, acted less like clubs and more like laboratories. Music wasn’t just played there—it was stress-tested against dancing bodies, long nights, and the need for escape.

So when Thema Maboneng disappeared, it wasn’t because it failed. It simply slipped through the cracks of a world not yet ready to archive it properly. Trying to pin this album down stylistically is like trying to bottle smoke. It drifts between jazz, funk, soul, and mbaqanga-derived rhythms, never settling long enough to be categorized neatly. At its core, this is organ-driven soul-jazz—bright, melodic, and constantly in motion. The organ lines shimmer with a tone that recalls Jackie Mittoo, but with a distinctly South African phrasing—less laid-back, more insistent, like the music is always leaning slightly forward.

The rhythm section operates with a kind of quiet authority. The bass doesn’t just anchor—it prowls. Th

rums don’t simply keep time—they negotiate it, nudging grooves into subtle syncopations that feel both precise and loose at once.  And then there’s the guitar, which slices through the arrangements with clean, economical lines, adding just enough bite to keep everything from drifting into smoothnessThe result is a sound that feels sunlit but never lightweight. There’s joy here, yes—but it’s the kind of joy that knows exactly what it’s pushing against.

“Thema Maboneng” (title track) opens like a door being kicked open politely. The groove locks in immediately—hypnotic, circular, impossible to ignore. It’s the kind of track that DJs dream about: long enough to stretch, tight enough to control a room.

“Khwezela Mkhwezeli” builds on that foundation with a slightly more urgent pulse, the organ dancing over a rhythm that feels like it might tip into chaos but never does.

“Jika Sibongile” trims things down, offering a more compact groove—less expansive, more direct, like a quick conversation instead of a long speech.

“Cothozani Bafana” shifts the energy again, injecting a playful bounce that hints at dancefloor instruction without ever becoming novelty.

“Igxababa Lembhadada” stretches out into deeper territory, the band settling into a groove that feels almost meditative. This is where the improvisational DNA really surfaces.

“Pho Usolani” closes things with a sense of resolution—not dramatic, not final, but complete.

Across all six tracks, what stands out is restraint. No one overplays. No one tries to dominate. The band functions like a single organism, each part moving in response to the others.

It’s impossible to separate this music from the conditions that produced it. South Africa in the mid-1970s was a place of severe restriction—but also intense cultural innovation. Nightclubs like The Pelican offered rare spaces of relative freedom, where musicians could experiment, absorb influences, and build hybrid styles. You can hear that hybridity everywhere on Thema Maboneng. American soul and funk seep in—echoes of Isaac Hayes are unmistakable in places—but they’re filtered through local rhythmic traditions and performance practices. At the same time, there’s a dialogue with South African jazz movements, including the innovations of Abdullah Ibrahim, whose work in the early 70s helped redefine the possibilities of Cape jazz.

Fast-forward a few decades. Enter crate diggers Kon and Amir, who unearthed tracks from the album and included them in Off Track Volume Two: Queens. Suddenly, collectors started whispering. Original pressings became mythic—“holy grail” status, the kind of record you hear about more than you actually see. Its eventual reissue nearly 50 years later didn’t feel like nostalgia. It felt like correction.

The grooves are uncluttered. The arrangements leave space. The production avoids gimmicks. Nothing ties it too tightly to 1975, which means it slips easily into 2025, 2035, or any dancefloor with a decent sound system. More importantly, the album understands momentum. It never rushes, never drags. It moves like a crowd that knows exactly where it’s going, even if no one has said it out loud.

Thema Maboneng is not just a rediscovered artifact—it’s a reminder that entire musical conversations can happen out of sight, waiting patiently for someone to tune in.  It’s a small album with a large gravitational pull: six tracks that quietly rewrite assumptions about where jazz, funk, and African popular music intersect.

If you approach it expecting a relic, it will surprise you.

If you approach it expecting a groove, it will reward you.

And if you let it play long enough, it may convince you that it was never really lost—just waiting for the world to catch up.