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.

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.