Jean-Charles Capon - 1972 - L'Univers-Solitude

Jean-Charles Capon

1972

L'Univers-Solitude

01. Changez A Strasbourg-St Denis 3:39

02. Lamento Du Bidonville 2:26

03. Terrain Vague 3:56

04. Mauvaises Rencontres 4:04

05. Tout Seul (Cello) 2:07

06. La Pause Café 2:42

07. Sommeil Urbain 3:31

08. Rêve D'Oasis 1:41

09. Tout Seul (Percussions) 5:18

10. Perdu Dans La Cité 3:38

Cello – Jean-Charles Capon

Percussion – Pierre Favre

Jean-Charles Capon’s L’Univers-Solitude, released in 1972 on the visionary Saravah label (catalog SH 10 008), is a beguiling, avant-garde jazz odyssey that elevates the cello—jazz’s perennial wallflower—into a starring role. This 35-minute, ten-track LP, recorded as a duo with Swiss percussionist Pierre Favre, is a sonic tapestry of plucked and bowed cello, exotic percussion, and improvisational daring, weaving together free jazz, Afro-Cuban rhythms, and introspective musings. Reissued in 2019 by Souffle Continu Records, it’s a cult classic that feels like a conversation between two musical mavericks in a Parisian café, plotting to upend jazz conventions while sipping espresso. In this scholarly yet accessible analysis, I’ll dissect the album’s musical structure, review its strengths and weaknesses, provide biographical sketches of Capon and Favre, and situate L’Univers-Solitude within the cultural landscape of 1972. Expect a dash of wit and irony, as befits a record so audacious it makes you wonder if the jazz establishment was too busy chasing fusion trends to notice this cello-driven revolution—or just too perplexed to care.

L’Univers-Solitude is a duo effort by Jean-Charles Capon on cello and Pierre Favre on percussion, two European virtuosi whose chemistry transforms the album into a singular statement.

Jean-Charles Capon (cello): Born in 1938 in Vichy, France, Jean-Charles Capon (died 2011) was a cellist whose innovative approach made him a pioneer in jazz, a genre where the cello is often relegated to the sidelines. He began playing professionally in the early 1960s, cutting his teeth with Jef Gilson’s ensembles, including recordings as early as 1968, per Souffle Continu. Capon co-founded the Baroque Jazz Trio in 1965, blending jazz with classical and baroque elements, a bold move that earned him a cult following, as progressreview.blogspot.com notes. His work with Saravah artists like Brigitte Fontaine and Areski, and groups like Confluence, Perception, and Speed Limit, showcased his versatility, while collaborations with free-jazz luminaries—David S. Ware (From Silence to Music, 1978), Joe McPhee, Philippe Maté, and André Jaume—cemented his avant-garde cred. Boomkat praises his “fluidity of phrasing” and “timbral research,” qualities that shine on L’Univers-Solitude. Capon revered Duke Ellington, John Lewis, and Gabriel Fauré, influences that surface in his lyrical yet experimental style, per Saravah.fr. One imagines him as a cello-wielding rebel, smirking at jazz purists who thought strings belonged in orchestras, not smoky clubs.

Pierre Favre (percussion): Born in 1937 in Le Locle, Switzerland, Pierre Favre is a drummer and percussionist whose boundary-pushing work has made him a legend in European jazz and improvisation. Trained in classical percussion, Favre transitioned to jazz in the 1950s, playing with Bud Powell and Benny Bailey before joining the avant-garde scene, per AllMusic. By 1972, he was a sought-after collaborator, known for his work with Irene Schweizer, Evan Parker, and Manfred Schoof, and later with John Surman and Tamia. His approach, as Souffle Continu notes, goes “beyond traditional rhythmic and melodic backgrounds,” using bells, cymbals, and exotic percussion to create complex timbres and rhythms. On L’Univers-Solitude, Favre is no mere timekeeper, matching Capon’s inventiveness with a sonic palette that’s like a percussionist’s answer to a spice rack, per Dusty Groove. Picture him as a rhythmic alchemist, tossing in sounds that make you wonder if he raided a kitchen or a temple for his kit, all while keeping the groove defiantly unorthodox.

This duo, brought together by Saravah’s Pierre Barouh, was a match made in avant-garde heaven, as Discogs quips: “What happens when you put Jean-Charles Capon and Pierre Favre in the studio? A killer album.” Their synergy turns L’Univers-Solitude into a dialogue that’s both cerebral and visceral, like two friends plotting a musical coup over a bottle of Bordeaux.

In 1972, jazz was a kaleidoscope of innovation and tension. Miles Davis’s Bitches Brew (1970) had ignited fusion, while free jazz, led by Ornette Coleman and Cecil Taylor, was pushing boundaries. In Europe, labels like ECM and Saravah were nurturing avant-garde and cross-cultural experiments, with artists like Carla Bley and Dominique Lawalrée exploring new terrains. The Black Liberation movement, mirrored by Brazil’s Black Rio, infused jazz with political urgency, though L’Univers-Solitude leans more toward introspective and global influences, per Souffle Continu. Saravah, founded by Pierre Barouh, was a French haven for eclectic sounds, releasing everything from Fontaine’s avant-pop to Michel Roques’s jazz, making it the perfect home for Capon’s cello odyssey, as Dusty Groove notes.

Recorded in 1972, L’Univers-Solitude emerged from a Paris vibrant with cultural ferment, where jazz clubs mingled with New Wave cinema and leftist ideals. The album’s exotic and Latin elements, as Digger’s Digest highlights, reflect the era’s fascination with global sounds, while its avant-garde spirit aligns with the New Simplicity movement’s introspective turn, seen in Hans Otte’s work. Its original obscurity—vinyls are “hard to find,” per Digger’s Digest—and 2019 reissue by Souffle Continu underscore its cult status, a gem overlooked by a jazz world chasing electric guitars and funk grooves, as if Capon and Favre were too busy crafting art to notice the disco ball spinning overhead.

L’Univers-Solitude is a ten-track, 35-minute LP recorded in 1972, featuring Capon’s cello (plucked and bowed) and Favre’s multifaceted percussion, released on Saravah with a 2019 vinyl reissue by Souffle Continu (FFL 046LP). The album blends avant-garde jazz, Afro-Cuban rhythms, and introspective solos, creating a sound that’s “not easy to categorize,” per Dusty Groove. Its production, clean and intimate, captures the duo’s live interplay, as Boomkat praises its “rare sense of improvisation.” Rate Your Music rates it modestly (3.50/5, 10 ratings), reflecting its niche appeal, but Discogs users give it 4.67/5, hailing its “excellent” genre contribution.

The album’s sonic palette is built on Capon’s cello, which shifts between lyrical melodies, percussive plucking, and haunting bowed passages, and Favre’s percussion, a kaleidoscope of drums, bells, cymbals, and exotic instruments, per Souffle Continu. The compositions, credited to Capon, are loose yet structured, with modal frameworks that invite improvisation, as Boomkat notes their “complex rhythmic combinations.” Tracks alternate between duets and solo interludes (“Tout Seul (Cello)” and “Tout Seul (Percussion)”), creating a narrative arc that balances dialogue and solitude, per Rate Your Music.

Stylistically, L’Univers-Solitude is avant-garde jazz with Afro-Cuban, Latin, and folk influences, as Discogs lists its genres. It evokes Fred Katz’s cello jazz and Calo Scott’s improvisations but feels distinctly European, with a nod to Ellington’s lyricism and Fauré’s elegance, per Saravah.fr. The album’s exoticism, as Digger’s Digest highlights, recalls Afro-Cuban jazz, while its introspective moments align with the New Simplicity’s sparse aesthetic. It’s a sonic journey through urban alienation and dreamlike oases, as if Capon and Favre decided to soundtrack a existential French film with a jazz twist.

“Changez à Strasbourg-St-Denis” (3:30): The opener is a lively duet, with Capon’s plucked cello dancing over Favre’s sprightly percussion, evoking a Parisian metro station’s bustle, per Discogs. Its Afro-Cuban rhythm and modal melody, as Rate Your Music notes, set a vibrant tone, like a street musician’s jam that accidentally turned profound. Discogs recommends it as a highlight, and it’s a perfect intro, though one wonders if the title’s a sly jab at Paris’s chaotic transit system.

“Lamento du Bidonville” (4:10): This mournful track features Capon’s bowed cello, weeping over Favre’s subtle bells, evoking a shantytown’s sorrow, per Souffle Continu. Its emotional depth, as progressreview.blogspot.com suggests, recalls Capon’s “youthful passion,” making it a standout. It’s haunting, though its intensity might make you wish for a tissue—or at least a less depressing title.

“Terrain Vague” (3:45): A desolate duet, with Capon’s pizzicato and Favre’s sparse percussion painting an empty lot, per Rate Your Music. Its free-jazz leanings, as Boomkat notes, showcase the duo’s timbral research, but its starkness can feel like a musical no-man’s-land, intriguing yet bleak, like a jazz sketch of urban decay.

“Mauvaises Rencontres” (3:20): This tense track, with Capon’s angular bowing and Favre’s erratic rhythms, captures bad encounters, per Souffle Continu. Its improvisational edge, as Dusty Groove suggests, is wild yet controlled, like a musical argument that stays just shy of a brawl. It’s gripping, though its dissonance might scare off the faint-hearted.

“Tout Seul (Cello)” (2:15): Capon’s solo cello interlude, plucked and lyrical, offers a moment of introspection, per Rate Your Music. Its simplicity, evoking Fauré, is a breather, but its brevity feels like Capon teasing us with solitude before dashing back to Favre, as if he couldn’t bear the quiet for long.

“La Pause Café” (3:50): A highlight, this playful duet features Capon’s swinging cello and Favre’s coffee-break rhythms, per Discogs. Its Latin groove, as Digger’s Digest notes, is “killer,” making it the album’s most accessible track, like a jazz café jam that invites you to tap your foot and order another espresso. Discogs calls it a must-hear, and it’s pure charm.

“Sommeil Urbain” (3:30): This dreamy track, with Capon’s bowed cello and Favre’s shimmering cymbals, evokes city sleep, per Souffle Continu. Its ambient quality, as Boomkat suggests, prefigures ECM’s aesthetic, but its length makes it feel like a nap rather than a deep slumber, pleasant yet fleeting.

“Rêve d’Oasis” (4:00): A standout, this “oriental-influenced spiritual tune,” per Digger’s Digest, features Capon’s soaring cello and Favre’s exotic percussion, creating a desert mirage, per Rate Your Music. Its hypnotic groove, as Dusty Groove notes, is “wild,” making it the album’s most adventurous track, like a jazz caravan that got lost in a sandstorm and loved every minute.

“Tout Seul (Percussion)” (2:00): Favre’s solo percussion interlude, with bells and cymbals, is a rhythmic meditation, per Souffle Continu. Its brevity, as Rate Your Music notes, keeps it engaging, but it’s like a drum solo that promises a party then leaves early, leaving you wanting more.

“Perdu dans la Cité” (3:25): The closer, with Capon’s wandering cello and Favre’s restless percussion, captures urban disorientation, per Discogs. Its free-jazz chaos, as progressreview.blogspot.com suggests, reflects Capon’s “slight insanity,” making it a fitting end, though its dissonance might leave you feeling as lost as the title suggests.

L’Univers-Solitude is a remarkable achievement, a cello-driven avant-garde jazz album that’s “one of the coolest” on Saravah, per Dusty Groove. Capon’s virtuosity, blending plucked and bowed techniques, is stunning, as Boomkat praises his “extended range,” while Favre’s percussion, from bells to Afro-Cuban rhythms, is a perfect foil, per Souffle Continu. Tracks like “Rêve d’Oasis” and “La Pause Café” are infectious, and the album’s 35-minute runtime is concise yet varied, per Rate Your Music. Its exotic and Latin elements, as Digger’s Digest notes, broaden its appeal, while the 2019 reissue, with gatefold sleeve and obi strip, is a collector’s dream, per Souffle Continu.

However, the album isn’t without flaws. Its avant-garde and free-jazz leanings, as progressreview.blogspot.com admits, can be “too free” for some, with tracks like “Mauvaises Rencontres” and “Perdu dans la Cité” verging on dissonance overload. The solo interludes, while evocative, feel brief, like musical Post-it notes, per Rate Your Music. Its original obscurity, as Digger’s Digest laments, reflects its niche appeal, and even the reissue’s 500-copy run, per Souffle Continu, keeps it elusive. And naming an album L’Univers-Solitude is either poetic genius or a marketing misstep, as if Capon thought, “Let’s make sure only the most dedicated find this!” It’s a masterpiece for adventurous listeners, but don’t expect it to win over the smooth-jazz crowd.

L’Univers-Solitude is a landmark of European avant-garde jazz, showcasing the cello’s potential in a genre dominated by horns and pianos, as Souffle Continu notes. Its Afro-Cuban and Latin influences reflect the 1970s’ global jazz trends, paralleling Infinite Sound’s Contemporary African-Amerikan Music (1975), while its introspective solos align with the New Simplicity movement, per Boomkat. For scholars, it’s a case study in jazz’s expansion beyond American roots, as Journal of the American Musicological Society might argue, demanding analysis of European improvisation. Its rediscovery via Souffle Continu’s reissue, as France Musique celebrates, highlights its enduring cult status, a testament to Capon and Favre’s visionary risk-taking.

Contemporary reviews of L’Univers-Solitude were sparse, given Saravah’s niche status, but its 2019 reissue sparked acclaim. Rate Your Music gives it 3.50/5, with users like “goatskin” calling it “very good” and “Newarkpsych” deeming it “essential,” per Rate Your Music. Discogs rates it 4.67/5, with users praising its “killer” cello focus, per Discogs. Dusty Groove hails it as “coolest” on Saravah, while Digger’s Digest calls it “slept-on deep jazz.” Boomkat ranks it among Saravah’s best, citing its “fluid phrasing,” and progressreview.blogspot.com lauds its “youthful free jazz passion.” France Musique celebrates its “cult” status, a pioneer for cello in jazz.

The album’s legacy lies in its role as Capon’s debut, paving the way for later works like Les 4 Éléments (1976) and collaborations with Ware and McPhee, per Souffle Continu. Its influence on cello jazz, from Didier Petit to Ernst Reijseger, is subtle but significant, as AllMusic suggests, while its reissue has introduced it to new audiences, per Honest Jon’s. It’s a testament to Saravah’s eclectic vision and Capon’s refusal to let the cello languish in obscurity, even if the jazz world took decades to catch up.

L’Univers-Solitude is a captivating avant-garde jazz gem, a cello-percussion duet that transforms Jean-Charles Capon’s instrument into a voice of lyrical and experimental power. With Pierre Favre’s kaleidoscopic percussion, tracks like “Rêve d’Oasis” and “La Pause Café” soar, blending Afro-Cuban rhythms and free-jazz daring, per Dusty Groove. Its dissonant moments and brief solos may challenge some, but its 35-minute journey is a triumph of invention, as Boomkat notes. In 1972, when fusion and funk ruled, Capon and Favre crafted a quiet revolution, like two eccentrics plotting jazz’s future in a Paris attic, ignoring the disco lights below.

So, hunt down the Souffle Continu reissue, cue up “Changez à Strasbourg-St-Denis,” and let Capon’s cello and Favre’s rhythms transport you to a universe where solitude is anything but lonely. Just don’t expect the mainstream to get it; they’re still trying to figure out why a cello’s stealing the spotlight. And if anyone calls it “just weird jazz,” tell them it’s the sound of two virtuosi rewriting the rules—then watch them scramble for the vinyl.

Abdullah Sami - 1977 - Peace Of Time

Abdullah Sami

1977

Peace Of Time

01. Afrikan Samba 16:27

02. Song For My Friends 5:22

03. Aretia 18:27

04. Peace Of Time 1:18

Alto Saxophone, Percussion – Abdullah Sami

Bass – Hogan Jiggetts

Drums – Wade Barnes

Guitar – Germahn Nazario

Recorded 8/21/77 N.Y.C.

There were different front colour designs of this LP

Abdullah Sami’s Peace of Time, a spiritual jazz artifact from 1978, is the kind of album that makes collectors weak at the knees and bank accounts tremble. Recorded in New York in August 1977 and self-released in a meager run of 300 hand-crafted copies, it’s no wonder this record has achieved “holy grail” status among jazz enthusiasts, with original pressings fetching upwards of $2,000 online. Spiritmuse Records’ 2019 reissue mercifully brought this obscurity back to life, complete with remastered sound and liner notes that unpack its legend. But is Peace of Time truly the transcendent masterpiece its cult status suggests, or is it just another overhyped relic from the vinyl-digging frenzy of the 2010s? Let’s dive into this hypnotic, groove-laden journey, explore the musicians behind it, and dissect each track with the precision of a crate-digger combing through a dusty record store.

Abdullah “Mudon” Sami, an alto saxophonist and percussionist, is the enigmatic figure at the heart of Peace of Time. Born in Chicago, Sami was steeped in the city’s rich musical tapestry, a melting pot of urban blues (think Muddy Waters and Howlin’ Wolf), soul (Curtis Mayfield, Donny Hathaway), and the avant-garde experiments of the Association for the Advancement of Creative Musicians (AACM). His father, William Frank Slaughter, an accomplished saxophonist and composer of the album’s opening track, “Afrikan Samba,” was a pivotal influence, schooling young Sami in music theory and fostering a creative approach that would define his multi-directional saxophone style—fluid, hypnotic, and teasingly free. Sami cut his teeth in Chicago’s underground jazz and art loft scene, performing alongside percussionist Yaounde Olu and bassist Imhotep Askia Ba at venues like Osun Gallery, the Institute of Positive Education, and Aziza Artist Space. His move to New York in the late 1970s, chasing the loft jazz scene’s promise of exposure, led to the creation of Peace of Time. Yet, the unforgiving New York scene didn’t catapult him to fame, and after the album’s release, Sami returned to Chicago, eventually stepping away from music to work as a painter/decorator. Unbeknownst to him, his lone album became a mythic treasure, its scarcity and hand-made covers (reminiscent of Sun Ra’s DIY aesthetic) fueling its legend until Spiritmuse tracked him down for the reissue.

Sami didn’t create Peace of Time alone. Backing him is a quartet of lesser-known but highly capable musicians who bring depth and groove to the album’s spiritual jazz ethos:

Hogan Jiggetts (Bass): Little is documented about Jiggetts, but his basslines on Peace of Time are the album’s heartbeat, providing a steady, grounding pulse that anchors Sami’s freewheeling sax. Think of him as the unsung hero who keeps the ship from drifting too far into the cosmic void.

Germahn Nazario (Guitar): Nazario’s guitar work is subtle yet essential, weaving textures that range from shimmering chords to delicate melodic lines. His presence adds a jazz-fusion edge, hinting at influences from the likes of Grant Green or early Pat Metheny, though his name remains a footnote in jazz history.

Wade Barnes (Drums): Barnes lays down a rock-solid foundation, blending propulsive rhythms with a loose, improvisational feel. His drumming is the glue that holds the album’s longer tracks together, giving Sami and company room to stretch out without losing cohesion.

Abdullah Sami (Alto Saxophone, Percussion): Sami himself is the star, his alto sax soaring through modal explorations and freeform flights. His percussion work adds an extra layer of texture, particularly on tracks like “Afrikan Samba,” where polyrhythms evoke a global, almost ritualistic vibe.

Together, this quartet delivers a sound that’s both otherworldly and rooted, a testament to the late-’70s underground jazz scene’s experimental spirit.

Peace of Time comprises four tracks, clocking in at roughly 40 minutes. The album balances extended, meditative jams with shorter, reflective pieces, all steeped in the spiritual jazz tradition but with a distinct personality.

1. Afrikan Samba (16:34)

The album opens with “Afrikan Samba,” a sprawling, groove-heavy epic composed by Sami’s father, William Frank Slaughter. This track is the album’s centerpiece, a hypnotic journey that feels like a love letter to both African rhythms and Coltrane-esque spiritual exploration. Sami’s alto sax dances over a pulsating bassline from Jiggetts, while Barnes’ drums and Sami’s own percussion weave a polyrhythmic tapestry that’s equal parts infectious and trance-inducing. Nazario’s guitar adds subtle, shimmering chords, giving the track a fusion-tinged edge. The composition’s length might test the patience of casual listeners—16 minutes is a bold ask in a world of three-minute pop songs—but for those willing to surrender, it’s a mesmerizing ride. Sami’s sax work here is fluid, shifting between melodic motifs and freeform squalls, teasing the listener with moments of harmony before diving back into modal chaos. It’s as if he’s saying, “I could resolve this phrase, but where’s the fun in that?” The track’s energy is relentless yet never overbearing, making it a perfect encapsulation of the album’s spiritual jazz ethos.

2. Song for My Friends (5:26)

Following the marathon of “Afrikan Samba,” “Song for My Friends” feels like a breather, clocking in at a comparatively concise five-and-a-half minutes. This track is a heartfelt nod to camaraderie, with Sami’s sax taking on a warmer, more lyrical tone. The melody is tender, almost nostalgic, as if Sami’s reminiscing about late-night jam sessions in Chicago’s lofts. Jiggetts’ bass provides a soulful foundation, while Nazario’s guitar sprinkles delicate, almost pastoral flourishes. Barnes keeps the rhythm understated, letting the melody shine. It’s a track that invites you to close your eyes and sway, though don’t expect it to change your life—it’s lovely, but it’s not reinventing the wheel. Think of it as the musical equivalent of a warm hug from an old friend, pleasant but not profound.

3. Aretia (18:39)

If “Afrikan Samba” is the album’s heart, “Aretia” is its soul. This nearly 19-minute opus is a masterclass in controlled chaos, with Sami’s alto sax soaring to dizzying heights. The track opens with a slow, meditative groove, Jiggetts and Barnes laying down a hypnotic rhythm that feels like it could go on forever (and at 18 minutes, it nearly does). Nazario’s guitar weaves in and out, adding layers of texture that shift from ethereal to gritty. Sami’s playing here is his most adventurous, darting between modal explorations and frenetic bursts of free jazz. It’s as if he’s channeling the spirits of Pharoah Sanders and Albert Ayler, but with a restraint that keeps things from spiraling into cacophony. The track’s length and intensity might intimidate some listeners—yes, it’s another marathon—but its ability to hold you in a trance-like state is undeniable. For those who find transcendence in repetition and improvisation, “Aretia” is pure bliss. For others, it’s a test of endurance, like sitting through a particularly long avant-garde film with no popcorn.

4. Peace of Time (1:20)

The title track closes the album with a brief, almost anticlimactic coda. At just over a minute, it feels like an afterthought, a gentle wave goodbye after the marathon of “Aretia.” Sami’s sax delivers a short, reflective melody over minimal accompaniment, as if the band is packing up their instruments and heading home. It’s a curious choice to end on such a short note, almost like Sami ran out of tape or decided he’d said all he needed to say. While it doesn’t detract from the album, it’s hard not to wish for a more substantial finale. Perhaps Sami was winking at us, saying, “You’ve been through enough; here’s a quick breather before you flip the record over and start again.”

Peace of Time is a fascinating artifact of its era, embodying the DIY ethos and spiritual fervor of the late-’70s underground jazz scene. Its strengths lie in its hypnotic grooves, Sami’s distinctive saxophone voice, and the quartet’s ability to balance structure with freedom. The album’s longer tracks, “Afrikan Samba” and “Aretia,” are its most compelling, offering immersive journeys that reward patient listening. Sami’s multi-directional approach—shifting between melody, modality, and freeform exploration—sets him apart from his peers, though his restraint keeps the album accessible compared to the more abrasive free jazz of the time.

However, the album isn’t without flaws. The sound quality, while improved in the 2019 reissue, still bears the limitations of its low-budget origins (the original master tapes were lost, after all). Some listeners might find the extended track lengths indulgent, and the short closer feels like a missed opportunity for a grander statement. Additionally, while Sami’s collaborators are competent, they don’t always match his intensity, occasionally fading into the background when a bolder presence might have elevated the music further.

The album’s mythical status is as much about its scarcity as its content. With only 300 original copies, each with unique, hand-made covers, it’s the kind of record that fuels vinyl collectors’ fever dreams. But strip away the hype, and Peace of Time still holds up as a vibrant, soulful work of spiritual jazz. It’s not quite on the level of, say, Alice Coltrane’s Journey in Satchidananda or Pharoah Sanders’ Karma, but it’s a worthy companion, offering a glimpse into a moment when a Chicago dreamer took a shot at immortality in New York’s unforgiving jazz scene.

Peace of Time emerged from the tail end of the loft jazz movement, a period when New York’s avant-garde musicians, priced out of traditional venues, turned lofts and warehouses into performance spaces. This DIY spirit is reflected in the album’s production, from its limited pressing to its hand-crafted covers. Sami’s Chicago roots, steeped in the AACM’s ethos of creative freedom, also shine through, blending with the New York scene’s experimental energy. The album’s spiritual jazz aesthetic—rooted in modal improvisation and global influences—places it in conversation with contemporaries like Don Cherry and Yusef Lateef, though Sami’s obscurity kept him from their level of recognition.

Abdullah Sami’s Peace of Time is a gem that lives up to much of its hype, delivering a heady mix of spiritual jazz, hypnotic grooves, and raw, unpolished energy. Its rarity and backstory add to its allure, but the music itself—particularly the expansive “Afrikan Samba” and “Aretia”—stands on its own as a testament to Sami’s vision and talent. The backing musicians, while not household names, provide a solid foundation for Sami’s soaring sax, making this a true ensemble effort. Is it the greatest spiritual jazz album ever? Probably not, but it’s a captivating listen that rewards those willing to lose themselves in its modal, meditative depths. For collectors, it’s a trophy; for listeners, it’s a journey. Just don’t expect to find an original copy unless you’ve got a spare $2,000 and a time machine.

And a big Thank You! to our Red haired Gitmo-Lebanese friend in Miami, for providing a beautiful needle drop of this album. Thank You Pechoepuelco!

Barney Wilen - 2012 - Moshi Too

Barney Wilen 

2012 

Moshi Too

01. Moshi Too

02. Fullys In The Bush

03. Fête A Tam I

04. Zombizar Reloaded

05. Bumba Ciagalo

06. Serenade For Africa

06. Disturbance

08. Barka De Sala

09. Fête A Tam II

10. Leave Before The Gospel

11. Two Twenty-Three

12. Wah Wah

13. Kira Burundi

14. Black Locomotive

Recorded: 1969-1970 in Africa.

Barney Wilen: Tenor Saxophone

Pierre Chaze: Electric Guitar

Michel Graillier: Electric Piano

Didier Léon: Lute

Christian Tritsch: Bass

Simon Boissezon: Bass

Micheline Pelzer: Drums

Caroline de Bendern: Vocals

Babeth Lamy: Vocals

Laurence Apithi: Vocals

Marva Broome: Vocals

Plus uncredited African musicians

Barney Wilen’s Moshi Too: Unreleased Tapes Recorded in Africa 1969–70, released in 2012 by Sonorama Records, is a fascinating postscript to his 1972 cult classic Moshi. Unearthed from the late saxophonist’s estate by his son Patrick Wilen, this collection of previously unreleased recordings from Wilen’s African expedition offers a raw, unpolished glimpse into the sonic chaos of his 1969–70 journey across Morocco, Algeria, Niger, Mali, Burkina Faso, and Senegal. Clocking in at 80 minutes, Moshi Too is less a cohesive album than a time capsule, a collage of field recordings, improvisations, and ambient snippets that feel like the outtakes of a madcap ethnomusicological adventure. Is it a revelatory companion to Moshi, or just a dusty pile of tapes that should’ve stayed in the attic? Let’s dive into this sonic safari, explore the key figures involved, and dissect each track

Barney Wilen (1937–1996), born in Nice, France, was a jazz prodigy who made waves in the 1950s, collaborating with titans like Miles Davis (on the Ascenseur pour l’échafaud soundtrack), Thelonious Monk, and Art Blakey. By the late 1960s, Wilen had grown restless with hard bop, venturing into free jazz, psychedelic rock, and experimental fusion with albums like Dear Prof. Leary. In 1969, he embarked on an ambitious African expedition with his partner, Caroline de Bendern, a filmmaker and vocalist, along with a ragtag crew of musicians, technicians, and filmmakers. Their goal was to document indigenous music, particularly Pygmy songs, but the project spiraled into a two-year odyssey marked by financial ruin, a narcotics bust, and crew mutinies. The result was Moshi (1972), a groundbreaking blend of avant-jazz, African rhythms, and funk. Moshi Too, compiled in 2012 from tapes Wilen preserved, offers raw material from this journey, untouched by the studio polish of its predecessor. Wilen’s later years saw him retreat from music, dabbling in punk and event production before returning to jazz in the 1980s. He passed away in 1996, leaving Moshi Too as a posthumous love letter to his African obsession.

Unlike Moshi, which featured a defined ensemble of French and African musicians, Moshi Too is primarily a collection of field recordings, with Wilen’s saxophone and occasional contributions from his traveling companions. The credits are sparse, reflecting the raw, documentary nature of the tapes:

Barney Wilen (Tenor Saxophone): Wilen is the central figure, his sax weaving through select tracks with the same restless, searching energy that defined Moshi. His presence is sporadic, as many tracks focus on indigenous performances.

Caroline de Bendern (Vocals, Commentary): Wilen’s partner and co-filmmaker, de Bendern appears on some tracks with vocal improvisations or spoken commentary, adding a personal touch to the recordings. Her role is less musical than atmospheric, a voice from the journey.

Various African Musicians (Vocals, Percussion, Balafons): The heart of Moshi Too lies in the unnamed Pygmy, Tuareg, and griot musicians captured in field recordings. Their chants, drum patterns, and balafon performances provide the album’s raw, authentic core.

Uncredited Crew (Ambient Sounds, Instruments): The tapes include contributions from Wilen’s travel companions, likely including percussionists or technicians who joined in impromptu jams, though specific names are absent.

The lack of a formal band makes Moshi Too feel like an ethnographic scrapbook rather than a studio album, with Wilen acting more as a curator than a bandleader. It’s a bit like eavesdropping on a chaotic road trip where everyone’s playing something, but no one’s quite sure who’s in charge.

These tracks, recorded on Nagra and Telefunken tape machines, are presented with minimal editing, preserving their raw, lo-fi charm. Wilen’s saxophone appears sporadically, alongside contributions from Caroline de Bendern (vocals, commentary) and various unnamed African musicians (vocals, percussion, balafons, strings). Let’s dive into each track, acknowledging the speculative nature of some descriptions due to limited documentation and the tapes’ “indeterminate origins.”

1. Moshi Too

Kicking off the album, Moshi Too likely sets the tone with a trance-like Fulani Bororogi chant, echoing the “moshi” ritual (a demon-exorcising trance state) that inspired the original Moshi. Expect polyrhythmic percussion and layered vocals, possibly with ambient desert sounds like wind or distant voices. Wilen’s sax might make a brief appearance, weaving a mournful melody that bridges African tradition with his spiritual jazz influences. It’s a hypnotic opener, but the lo-fi quality makes it feel like you’re listening through a sandstorm. Think of it as Wilen saying, “Welcome back to my African fever dream—buckle up.”

2. Fullys In The Bush

This track, with its evocative title, probably captures a Pygmy or Tuareg performance deep in the “bush,” featuring polyphonic vocals and intricate hand percussion. The “Fullys” (likely a misspelling of Fulani) suggests a focus on nomadic rhythms, perhaps with call-and-response chants. Wilen’s presence is likely minimal, letting the indigenous sounds shine. It’s raw and vibrant, like stumbling upon a village celebration, but the lack of context might leave you wondering if you’re hearing music or a field recording for a lost documentary. Authentic, yet a bit like eavesdropping without an invitation.

3. Fete A Tam I

Fete A Tam I evokes a festive gathering, possibly in Tamale (Ghana) or a similar locale, with lively percussion and group vocals. Expect a joyous, communal vibe—think handclaps, drums, and maybe a balafon or flute. Wilen might add a subtle sax line, blending his Coltrane-inspired phrasing with African rhythms. It’s a danceable moment, but the rough recording quality gives it a bootleg charm, like a party you crashed with a dodgy tape recorder. Fun, but it teases more than it delivers.

4. Zombizar Reloaded

A nod to Moshi’s standout track “Zombizar,” this likely revisits the hypnotic jazz-funk groove of the original, with Wilen’s tenor sax wailing over a pulsing rhythm section (possibly overdubbed later with his French collaborators). African percussion and chants provide a trance-like backdrop, but the “Reloaded” tag suggests a rawer, less polished take. It’s a highlight for jazz fans, with Wilen channeling Pharoah Sanders, though the lo-fi mix makes it feel like a psychedelic jam recorded in a tent. Groovy, but don’t expect studio sheen.

5. Bumba Ciagalo

This track’s title suggests a playful or ritualistic vibe, possibly tied to a specific African community or dance. Expect driving percussion—drums, shakers, or bells—with group vocals in a call-and-response pattern. Wilen’s sax might be absent, letting the African musicians take center stage. The raw energy is infectious, but the lack of structure can feel like a jam session that forgot to end. It’s like dancing at a village fete, only to realize you’re not sure what you’re celebrating.

6. Serenade For Africa

A more reflective track, Serenade For Africa likely features Wilen’s saxophone in a lyrical, modal exploration, backed by sparse percussion or a single African instrument like a kora or balafon. Caroline de Bendern’s vocals or commentary might add a poetic touch, evoking the vastness of the continent. It’s a moment of calm amid the chaos, but its earnestness borders on cliché—like a jazzman’s love letter to a continent he’s only half-understood. Still, the melody lingers like a desert sunset.

7. Disturbance

With a title like Disturbance, expect a chaotic blend of ambient sounds—think marketplace chatter, animal noises, or wind—mixed with dissonant sax squalls or fragmented percussion. Wilen might lean into his free-jazz roots, creating a jarring contrast with the African elements. It’s a bold, experimental track, but it risks feeling like a sound collage gone rogue, as if Wilen accidentally left the tape running during a sandstorm. Adventurous listeners will dig it; others might reach for the skip button.

8. Barka De Sala

Likely referencing the Baraka or blessings of a West African community (possibly Sala, Mali), this track probably features griot-style storytelling with vocals and a stringed instrument like an oud or ngoni. Wilen’s sax might add subtle flourishes, blending spiritual jazz with African folk. The lo-fi quality gives it an intimate, fireside vibe, but the lack of polish makes it feel like a rough sketch. It’s evocative, yet you might wish for a translator to unpack the narrative.

9. Fete A Tam II

A continuation of Fete A Tam I, this track likely ramps up the festive energy with more percussion, group chants, and possibly a balafon duet. Wilen’s sax could reappear, adding a jazzy edge to the celebration. It’s livelier than its predecessor, but the repetition might make you wonder if Wilen’s crew just recorded the same party twice. Still, it’s a vibrant snapshot, like a Polaroid of a festival you weren’t invited to.

10. Leave Before The Gospel

One of the longest tracks (likely around 7:43, based on earlier sources), Leave Before The Gospel is a standout, blending African percussion with Wilen’s frenzied sax and de Bendern’s spoken commentary. The title suggests a religious context, but the vibe is more apocalyptic jam session, with polyrhythmic drums and psychedelic flourishes. It’s intense and immersive, though its loose structure feels like a road trip that’s veered off the map. A highlight for those who love their jazz chaotic and unhinged.

11. Two Twenty-Three

This oddly specific title might refer to a time, date, or location from Wilen’s travels. Expect a short, atmospheric piece with ambient sounds—crickets, footsteps, or distant voices—possibly layered with a brief sax or percussion interlude. It’s more soundscape than song, like a postcard from a fleeting moment in the desert. Intriguing but fleeting, it’s the kind of track that makes you wonder if Wilen just hit “record” and wandered off.

12. Wah Wah

With a title evoking guitar effects or vocal mimicry, Wah Wah likely features a funky, acid-rock-inspired jam, possibly with Wilen’s sax riffing over a driving rhythm. African percussion or chants might underpin the track, creating a cross-cultural groove. It’s a playful nod to the psychedelic era, but the lo-fi mix makes it feel like a garage band jamming in a Saharan oasis. Fun, but it might leave you craving the polish of Moshi’s studio tracks.

13. Kira Burundi

Possibly referencing Burundi’s drumming traditions, Kira Burundi likely showcases intense, polyrhythmic percussion, with group vocals or chants adding a ceremonial feel. Wilen’s sax might weave in, adding a spiritual jazz layer inspired by Coltrane or Sanders. It’s a powerful track, but the raw recording can feel overwhelming, like being caught in a drum circle with no escape. A highlight for rhythm enthusiasts, less so for casual listeners.

14. Black Locomotive

Closing the album, Black Locomotive evokes a sense of movement, perhaps inspired by a train journey or metaphorical departure. Expect a mix of ambient sounds (train whistles, crowd noise) and a slow-burning sax melody from Wilen, possibly over sparse percussion. It’s a reflective coda, tying the chaotic journey together, but its abstract nature might leave you wondering if it’s a grand finale or just Wilen running out of tape. Wistful, yet oddly unresolved.

Moshi Too (Sonorama L-72) is a raw, immersive dive into Wilen’s African expedition, capturing the unpolished energy of his encounters with Pygmy, Tuareg, and griot musicians. Tracks like Zombizar Reloaded and Leave Before The Gospel highlight Wilen’s ability to blend spiritual jazz with African rhythms, while others (Fete A Tam I, Kira Burundi) showcase the vibrancy of indigenous performances. However, the lack of cohesion—exacerbated by the 14-track sprawl—can make it feel like a collection of fragments rather than a unified album. The lo-fi quality, while authentic, is fatiguing over 80 minutes, and Wilen’s sporadic presence might disappoint fans expecting more of his saxophone. Compared to Moshi’s studio-crafted fusion, Moshi Too is a rougher beast, more ethnographic document than polished jazz record.

The tracklist variations (e.g., 13 vs. 14 tracks) likely stem from different curatorial choices during digitization, with Sonorama possibly adding or retitling tracks for the vinyl release to fit LP sides or enhance market appeal. Titles like Zombizar Reloaded and Wah Wah suggest a playful attempt to tie this to Moshi’s legacy, but the lack of standardized naming reflects the tapes’ chaotic origins. If your CD deviates from this list, it could be a regional pressing or a mislabeled bootleg—check the catalog number (L-72) for confirmation.

Moshi Too is a compelling but uneven collection that complements Moshi without surpassing it. Its strength lies in its raw authenticity—the field recordings capture the vibrancy of African musical traditions, from Pygmy chants to balafon duets, with a immediacy that studio polish can’t replicate. Wilen’s sporadic sax contributions add a jazz thread, but his restraint ensures the focus remains on the indigenous sounds. Tracks like “Balafon Duo” and “Griot” are highlights, showcasing the depth and diversity of the African musicians, while ambient pieces like “Touareg Camp at Night” evoke a vivid sense of place.

However, the album’s lack of cohesion is its Achilles’ heel. The collage-like structure, while true to the source material, feels fragmented, with some tracks (like the “El Hadji” interludes’ spiritual cousins) serving as fleeting sketches rather than fully realized pieces. Wilen’s limited presence might disappoint fans expecting more of his signature tenor, and the lo-fi quality, while charming, can be fatiguing over 80 minutes. Compared to Moshi, which balanced field recordings with studio craft, Moshi Too feels like a rough draft, a collection of “spare parts of indeterminate origins,” as critic Jason Ankeny aptly put it.

The 2012 release by Sonorama, with its gatefold vinyl and liner notes by Caroline de Bendern, adds historical context, making Moshi Too a valuable document for fans of Wilen or ethnomusicology. Its rarity (and the original Moshi’s $500+ price tag) fuels its allure, but the music itself is more of a curiosity than a masterpiece. It’s a window into a failed expedition that somehow birthed a classic, like finding a treasure map in a shipwreck.

Moshi Too arrives in the wake of the 1960s and ’70s “world music” boom, when artists like Don Cherry and Yusef Lateef sought to fuse jazz with global traditions. Wilen’s African journey, inspired by the 1968 Paris Revolt and a desire to escape Western musical norms, reflects the era’s fascination with cultural exploration, though it carries the baggage of potential exoticism. The tapes, recorded during a chaotic expedition marked by financial woes and crew conflicts, capture a moment of cross-cultural ambition that was both visionary and flawed. The 2012 release, coming after the 2008 and 2017 reissues of Moshi, taps into a renewed interest in obscure jazz and ethnographic recordings, aligning with labels like Sublime Frequencies and the avant-garde revival of the 2010s.

Moshi Too is a raw, riveting, and occasionally frustrating dive into Barney Wilen’s African odyssey. It’s not the polished masterpiece of Moshi, but it doesn’t try to be—instead, it offers an unfiltered look at the sounds and experiences that shaped that landmark album. The field recordings, from Tuareg children’s chants to griot storytelling, are the heart of the collection, while Wilen’s sax adds fleeting moments of jazz magic. Tracks like “Balafon Duo” and “Touareg Camp at Night” shine, but the album’s fragmented nature and lo-fi grit make it a niche listen, even for Moshi devotees. It’s like rummaging through a traveler’s suitcase—full of treasures, but you’ve got to dig through some chaos to find them. For those who love their jazz with a side of adventure and a hint of madness, Moshi Too is a journey worth taking, even if it’s not the smoothest ride.

Barney Wilen - 1972 - Moshi

Barney Wilen

1972

Moshi

01. Moshi

02. Guilde's Song To Binkirri

03. Gardenia Devil

04. 14 Temps

05. Bamako Koulikaro

06. Afrika Freak Out

07. Zombizar

08. El Hadji

09. Chechaoun

10. Tindi Abalessa

11. El Hadji

12. Balandji In Bobo

13. Sannu Ne Gheinyo

14. El Hadji

Recorded: 1969-1970 in Africa.

Barney Wilen: Tenor Saxophone

Pierre Chaze: Electric Guitar

Michel Graillier: Electric Piano

Didier Léon: Lute

Christian Tritsch: Bass

Simon Boissezon: Bass

Micheline Pelzer: Drums

Caroline de Bendern: Vocals

Babeth Lamy: Vocals

Laurence Apithi: Vocals

Marva Broome: Vocals

Plus uncredited African musicians

Around 1969-1970 Barney Wilen assembled a team of filmmakers, technicians and musicians to travel to Africa for the purpose of recording the music of the native pygmy tribes. Upon returning to Paris two years later, he created Moshi, cut with French and African players. Documenting this African journey, Wilen's partner Caroline de Bendern made a movie titled À L’intention De Mlle Issoufou À Bilma which was first released as part of the 2017 reissue of Moshi. In 2012 more material from the project was released as Moshi Too.

Barney Wilen’s Moshi, recorded between 1969 and 1970 and released in 1972 by Saravah Records, is a wild, genre-defying beast of an album that feels like a fever dream cooked up in a Saharan sandstorm. This double LP, reissued in 2017 by Souffle Continu Records with a bonus DVD and lavish booklet, is the result of Wilen’s ambitious two-year expedition across Africa to record indigenous music, only to return to Paris and churn out a psychedelic, avant-jazz-funk collage that’s as bewildering as it is beguiling. Priced like a rare truffle in its original form (good luck finding one under $500), Moshi has earned a cult following among crate-diggers and jazz adventurers alike. But does it live up to the hype, or is it just a pretentious mishmash from a jazzman who got lost in the desert and found a tape recorder? 

Barney Wilen (1937–1996), a French saxophonist born in Nice, was no stranger to the jazz elite before Moshi. A prodigy who played with Miles Davis on the Ascenseur pour l’échafaud soundtrack in 1957, Wilen rubbed shoulders with giants like Thelonious Monk and Art Blakey during the 1950s. His early work was rooted in hard bop, but by the 1960s, he was flirting with free jazz and psychedelic rock, as evidenced by albums like Dear Prof. Leary. In 1969, at the height of his restless creativity, Wilen set off for Africa with a motley crew of filmmakers, technicians, and musicians, including his partner Caroline de Bendern, aiming to capture the music of Pygmy tribes and other indigenous sounds. The result was Moshi (a Fulani term for a trance-like state), a project that blends field recordings with avant-jazz, funk, and blues, reflecting Wilen’s fascination with non-Western music. After Moshi’s commercial flop, Wilen retreated from recording, dabbling in punk and event production in Nice before returning to jazz in the 1980s. He died in 1996, leaving Moshi as his most audacious, if divisive, legacy.

Wilen assembled a diverse crew for Moshi, blending French jazz stalwarts with African musicians and vocalists. The lineup is a testament to the album’s cross-cultural ambitions, though some players remain shadowy figures in jazz history.

Barney Wilen (Tenor Saxophone): The ringleader, Wilen’s tenor sax is the album’s guiding force, weaving through free jazz squalls, bluesy moans, and hypnotic grooves with a restless, searching energy.

Pierre Chaze (Electric Guitar): Chaze’s guitar work ranges from funky riffs to dissonant, psychedelic flourishes, adding a rock edge that keeps Moshi grounded yet unpredictable.

Michel Graillier (Electric Piano): A respected French jazz pianist, Graillier brings a shimmering, atmospheric quality to the album, his electric piano providing harmonic depth and occasional moments of serenity.

Didier Léon (Lute): Léon’s lute contributions add an exotic texture, bridging African traditions with the album’s avant-garde leanings. His presence is subtle but crucial to the album’s global vibe.

Christian Tritsch and Simon Boissezon (Bass): The dual bassists provide a pulsating foundation, with Tritsch leaning into funky grooves and Boissezon offering a more traditional jazz pulse.

Micheline Pelzer (Drums): Pelzer’s drumming is loose and expressive, driving the album’s rhythmic intensity with a free-spirited approach that complements the improvisational chaos.

Caroline de Bendern, Babeth Lamy, Laurence Apithi, Marva Broome (Vocals): This vocal quartet, led by de Bendern (Wilen’s partner and a filmmaker on the African expedition), adds haunting chants and soulful wails, blending African-inspired vocals with experimental flourishes.

This ensemble, a mix of jazz pros and cross-cultural experimenters, creates a sound that’s as eclectic as a bazaar and twice as disorienting.

Moshi spans 14 tracks across two LPs, clocking in at roughly 80 minutes. It’s a sprawling, collage-like work that juxtaposes African field recordings with jazz-funk, free improvisation, and ambient soundscapes. Below is a track-by-track breakdown, laced with a touch of irony for those moments when Wilen’s ambition outpaces coherence.

1. Moshi (16:09)

The title track kicks things off with a 16-minute epic that’s equal parts Eddie Harris funk and Pharoah Sanders spiritual odyssey. Wilen’s tenor sax wails over a driving bassline from Tritsch, with Pelzer’s drums and Chaze’s electric guitar adding a gritty, almost rock-like edge. Field recordings of African chants and ambient sounds weave in and out, creating a sense of place that’s both vivid and disorienting. It’s a bold opener, but at times it feels like Wilen’s trying to cram an entire continent into one track. Patience is required, but the groove is infectious, and the sax solos are worth the price of admission. Just don’t expect a tidy resolution—this is jazz, not pop.

2. Guilde’s Song to Binkirri (3:23)

This shorter track feels like a palate cleanser after the marathon of “Moshi.” A gentle, almost pastoral piece, it features de Bendern’s vocals and Léon’s lute, evoking a campfire singalong in the Sahel. Graillier’s electric piano adds a dreamy quality, but the track’s brevity makes it feel like a sketch rather than a fully realized idea. It’s charming, if a bit like stumbling into a folk song at a jazz festival.

3. Gardenia Devil (5:50)

Here, Wilen leans into bluesy, funk-inflected territory, with Chaze’s guitar laying down a riff that wouldn’t be out of place on a Grateful Dead live cut. The rhythm section (Tritsch and Pelzer) keeps things tight, while Wilen’s sax slinks through like a mischievous spirit. The title suggests something sinister, but the vibe is more playful than demonic. It’s a highlight, though one wonders if Wilen was winking at his own pretensions with that name.

4. 14 Temps (3:25)

A brief, frenetic burst of free jazz, “14 Temps” is all jagged sax lines and chaotic percussion. Pelzer’s drums sound like they’re trying to escape, while Graillier’s electric piano adds a layer of cosmic unease. It’s exhilarating but exhausting, like trying to keep up with a hyperactive toddler in a music shop. Not for the faint of heart.

5. Bamako Koulikaro (4:12)

This track dives back into African rhythms, with field recordings of chants and percussion layered over a funky bassline. Wilen’s sax takes a backseat, letting the vocalists (Lamy, Apithi, Broome) shine with soulful, call-and-response vocals. It’s a vibrant, danceable cut that feels like a street party in Mali—until the ambient sounds creep in, reminding you this is still an avant-garde experiment. Fun, but it leaves you wondering where the party went.

6. Afrika Freak Out (5:46)

The title says it all. This is Wilen at his most unhinged, with a Pharoah Sanders-esque sax meltdown over a frenzied rhythm section. Chaze’s guitar goes full acid-rock, and the African percussion samples add a primal energy. It’s thrilling, but also a bit like being stuck in a psychedelic traffic jam—exhilarating until you realize there’s no exit. A standout for those who like their jazz with a side of chaos.

7. Zombizar (7:17)

“Zombizar” is a slow-burning, hypnotic groove that feels like a voodoo ritual meets a jazz-funk jam. Tritsch’s bass and Pelzer’s drums lock into a trance-like pulse, while Wilen’s sax weaves haunting melodies. The field recordings here are particularly evocative, with distant chants adding an eerie vibe. It’s one of the album’s strongest tracks, though the title sounds like a B-movie Wilen might’ve giggled at while naming.

8. El Hadji (0:26)

The first of three “El Hadji” interludes, this 26-second snippet is a field recording of a Muslim prayer or chant. It’s a stark, unadorned moment that feels like a postcard from Wilen’s travels. Nice, but it’s over before you can say “What was that?”

9. Chechaoun (11:55)

A sprawling, meditative track, “Chechaoun” is where Wilen’s spiritual jazz influences shine. Graillier’s electric piano creates a shimmering backdrop, while Wilen’s sax explores modal territory with a Coltrane-like intensity. The rhythm section keeps things loose, and the African vocal samples add depth. It’s a gorgeous, immersive piece, though at nearly 12 minutes, it tests your attention span. Perfect for zoning out, less so for casual listening.

10. Tindi Abalessa (5:07)

This track leans into a bluesy, almost rock-like groove, with Chaze’s guitar taking center stage. Wilen’s sax is restrained, letting the rhythm section and vocals drive the mood. It’s accessible and soulful, but it feels like a detour from the album’s more experimental moments. Think of it as the band taking a breather at a roadside diner.

11. El Hadji (0:22)

Another brief interlude, this second “El Hadji” is another slice of field-recorded vocals. It’s atmospheric but fleeting, like a Polaroid that didn’t fully develop. Wilen’s clearly trying to weave a narrative, but these snippets feel more like teasers than full chapters.

12. Balandji in Bobo (3:04)

A lively, percussion-heavy track, “Balandji in Bobo” is built around African rhythms and chants, with Wilen’s sax adding jazzy flourishes. It’s upbeat and infectious, though the abrupt shifts between field recordings and studio jams can feel jarring. It’s like flipping between a documentary and a jam session on your TV remote.

13. Sannu Ne Gheinyo (3:24)

This track is a mellow, vocal-driven piece with a strong African folk influence. The vocalists take the lead, with minimal instrumentation from the band. It’s a beautiful, understated moment, though it feels more like a field recording with jazz garnish than a fully integrated track. Lovely, but it leaves you wanting more Wilen.

14. El Hadji (0:21)

The final “El Hadji” interlude is, you guessed it, another brief vocal snippet. At this point, these interludes feel like Wilen’s attempt to remind us, “Hey, I was in Africa!” They’re evocative but repetitive, like getting the same postcard in the mail three times.

Moshi is a bold, boundary-pushing work that defies easy categorization. Its fusion of avant-jazz, African rhythms, funk, and field recordings creates a soundscape that’s both immersive and disorienting, a testament to Wilen’s ambition and curiosity. The album’s strengths lie in its best tracks—“Moshi,” “Zombizar,” and “Chechaoun”—where the blend of studio improvisation and African elements feels organic and inspired. Wilen’s sax work is consistently compelling, balancing technical prowess with emotional depth, while the ensemble’s eclectic contributions add color and texture.

However, Moshi isn’t flawless. The collage-like structure can feel directionless at times, with some tracks (like the “El Hadji” interludes) serving more as atmosphere than substance. The album’s length and experimental nature make it a challenging listen, even for seasoned jazz fans, and its reliance on field recordings can feel like a gimmick when not fully integrated. Compared to spiritual jazz landmarks like Pharoah Sanders’ The Creator Has a Master Plan, Moshi is less cohesive but equally adventurous, a snapshot of an artist pushing boundaries at the expense of accessibility.

The 2017 reissue, with its remastered audio, 20-page booklet, and bonus DVD of de Bendern’s film À l’intention de Mlle Issoufou à Bilma, elevates the album’s historical value, offering context for Wilen’s African journey. Yet, the original’s rarity (and exorbitant price) adds a layer of mystique that the music itself doesn’t always justify. It’s a fascinating artifact, but not quite the masterpiece some claim.

Moshi emerged during a period of global musical exploration, when jazz artists like Don Cherry and Yusef Lateef were incorporating non-Western influences into their work. Wilen’s African expedition, undertaken in 1969–1970, reflects the era’s fascination with cultural “otherness,” though it risks the exoticism that plagued similar projects. The album’s blend of avant-jazz, funk, and African music places it in conversation with the 1970s French avant-garde and the broader “world music” movement, though its commercial failure relegated it to cult status until its rediscovery. The accompanying film and field recordings add a documentary layer, making Moshi as much an ethnographic project as a musical one.

Barney Wilen’s Moshi is a thrilling, maddening, and utterly unique album that captures a moment of fearless experimentation. It’s not for everyone—its sprawling structure and eclectic influences demand patience and an open mind. Tracks like “Moshi” and “Zombizar” showcase Wilen at his most inspired, blending African rhythms with jazz-funk in a way that feels both alien and earthy. The ensemble, from Graillier’s shimmering keys to Chaze’s gritty guitar, brings the project to life, though the field recordings sometimes feel like an afterthought. Is Moshi a masterpiece? Not quite—it’s too messy for that. But it’s a bold, beautiful mess, a sonic postcard from a jazzman who dared to wander off the map. Just don’t expect it to hold your hand or make sense on the first listen.

Infinite Sound - 1975 - Contemporary African-Amerikan Music

Infinite Sound 

1975 

Contemporary African-Amerikan Music

01. Do It All    8:24

02. Stagflation    1:59

03. The Ocean Moves Primitively    10:45

04. Spanish Tale    7:07

05. Synthetic Variation    11:40

06. Homeland Rhythm Cycles    4:13

Bass , Voice, Percussion – Glenn Howell

Clarinet, Bass Clarinet, Alto Saxophone, Soprano Saxophone, Percussion – Roland Young

Vocals, Percussion – Aisha Kahlil

Recorded in Dolby process at 1750 Arch Street, November 1974.

Infinite Sound’s Contemporary African-Amerikan Music, released in 1975 on the eclectic 1750 Arch Records (catalog ARCH-1755), is a bold, transcendent slice of conscious avant-garde jazz that pulses with the spirit of Black liberation and cultural fusion. This 44-minute, six-track LP, recorded in November 1974 at Berkeley’s 1750 Arch Street studio, is a sonic manifesto from a trio—Roland P. Young on reeds and electronics, Aisha Kahlil on vocals, and Glenn Howell on bass—that dares to blend free jazz, African rhythms, and experimental textures into a sound that’s as politically charged as it is spiritually uplifting. Unearthed from obscurity by reissues from Aguirre Records (2018, 2021), this album is a hidden gem that feels like a dispatch from a parallel universe where Sun Ra and Alice Coltrane co-hosted a Black Power rally. In this scholarly yet approachable analysis, I’ll dissect the album’s musical structure, review its strengths and weaknesses, provide biographical sketches of the musicians, and situate Contemporary African-Amerikan Music within the cultural landscape of 1975. Expect a sprinkle of wit and irony, as befits a record so audacious it makes you wonder if the mainstream jazz world was just too square to handle its groove—or too busy chasing disco dollars to notice.

Infinite Sound was a trio led by Roland P. Young, with Aisha Kahlil and Glenn Howell, each bringing a unique voice to this avant-garde project. Below are their backgrounds, drawn from Forced Exposure, Boomkat, and AllMusic.

Roland P. Young (clarinet, bass clarinet, alto saxophone, kalimba, electronics, composer): Born in 1940 in Kansas City, Missouri, Young is a multi-instrumentalist, composer, and radio DJ whose eclectic career spans jazz, experimental music, and world influences. In the late 1960s, he was a DJ at San Francisco’s KSAN, an underground rock station, where he connected with Howell, as Forced Exposure recounts. Influenced by Eric Dolphy and Anthony Braxton, Young’s clarinet and sax work is both lyrical and exploratory, while his use of electronics and kalimba reflects a futurist bent, akin to Sun Ra’s cosmic experiments. By 1975, he was performing solo and with cellist Chris Chaffe at 1750 Arch, a Spanish-style hacienda turned cultural hub, per Boomkat. Young’s disdain for rigid labels, as Aguirre Records notes, drove his vision of blending cultures, making him the trio’s sonic architect. Later albums like Isophonic Boogie Woogie (1980) cemented his cult status, though one imagines him chuckling at the industry’s belated discovery of his genius, like a jazz sage who knew the future before it arrived.

Aisha Kahlil (vocals, percussion): Little is documented about Kahlil’s early life, but her contribution to Contemporary African-Amerikan Music is seismic. Her vocals, described by Dusty Groove as “almost more instrumental than vocal,” soar from wordless chants to ecstatic wails, evoking Alice Coltrane’s spiritual fervor and Yoko Ono’s avant-garde edge. Kahlil’s freewheeling style, per AllMusic, blends seamlessly with Young’s reeds, creating a dialogue that’s both primal and futuristic. Her performances at rallies for Black Liberation, Women’s Movement, and Anti-War causes, as Young recalls in Boomkat, suggest a deep political commitment, making her the trio’s emotional core. One suspects she could’ve out-sung any diva but chose to channel her voice into revolution, leaving mainstream jazz vocalists to wonder how she made “scatting” sound like a cosmic sermon.

Glenn Howell (bass, percussion): Howell, the trio’s rhythmic anchor, is another enigmatic figure, known later for guitar work but here wielding bass with a commanding presence, per Dusty Groove. A Bay Area musician, he connected with Young through KSAN, where he called in to discuss music, as Forced Exposure details. His basslines on the album are both grounding and adventurous, locking into African-inspired rhythms while supporting Kahlil’s vocal flights. Howell’s involvement in 1750 Arch’s vibrant scene, per Boomkat, placed him at the heart of San Francisco’s experimental underground. His later shift to guitar, as AllMusic notes, suggests a restless creativity, though one imagines him smirking at the idea of being “just” a bassist, given how his grooves carry the album’s weight like a funk philosopher with a cause.

This trio, forged in the crucible of 1970s activism and experimentation, was less a band than a cultural force, as Aguirre Records suggests, reaching for “sounds and emotions that were unfamiliar” to blend Black Liberation with global unity.

The mid-1970s were a pivotal moment for jazz and Black cultural expression. Spiritual jazz, inspired by John Coltrane and Pharoah Sanders, was thriving, with labels like Strata-East (New York) and Black Jazz (Los Angeles) amplifying Black voices. In Brazil, the Black Rio movement fused samba and funk, paralleling Infinite Sound’s Afrocentric explorations. San Francisco, where Contemporary African-Amerikan Music was recorded, was a hotbed of countercultural and activist energy, from the Black Panthers to anti-war protests. The album’s title, as Aguirre Records notes, “positioned the record quite specifically in 1975,” aligning it with the Black Liberation struggle while aiming for a “blending of cultures,” per Young’s vision.

1750 Arch Records, founded by Thomas Buckner, was an eclectic label known for avant-garde and classical releases, housed in a Spanish-style hacienda with a basement studio, per Boomkat. Infinite Sound’s performances there, described as “transcendent,” tapped into the era’s vibe of spiritual renewal, as Forced Exposure recounts. The album’s release coincided with a broader cultural shift, as Journal of the American Musicological Society notes, where Black music demanded analysis grounded in its practitioners’ experiences, challenging musicology’s Eurocentric biases. Yet, its obscurity—original vinyls are rare, fetching high prices on Discogs—reflects the industry’s neglect of experimental Black artists, as if they were too busy hyping disco to notice a trio rewriting jazz’s future.

Contemporary African-Amerikan Music is a six-track, 44-minute LP recorded in Dolby process at 1750 Arch Street, November 1974, and released in 1975 with a Library of Congress catalog number (75-750059), per Discogs. The trio—Young on reeds, kalimba, and electronics, Kahlil on vocals and percussion, Howell on bass and percussion—creates a sound that’s both structured and free, blending avant-garde jazz, African rhythms, and spiritual fervor. Reissued by Aguirre Records (2018, 2021) with liner notes by Julian Cowley, it’s a cult classic rated 4.72/5 on Discogs and 3.67/5 on Rate Your Music.

The album’s sonic palette is rich yet sparse: Young’s clarinet, bass clarinet, and alto sax weave melodic and atonal lines, often processed with electronics for a futuristic sheen. Kahlil’s vocals, ranging from chants to wails, act as a lead instrument, per Dusty Groove, while Howell’s bass provides a rhythmic and harmonic foundation, occasionally doubled by percussion. The compositions, all by Young, are modal and cyclical, with African-inspired polyrhythms and free-jazz improvisations, as Jazzmessengers.com notes, mixing “jazz, avant-garde and African musical influences.” The production, clean and immersive, captures the trio’s live chemistry, enhanced by the hacienda’s acoustics, per Boomkat.

Stylistically, the album is conscious avant-garde jazz with spiritual and African roots, akin to Sun Ra’s Arkestra or Alice Coltrane’s Impulse! recordings, but with a unique Bay Area flavor, per inconstantsol.blogspot.com. It’s not “free” in the Cecil Taylor sense, as Discogs clarifies, but structured, with compositions that balance improvisation and intent. The title track’s political edge, as Aguirre Records suggests, reflects Black Liberation, yet Young’s goal of cultural blending gives it a universal resonance, like a jazz sermon for a global village.

“Do It All” (8:24): The opener sets the tone with Howell’s pulsating bass and Young’s clarinet weaving a modal melody, soon joined by Kahlil’s wordless vocals, which Dusty Groove calls “freewheeling.” The track’s cyclical structure, accented by kalimba and percussion, feels like a ritual dance, as Rate Your Music notes its “spiritual” vibe. Young’s electronics add a sci-fi edge, making it a perfect blend of earthy and cosmic, though one wonders if the title’s a sly jab at the era’s “do your own thing” mantra.

“Stagflation” (1:59): The shortest track, this quirky interlude features Young’s bass clarinet and Kahlil’s playful chants over Howell’s sparse bass. Its title, referencing the 1970s economic malaise, is a cheeky nod to the era’s woes, per Jazzmessengers.com. It’s more a mood-setter than a standalone piece, like a musical amuse-bouche that leaves you curious but slightly underfed.

“The Ocean Moves Primitively” (10:45): The Side A closer is a sprawling masterpiece, with Howell’s bass locking into a hypnotic groove, Young’s alto sax soaring, and Kahlil’s vocals evoking a primal chant, per Soundohm. The track’s African rhythms and free-jazz flourishes, as inconstantsol.blogspot.com notes, recall Strata-East’s spiritual jazz, yet its electronic textures push it into Afrofuturist territory. It’s immersive, though its length might test listeners who prefer their jazz less like a deep-sea dive.

“Spanish Tale” (7:07): Side B opens with a lyrical clarinet melody from Young, backed by Howell’s walking bass and Kahlil’s soaring vocals, per Jazzmessengers.com. Despite the title, there’s little “Spanish” here; it’s more a nod to global fusion, as Aguirre Records suggests, with a groove that’s both introspective and danceable. It’s a highlight, though the title’s a bit like calling a spaceship a “carriage”—charmingly misleading.

“Synthetic Variation” (11:40): The album’s longest track is a tour de force, with Young’s electronics and kalimba creating a cosmic backdrop for Kahlil’s ecstatic wails and Howell’s driving bass, per Soundohm. Its cyclical structure and free improvisations, as Rate Your Music notes, evoke Sun Ra’s exploratory spirit, making it a journey that’s both challenging and rewarding. It’s the trio’s boldest statement, though its length might make you wonder if they forgot where the studio’s “stop” button was.

“Homeland Rhythm Cycles” (4:13): The closer is a reflective coda, with Young’s clarinet and Kahlil’s gentle chants over Howell’s pulsing bass, per Sofa Records. Its African-inspired rhythms, as inconstantsol.blogspot.com notes, ground the album in cultural roots, offering a hopeful resolution, like a homecoming after a cosmic voyage. It’s concise yet profound, though some might wish for a longer farewell.

Contemporary African-Amerikan Music is a stunning achievement, a politically and spiritually conscious work that blends avant-garde jazz with African and experimental elements into a “seriously rich and powerful sound,” per Jazzmessengers.com. Kahlil’s vocals are a revelation, as Dusty Groove praises, transforming the trio into a singular voice. Young’s reeds and electronics, paired with Howell’s bass, create a dynamic texture, as Soundohm notes, while the production captures the hacienda’s live energy. Tracks like “The Ocean Moves Primitively” and “Synthetic Variation” are immersive, and the album’s 44-minute runtime feels perfectly paced, per Rate Your Music. Its 2018 reissue, with Cowley’s liner notes, has cemented its cult status, as Boomkat hails its “transcendent” quality.

However, the album isn’t flawless. Its avant-garde leanings, as Discogs notes, may alienate listeners expecting traditional jazz, and “Stagflation” feels more like a sketch than a fully realized track. The electronics, while innovative, can sound dated to modern ears, like a sci-fi soundtrack from a low-budget 1970s flick. Its original obscurity, as inconstantsol.blogspot.com laments, reflects the industry’s neglect, and even the reissue’s limited pressing (500 copies, per Soundohm) keeps it niche. And let’s be real: titling a track “Stagflation” is either genius or a cry for help in a decade of economic gloom—maybe both.

The album is a vital artifact of 1975’s spiritual jazz scene, embodying the Black Liberation struggle while reaching for global unity, as Aguirre Records notes. Its Afrofuturist elements, per Carnegie Hall’s Timeline of African American Music, align with Sun Ra’s cosmic visions, making it a precursor to artists like Janelle Monáe. For scholars, it challenges musicology’s Eurocentric biases, as Journal of the American Musicological Society argues, demanding analysis rooted in Black experiences. Its performances at rallies, per Boomkat, tie it to the era’s activism, while its rediscovery reflects a growing appreciation for overlooked Black jazz, as inconstantsol.blogspot.com celebrates its “unique” sound.

Contemporary reviews of Contemporary African-Amerikan Music were scarce, given its small release on 1750 Arch, but its 2018 Aguirre reissue sparked acclaim. Rate Your Music rates it 3.67/5, with users calling it an “unknown gem,” while Discogs gives it 4.72/5, praising its “spiritual jazz” vibe. Dusty Groove hails Kahlil’s vocals and the trio’s “fantastic” interplay, and Soundohm calls it a “much needed repress” of a “free jazz” classic. inconstantsol.blogspot.com compares it to Strata-East’s output, noting its “amazing” scans and sound. Jazzmessengers.com emphasizes its “politically conscious” power, making it a collector’s prize, with vinyls fetching high prices, per Discogs.

The album’s legacy lies in its role as a spiritual jazz touchstone, influencing Afrofuturist and avant-garde artists, as Carnegie Hall suggests. Its reissues have introduced it to new audiences, as Forced Exposure notes, while Young’s later work continues its experimental thread. It’s a testament to a trio that dared to dream beyond jazz’s confines, even if the industry was too busy chasing trends to notice.

Contemporary African-Amerikan Music is a visionary work, a conscious avant-garde jazz odyssey that blends Black Liberation with global fusion. Roland P. Young’s reeds and electronics, Aisha Kahlil’s transcendent vocals, and Glenn Howell’s pulsing bass create a sound that’s both rooted and cosmic, as Dusty Groove raves. Tracks like “The Ocean Moves Primitively” and “Synthetic Variation” soar, though “Stagflation”’s brevity and dated electronics slightly dim the shine. Its 1975 obscurity, as inconstantsol.blogspot.com laments, was jazz’s loss, but its 2018 revival proves its timeless power. In a year of disco and economic woes, Infinite Sound crafted a revolution, like a trio preaching unity while the world argued over gas prices.

So, snag the Aguirre reissue, cue up “Spanish Tale,” and let Infinite Sound’s grooves transport you to a 1975 rally where the future was being born. Just don’t expect the mainstream to catch up; they’re still trying to figure out what “stagflation” means. And if anyone calls it “just free jazz,” tell them it’s the sound of a culture reaching for infinity—then watch them scramble for the vinyl.

Horace Tapscott - 1969 - The Quintet

Horace Tapscott

1969 

The Quintet

01 World Peace 8:33

02 Your Child 12:18

03 For Fats 15:57

Alto Saxophone – Arthur Blythe

Bass – David Bryant, Walter Savage Jr.

Drums – Everett Brown Jr.

Piano – Horace Tapscott

Recorded in 1969 at the same session as The Giant Is Awakened.

Intended as a second follow up album.

Horace Tapscott’s The Quintet, released in 2022 on Mr Bongo (catalog MRBLP256), is a long-lost avant-garde jazz treasure, unearthed from the Flying Dutchman archives like a dusty vinyl gem that makes you wonder what else is hiding in Bob Thiele’s vaults. Recorded in Los Angeles from April 1–3, 1969, this three-track, 35-minute LP was intended as a follow-up to Tapscott’s seminal debut, The Giant Is Awakened (1969), but was shelved for over half a century, leaving fans to speculate if it was lost to a studio gremlin or Tapscott’s own disillusionment with the music industry. Featuring the same stellar quintet—Tapscott on piano, Arthur Blythe on alto saxophone, Everett Brown Jr. on drums, and dual bassists David Bryant and Walter Savage Jr.—The Quintet is a fiery, modal, and free-leaning session that captures Tapscott’s vision of spiritual jazz rooted in African-American consciousness. Think of it as a Watts street party where the band’s playing Coltrane-inspired chaos, and the industry suits are left scratching their heads.

Horace Elva Tapscott (April 6, 1934–February 27, 1999) was an American jazz pianist, composer, and community organizer whose uncompromising artistry and activism made him a towering figure in Los Angeles’ jazz scene. Born in Houston, Texas, to jazz pianist Mary Lou Malone, Tapscott moved to Los Angeles at age nine, where he studied piano and trombone. As a teenager, he jammed with future luminaries like Frank Morgan, Don Cherry, and Billy Higgins, showing early promise. After serving in the Air Force in Wyoming, he played trombone with Lionel Hampton’s band (1959–61) but soon abandoned the horn for piano, finding it better suited to his expansive musical vision. Wikipédia notes his “hard and percussive” pianistic style, likened to Thelonious Monk and Herbie Nichols, with a distinctive voice that shone in settings from duos to big bands.

In 1961, Tapscott founded the Pan Afrikan Peoples Arkestra (P.A.P.A.), a Black music ensemble dedicated to preserving and performing African-American music, later expanding into the Underground Musicians Association (UGMA, renamed Union of God’s Musicians and Artists Ascension, UGMAA). Based in Watts, the Arkestra performed in parks, churches, and even from trucks, fostering community pride amid racial and economic struggles. Tapscott mentored talents like Arthur Blythe, Stanley Crouch, and David Murray, while his compositions were recorded by Sonny Criss (Sonny’s Dream, 1968). Disillusioned by the music industry after The Giant Is Awakened—where producer Bob Thiele mixed his piano too loudly without input—Tapscott retreated to independent labels like Nimbus West, Interplay, and UGMAA, recording sparingly but profoundly. All About Jazz calls him a “forgotten master of politically engaged African American spiritual jazz,” though his cult following ensured reissues like The Dark Tree (1990–91).

Tapscott died of brain cancer in 1999 at 64, just before a planned Leimert Park tribute, leaving a legacy etched in a Degnan Boulevard sidewalk engraving. NPR praises his idealism, noting he “never put himself above anybody,” a community hero whose music, as Rate Your Music suggests, was as much about empowerment as artistry. Imagine him as a jazz sage, pounding out modal grooves while the industry wondered why he wouldn’t play their game.

In 1969, jazz was a battleground of innovation and identity. John Coltrane’s death in 1967 left a void, but his spiritual and free-jazz explorations inspired a generation, including Tapscott, whose modal and African-inflected sound echoed A Love Supreme. In Los Angeles, the Watts riots of 1965 had galvanized Black consciousness, and Tapscott’s Pan Afrikan Peoples Arkestra was a cultural lifeline, performing music that, as NPR notes, reflected “community empowerment.” The Black Rio movement in Brazil, blending funk and samba, shared Tapscott’s Afrocentric ethos, while minimalists like Hans Otte and Dominique Lawalrée explored quieter realms. The Flying Dutchman label, founded by Bob Thiele in 1969, was a hub for bold voices like Gil Scott-Heron and Tapscott, though its commercial leanings clashed with the latter’s ideals.

The Quintet was recorded during the same sessions as The Giant Is Awakened (April 1–3, 1969), intended as a companion but shelved, possibly due to Tapscott’s fallout with Thiele over mixing disputes, as Rate Your Music recounts. Its 2022 release by Mr Bongo, with new artwork by Raimund Wong, reflects a resurgence of interest in Tapscott, fueled by archival releases like Legacies for Our Grandchildren (Dark Tree, 2022). In the year of Woodstock, The Quintet was a defiant cry from Watts, a musical Molotov cocktail that the industry wasn’t ready to catch.

The Quintet features the same lineup as The Giant Is Awakened, a tight ensemble blending avant-garde fire with modal discipline. Here’s a detailed look at the players, based on Discogs and AllMusic credits:

Horace Tapscott (piano): The bandleader, Tapscott’s piano is the session’s anchor, delivering percussive, Monk-ish chords and lyrical flourishes that guide the group’s explorations. His playing on “Your Child” is particularly evocative, weaving modal lines with free-jazz edge, as Rate Your Music notes his “signature all over it.” Tapscott’s leadership is subtle yet commanding, like a community organizer who knows when to step back and let the people shine. One imagines him side-eyeing Thiele in the booth, daring him to mess with the mix again.

Arthur Blythe (alto saxophone): A future jazz titan (see Lenox Avenue Breakdown, 1979), Blythe (1940–2017) was a revelation in 1969, his alto sax soaring with Coltrane-esque intensity and Jackie McLean’s angular bite. On “World Peace,” his fiery solos push the boundaries of free jazz, while “Your Child” showcases his melodic warmth, per Soundohm. Rate Your Music praises his “askew sax,” a perfect foil for Tapscott’s piano. Blythe’s virtuosity steals the show, like a guest who arrives with a saxophone and leaves with your soul.

David Bryant (bass): Bryant, a Pan Afrikan Peoples Arkestra stalwart, provides plucked basslines that anchor the rhythm, often doubling with Savage for a rich, textured foundation. His work on “For Fats” is sturdy yet lyrical, supporting Blythe’s flights, as hhv-mag.com notes the dual basses’ ability to “tie knots in your ears.” Bryant’s understated role is like the guy who keeps the party grounded while everyone else goes wild.

Walter Savage Jr. (bass): Savage’s bowed bass adds depth and tension, especially on “For Fats,” where his arco work creates a stormy undercurrent, per hhv-mag.com. His interplay with Bryant is innovative, one bass following the melody, the other the rhythm, as Jazzmessengers.com highlights. Savage is the yin to Bryant’s yang, like a bassist who decided to bring a bow to a funk fight and somehow won.

Everett Brown Jr. (drums): Brown, another Arkestra veteran, drives the session with dynamic, polyrhythmic drumming. His composition “World Peace” opens the album, and his playing—crisp on “Your Child,” explosive on “For Fats”—is a standout, as Rate Your Music notes his ability to let the “basses careen out of control.” Brown’s energy is like a drummer who’s secretly conducting the chaos, grinning as the band follows his lead.

Produced by Bob Thiele and engineered by Eddie Brackett, the quintet’s chemistry is palpable, a testament to their Arkestra roots. Mr Bongo calls it a “deep, heavy, avant-garde session,” and the dual basses—unusual for jazz—give it a unique heft, like Tapscott decided one bass wasn’t enough to carry Watts’ weight.

The Quintet is a three-track, 35-minute LP that blends modal jazz, free improvisation, and spiritual fervor, recorded in stereo at Los Angeles’ RCA Studios. Mastered from high-resolution sources, per Mr Bongo, it’s a companion to The Giant Is Awakened, sharing its personnel and vibe but with a rawer edge, as Rate Your Music suggests it’s “nearly its equal.” The production is clean, though Tapscott’s piano dominates, a sore point from the Giant sessions, per NPR. Let’s break down its structure and highlights.

The album’s sonic palette is built on Tapscott’s percussive piano, Blythe’s searing alto, and the dual basses’ rhythmic and melodic interplay, with Brown’s drums providing a propulsive backbone. The compositions—two by Tapscott, one by Brown—are modal, with free-jazz excursions that evoke Coltrane, Andrew Hill, and Monk, as Rate Your Music notes. Tapscott’s arrangements balance structure and chaos, using the basses to create tension and release, while Blythe’s solos push into avant-garde territory. The album’s spiritual and African-inflected tone, as Soundohm highlights, reflects the Arkestra’s mission, with grooves that invite both contemplation and dance, per NPR.

Stylistically, The Quintet is avant-garde jazz with post-bop and spiritual roots, skirting the free-jazz chaos of Cecil Taylor but retaining a rhythmic core, like Mingus’s smaller ensembles, per Rate Your Music. The dual basses—plucked and bowed—create a dense, orchestral texture, as hhv-mag.com describes, making it both “wild” and “harmonious.” It’s a snapshot of Tapscott’s 1969 vision, a bridge between Coltrane’s late work and the Arkestra’s later explorations, with a defiance that says, “Industry be damned, this is our sound.”

“World Peace” (8:34, composed by Everett Brown Jr.): The opener, written by drummer Brown, begins with a baroque-esque piano melody, almost pastoral, before erupting into a modal free-jazz storm. Blythe’s alto sax goes “quite far out,” per Rate Your Music, with the dual basses careening behind him, while Tapscott’s chords pull it back to earth. The track returns to its serene opening, a cyclical structure that feels like a prayer for peace amid chaos. Jazzmessengers.com calls it “modal/free,” and it’s a thrilling start, though its abrupt shifts might leave you wondering if the band planned it or just felt like shaking the room. Brown’s drumming is a highlight, like he’s channeling Elvin Jones with a Watts swagger.

“Your Child” (10:34, composed by Horace Tapscott): The album’s crown jewel, this track—later known as “As a Child” on Thoughts of Dar es Salaam (1997)—is a modal masterpiece, blending deep jazz lyricism with free-jazz flourishes. Tapscott’s piano lays down an entrancing mode, per Rate Your Music, while Blythe’s melodic solo skirts Coltrane’s early Impulse! vibe. The basses add tension, one plucked, one bowed, creating a hypnotic pulse, as hhv-mag.com notes. Soundohm calls it “beautiful,” and it’s the track that best captures Tapscott’s spiritual depth, like a lullaby for a community dreaming of freedom. You’ll want it to “go on forever,” per Rate Your Music, though at 10 minutes, it’s just long enough to break your heart.

“For Fats” (16:00, composed by Arthur Blythe): A 16-minute expansion of the two-minute version on The Giant Is Awakened, this tribute to Fats Navarro is the album’s epic closer. It opens with a bowed bass and piano intro, dark and stormy, before building into a driving, modal groove, per Mr Bongo. Blythe’s “askew sax” and Tapscott’s edgy piano, per Rate Your Music, create a climbing scale that bursts into release, with Brown’s drums pushing the energy. hhv-mag.com calls it Tapscott’s “swan song” to the industry, and its raw power feels like a middle finger to Thiele’s mixing booth. It’s a journey, though its length might test listeners who prefer their jazz less like a marathon, as if Blythe said, “Fats deserves 16 minutes, deal with it.”

The Quintet is a revelation, a lost chapter of Tapscott’s legacy that proves his 1969 quintet was a force. “Your Child” is a standout, its modal beauty and spiritual depth rivaling The Giant Is Awakened, as Rate Your Music suggests it’s a “must-have for fans.” Blythe’s alto is incandescent, balancing melody and chaos, while the dual basses create a unique, orchestral texture, per hhv-mag.com. Tapscott’s piano is both leader and collaborator, and Brown’s drumming adds fire, as Soundohm notes the “stellar cast.” The production, mastered from archival tapes, is crisp, and Mr Bongo’s release, with Wong’s artwork, is a labor of love, per Discogs. Its 35-minute runtime is focused, delivering three distinct moods—serene, soulful, stormy.

However, The Quintet has quirks. Its “incomplete” status, per Rate Your Music, shows in its three-track brevity, as the band planned to return to the studio but didn’t, leaving it feeling like a tantalizing fragment. The piano’s prominence, a carryover from Giant’s mixing issues, occasionally overshadows Blythe, per NPR. “World Peace”’s abrupt shifts can feel jarring, and “For Fats”’s 16 minutes, while epic, might overwhelm casual listeners, as if Tapscott thought, “Let’s see how long they’ll stick with us.” Its belated release, while a gift, underscores Tapscott’s industry woes, as Soundohm notes his retreat to indie labels post-1969. And naming a five-person band “The Quintet” with two bassists is cheeky, like Tapscott winking at jazz norms while breaking them.

The Quintet is a vital artifact of 1969’s spiritual jazz movement, capturing Tapscott’s fusion of Coltrane’s modal legacy with Watts’ Black consciousness, as NPR highlights its “forces gathering” vibe. Its dual basses and avant-garde edge align with the era’s experiments, from Mingus’s ensembles to Ornette Coleman’s harmolodics, while its Pan Afrikan ethos parallels the Black Rio movement’s cultural pride. For scholars, it’s a case study in jazz’s political dimensions, as Tapscott’s retreat from the industry reflects systemic barriers for Black artists, per All About Jazz. Its 2022 release, alongside other Tapscott reissues, signals a rediscovery, with Rate Your Music ranking it #1353 for 2022, a testament to its enduring power.

Released in 2022, The Quintet garnered praise from niche jazz circles. Rate Your Music rates it 3.73/5, with users calling it “necessary” for fans, nearly equaling The Giant Is Awakened. hhv-mag.com lauds its “wild and harmonious” duality, while Soundohm hails its “deep, heavy” session. Discogs users thank Mr Bongo for “rescuing this music from oblivion,” with one noting its “distinct stereo separation.” Jazzmessengers.com calls it a “dream come true” for Tapscott fans, though some, per Rate Your Music, wish the album had been completed in 1969 for greater polish.

The album’s legacy lies in its role as a missing link in Tapscott’s discography, bridging The Giant Is Awakened and his later indie recordings. Tracks like “Your Child” (aka “As a Child”) became Arkestra staples, per Rate Your Music, while its rediscovery fuels Tapscott’s growing cult status, as All About Jazz notes his albums’ treasure among connoisseurs. Its influence on spiritual and avant-garde jazz endures, inspiring artists like Kamasi Washington, who share Tapscott’s community focus. The Quintet is a testament to a band that could’ve reshaped jazz history—if only the industry had listened.

The Quintet is a fiery, soulful triumph, a lost 1969 session that proves Horace Tapscott’s quintet was a jazz juggernaut. With Arthur Blythe’s searing alto, Tapscott’s Monk-ish piano, and the dual basses of Bryant and Savage, it’s a modal, free-leaning romp that channels Watts’ spirit, as NPR evokes its “community empowerment.” “Your Child” is a timeless gem, “For Fats” a sprawling epic, and “World Peace” a chaotic prayer, though the album’s brevity and raw edges reflect its unfinished state. Tapscott’s retreat from the industry after these sessions, as Soundohm notes, was jazz’s loss, but The Quintet is our gain, a reminder of his genius and defiance.

So, grab the Mr Bongo vinyl, cue up “Your Child,” and let Tapscott’s groove wash over you like a Watts street party. Just don’t expect the mainstream to catch up; they’re still trying to figure out why two basses are better than one. And if anyone calls it “just another jazz record,” tell them it’s the sound of a giant who never slept, only waited for us to wake up. Spoiler: he’s still waiting