Lee Konitz - 1961 - Motion

Lee Konitz

1961 

Motion

01. I Remember You 4:24

02. All Of Me 7:36

03. Foolin' Myself 6:55

04. You'd Be So Nice To Come Home To10:38

05. I'll Remember April 9:01

Alto Saxophone – Lee Konitz

Bass – Sonny Dallas

Drums – Elvin Ray Jones

Recorded New York City, August 29th, 1961

Lee Konitz (October 13, 1927 – April 15, 2020) was an American jazz alto saxophonist whose career spanned over seven decades, making him one of the genre’s most enduring figures. Born in Chicago to Jewish immigrant parents, Konitz began playing clarinet before switching to alto saxophone, studying under Lennie Tristano in the 1940s. Tristano’s emphasis on melodic purity and harmonic exploration shaped Konitz’s early style, leading to his distinctive voice in a bebop-dominated era.

Konitz gained prominence through his work with Claude Thornhill’s orchestra and the Birth of the Cool sessions with Miles Davis, Gerry Mulligan, and Gil Evans (1949–50). Unlike many saxophonists of his generation, he resisted Charlie Parker’s influence, forging a cooler, more linear approach that prioritized melodic invention over virtuosic display. His 1950s recordings, including Subconscious-Lee and collaborations with Warne Marsh, cemented his reputation as a leading figure in cool jazz, though he bristled at the label, preferring to see himself as an improviser unbound by category.

The 1960s saw Konitz experimenting with freer forms, culminating in Motion, which showcased his willingness to take risks. Over the decades, he recorded prolifically, collaborating with everyone from Stan Kenton to Brad Mehldau, and explored duos, trios, and even solo saxophone (1974’s Lone-Lee). Known for his restless curiosity, Konitz continued performing and recording into his 80s, maintaining a sound that was instantly recognizable—dry, lyrical, and endlessly inventive.

Konitz passed away in 2020 at 92, leaving a legacy as a jazz icon who never stopped moving forward, much like the music he made. If he were around today, he’d probably tell us to stop analyzing and just listen—then again, he’d likely be off improvising somewhere, leaving us to catch up.

Motion, recorded for Verve Records, stands as a cornerstone in the alto saxophonist’s extensive discography and a pivotal moment in the evolution of modern jazz. With its stripped-down trio format—featuring Konitz on alto saxophone, Sonny Dallas on bass, and Elvin Jones on drums—Motion is both a daring experiment and a testament to Konitz’s relentless pursuit of improvisational freedom. This long-form analysis will dissect the album’s musical structure, historical context, and artistic significance, weaving in a review of its enduring impact. Following this, a concise biography of Konitz will provide insight into the man behind the music, all presented with scholarly rigor yet accessible prose, and perhaps a touch of levity to keep things lively—because even serious jazz deserves a wink now and then.

By 1961, Lee Konitz was already a seasoned figure in jazz, having navigated the turbulent waters of the 1940s and 1950s jazz scenes. Emerging from the cool jazz movement, particularly through his association with pianist Lennie Tristano and the seminal Birth of the Cool sessions with Miles Davis, Konitz had carved out a reputation as an altoist who defied the dominant Charlie Parker paradigm. Where Parker’s bebop was fiery and dense, Konitz’s playing was cerebral, linear, and cool—less about dazzling virtuosity and more about exploring melodic possibilities within a harmonic framework. Motion arrived at a moment when Konitz was eager to push beyond the constraints of cool jazz, seeking a format that would allow him unfettered improvisational liberty.

The choice of a chordless trio was radical for its time. Without a piano or guitar to anchor the harmony, Konitz placed himself in a vulnerable position, relying on his melodic ingenuity and the rhythmic interplay of Dallas and Jones to maintain structure. This setup was not entirely unprecedented—Ornette Coleman’s free jazz experiments had begun to challenge traditional forms—but for Konitz, a player rooted in standards and chordal improvisation, it was a bold leap. The trio recorded Motion on August 29, 1961, in New York City, under the production of Creed Taylor, capturing five standards in a single session (though later CD reissues controversially expanded the tracklist with alternate sessions featuring drummer Nick Stabulas). The result is an album that feels both timeless and startlingly forward-thinking, a snapshot of three musicians dancing on the edge of convention.

Motion comprises five tracks: “I Remember You,” “All of Me,” “Foolin’ Myself,” “You’d Be So Nice to Come Home To,” and “I’ll Remember April.” Each is a jazz standard, but Konitz treats them less as songs and more as launching pads for improvisation. The heads, when stated at all, are often fragmentary, alluded to rather than declared, signaling that this is a blowing session in the truest sense—no frills, no gimmicks, just pure musical dialogue.

The album opens with “I Remember You,” a tune famously associated with Charlie Parker, setting the stage for Konitz to assert his individuality. From the outset, Konitz’s dry, unadorned tone cuts through, weaving long, serpentine lines that float across bar lines and behind the beat. Sonny Dallas’s bass provides the harmonic scaffolding, his walking lines steady yet unobtrusive, allowing Konitz to roam. Elvin Jones, fresh from his transformative work with John Coltrane’s quartet, is the wildcard here. Known for his polyrhythmic intensity, Jones dials back his volume but not his complexity, laying down a cymbal-heavy pulse that swings yet constantly shifts. The interplay is subtle yet electric—Konitz’s phrases seem to dodge Jones’s accents, only to reconnect in unexpected ways. It’s a conversation where everyone’s talking at once but somehow making sense, like a dinner party where the guests are just eccentric enough to keep things interesting.

Next, “All of Me” showcases Konitz’s ability to deconstruct a familiar melody. The head is barely stated, dissolving quickly into a stream of melodic variations. Konitz’s phrasing here is particularly striking, blending Tristano’s linear clarity with a newfound rhythmic elasticity. Dallas holds down a traditional walking bassline, but Jones begins to stretch the time, his snare and bass drum accents creating a subtle push-pull with Konitz’s lines. The absence of a chordal instrument gives the track an airy quality, yet there’s a density to the interaction—every note feels deliberate, every silence weighted. It’s as if the trio is painting on a transparent canvas, each stroke visible and essential.

The third track, “Foolin’ Myself,” is the album’s slow burner, taken at a slightly more relaxed tempo. This tune, associated with Billie Holiday and Lester Young, allows Konitz to channel Young’s lyrical economy while adding his own harmonic twists. Here, Konitz takes on a supportive role during Dallas’s solo, laying down harmonic fragments that blur the line between melody and accompaniment—a role reversal that underscores the trio’s democratic spirit. Jones’s brushwork is a revelation, delicate yet propulsive, proving he could whisper as effectively as he could roar. The track’s introspective mood offers a breather from the album’s intensity, though it’s no less intricate—like a quiet moment in a thriller that’s still laced with tension.

At over ten minutes, “You’d Be So Nice to Come Home To” is the album’s centerpiece and its most exploratory cut. Konitz stretches out, his improvisations growing more abstract as he dances around the tune’s harmonic structure. Dallas remains steadfast, but Jones begins to assert himself, dropping polyrhythmic bombs that challenge Konitz to respond. The result is a high-wire act—Konitz’s cool phrasing juxtaposed against Jones’s restless energy, creating a tension that never quite resolves. It’s here that Motion feels closest to free jazz, though Konitz never abandons the underlying chords entirely. The track’s length allows for moments of repetition and variation, like a mathematician revisiting an equation to find new solutions. If you’re looking for a track to get lost in, this is it—just don’t expect a map.

Closing with “I’ll Remember April,” the trio delivers a concise yet potent finale. Konitz’s treatment of the melody is typically oblique, hinting at the theme before diving into a flurry of melodic ideas. Jones’s ride cymbal drives the track forward, while Dallas anchors the harmony with a relentless pulse. The track’s brevity—clocking in at just over three minutes—feels almost abrupt after the sprawl of “You’d Be So Nice,” but it’s a fitting capstone, distilling the album’s essence into a tight package. It’s like the trio decided to say everything they needed to and then promptly left the stage—no encore required.

Motion’s genius lies in its balance of freedom and structure. Konitz’s improvisations are rooted in the chord changes of the standards, yet his phrasing—often crossing bar lines and lagging behind the beat—creates a sense of fluidity that anticipates later free jazz developments. His tone, dry and unembellished, serves as a perfect vehicle for his ideas, eschewing vibrato for clarity. This approach, influenced by Tristano’s emphasis on pure melody, allows Konitz to explore harmonic possibilities without relying on bebop clichés or Parker-esque flourishes.

The absence of a chordal instrument is both a challenge and a liberation. Without a piano to spell out the harmony, Konitz must internalize the changes, making his melodic choices more exposed. Dallas’s basslines provide just enough harmonic context to keep the music grounded, while Jones’s drumming adds a layer of rhythmic complexity that pushes Konitz into uncharted territory. Jones, in particular, is a revelation—his ability to adapt his Coltrane-honed intensity to Konitz’s cooler aesthetic is a masterclass in versatility. The recording quality, captured by engineer Dick Olmstead, is crisp and intimate, allowing each instrument to shine without overpowering the others.

One critique, noted by some listeners, is a certain “sameness” across the tracks, particularly in tempo (four of the five hover around a medium swing, with “Foolin’ Myself” slightly slower). This uniformity can make the album feel relentless, especially for casual listeners expecting more dynamic contrast. Yet for those attuned to Konitz’s vision, this consistency is a feature, not a flaw—a deliberate choice to explore a single improvisational mode in depth, like a painter working with a limited palette to see how far they can go.

Motion occupies a unique place in the jazz landscape of 1961. The year saw seismic shifts in the genre: John Coltrane was redefining modal jazz with My Favorite Things, Ornette Coleman was pushing free jazz forward with Free Jazz, and hard bop was in full swing with groups like Art Blakey’s Jazz Messengers. Konitz, ever the contrarian, sidestepped these trends, creating an album that was neither fully cool jazz nor free jazz but something in between—a bridge between structure and spontaneity.

The collaboration with Elvin Jones is particularly noteworthy. Jones was at the peak of his powers, driving Coltrane’s quartet to new heights with his polyrhythmic innovations. His presence on Motion brings a sense of urgency to Konitz’s typically cerebral approach, creating a dynamic that feels both unexpected and inevitable. Sonny Dallas, though less heralded, is no less crucial, his understated basslines providing the glue that holds the trio together. The album’s influence can be felt in later chordless trios, from Sonny Rollins’s Way Out West to more contemporary groups like The Bad Plus, though Motion remains singular in its uncompromising focus on improvisation.

Critically, Motion has been hailed as one of Konitz’s finest works, with outlets like the Penguin Guide to Jazz and All Music Guide praising its inventiveness. Some listeners, however, find its relentless abstraction demanding, preferring Konitz in more traditional settings with a second horn or softer accompaniment (Gerry Mulligan or Chet Baker, anyone?). Yet this very challenge is what makes Motion enduring—it rewards active listening, revealing new layers with each spin. It’s not background music for a cocktail party; it’s a puzzle that invites you to solve it.

Motion is a triumph of imagination and interplay, a record that captures Lee Konitz at his most fearless. The trio format strips jazz to its essentials—melody, rhythm, and communication—while pushing each element to its limits. Konitz’s improvisations are a masterclass in melodic invention, Dallas’s basslines a lesson in understated support, and Jones’s drumming a reminder of why he’s one of jazz’s greatest innovators. The album’s strengths lie in its clarity and risk-taking, creating a sound that’s both accessible and endlessly complex.

That said, Motion isn’t for everyone. Its monochromatic tempo and abstract approach can feel like a marathon for the uninitiated, and those expecting clear melodic statements or lush arrangements might leave wanting. It’s a record that demands engagement, not passive enjoyment—like a novel that asks you to reread every chapter to catch the subtext. For jazz aficionados, though, it’s a high-water mark, a document of three musicians in perfect sync, exploring the possibilities of a form they clearly love.

In the end, Motion is like a conversation with a brilliant but slightly eccentric friend—sometimes challenging, often revelatory, and always worth the time. It’s not just an album; it’s a statement of intent from an artist who refused to stand still, even when the world wanted him to stay cool.