Art Blakey - 1982 - Keystone 3

Art Blakey

1982

Keystone 3

01. In Walked Bud 8:12

02. In A Sentimental Mood 7:01

03. Fuller Love 8:43

04. Waterfalls 11:12

05. A La Mode 10:22

Alto Saxophone – Branford Marsalis (tracks: 1, 3 to 5)

Bass – Charles Fambrough

Drums – Art Blakey

Piano – Donald Brown

Tenor Saxophone – Bill Pierce

Trumpet – Wynton Marsalis

Recorded live at Keystone Korner, San Francisco, California, January 1982

Remixed at PER, San Francisco, California

The Night Papa Blakey Turned Two Cocky New Orleans Kids Into Jazz Immortals (And Nobody Got Grounded)

Let’s set the scene: January 1982. Art Blakey is 62 years old—ancient by jazz standards, basically the Crypt Keeper with a better hi-hat. Hard bop is supposedly on life support, fusion is hogging all the synthesizers, and the Keystone Korner in San Francisco is one of the last true jazz shrines on the West Coast. Into this smoky temple walks Blakey with the hottest, most hyped young front line since the Lee Morgan/Wayne Shorter days: 20-year-old trumpet prodigy Wynton Marsalis (already acting like he invented the valves), his big brother Branford (fresh out of Berklee and still figuring out which sax to blow), and the grown-up in the room, tenor beast Bill Pierce. The result? Keystone 3—a live album so ferocious it makes you wonder why anyone ever bothered recording in a studio again. This is hard bop on steroids, Red Bull, and whatever legal substance Blakey was on that kept him swinging like a 25-year-old until he was 71.

Buhaina the Eternal: The Man Who Never Retired (Because Retirement Is for Mortals)

Born Abdullah Ibn Buhaina in Pittsburgh, 1919, Art Blakey was already a legend before most of us were born. Piano player as a teen → forced at gunpoint to switch to drums (true story) → sideman for Billy Eckstine, Miles, Monk, and basically everyone who mattered → co-founded the original Jazz Messengers in the ’50s with Horace Silver → turned it into his personal jazz university for the next 35 years.

The list of Messengers alumni reads like the Jazz Hall of Fame guest list: Lee Morgan, Benny Golson, Wayne Shorter, Freddie Hubbard, Curtis Fuller, Jackie McLean, Keith Jarrett, Chuck Mangione, Woody Shaw, Cedar Walton… and that’s just the first 20 years. Blakey’s formula was simple: find the hungriest young lions, pay them peanuts, work them like mules, teach them how to swing till their ancestors felt it, then boot them out to become leaders. He called it “passing the torch.” Critics called it the greatest talent incubator in jazz history. By 1982 he’d already buried half his peers, outlived multiple jazz eras, and was still kicking harder than anyone half his age. The man didn’t age—he just accumulated more press rolls.

The Class of ’82: The Band That Made Jazz Critics Spit Out Their Martinis

This lineup was together barely six months, but sweet Jesus did they cook:

Art Blakey – drums, press rolls that could wake the dead, and the greatest “Bu-Bu-Buuuuu!” shout in jazz history.

Wynton Marsalis – trumpet (age 20, already playing like Miles and Clifford Brown had a love child who practiced 23 hours a day).

Branford Marsalis – alto sax (mostly—sources argue about tenor/soprano, but on this gig he’s primarily alto, bringing that wild, searching edge).

Bill Pierce – tenor saxophone (the veteran anchor, the guy who actually knew all the Messengers repertoire and kept the kids from falling off the stage).

Donald Brown – piano (subtle, tasteful, the perfect foil for the horn pyrotechnics).

Charles Fambrough – bass (deep in the pocket, walking like his rent depended on it—which it probably did).

Recorded live over a few nights at Keystone Korner, engineered by the great Phil Edwards (who somehow captured Blakey’s drums sounding like artillery without drowning everyone else). Concord Jazz released it later that year—Blakey’s first for the label after decades on Blue Note, Roulette, and every indie that would have him.

Five Tracks of Pure, Unfiltered Hard Bop Mayhem

Original LP clocks in at a lean 46 minutes, but every second is a knockout punch:

In Walked Bud (Thelonious Monk) – Swinging opener. Wynton tries a little growl plunger (cute, kid), then rips a solo that announces “I’m here to save jazz, y’all.” Branford follows with pure fire. Blakey just laughs and drops bombs.

In a Sentimental Mood (Duke Ellington) – Branford’s heartbreaking alto feature. Slow, lush, gorgeous. The one moment the Marsalis brothers shut up and play pretty. You’ll forgive them everything after this.

Fuller Love (Bobby Watson) – 6/8 modal burner dedicated to Curtis Fuller. Horns stab like assassins, Blakey pushes like a freight train. Peak Messengers energy.

Waterfalls (Donald Brown) – The 11-minute masterpiece. Ascending/descending horn lines that feel like the band is literally falling down stairs in the most elegant way possible. Wynton doubles time and tries to melt faces. Succeeds.

A La Mode (Curtis Fuller) – Classic Messengers closer. Hushed unison lines, Blakey building tension like a horror movie, then BAM—full explosion. Ends the set on a high that makes you want to flip the record and start again.

The sound? Crystal clear. You can hear every cymbal ping, every bass note thump, every time Blakey yells “Yeah!” like a proud dad watching his kids set the house on fire (in a controlled, artistic way).

The Album That Launched the Young Lions Revolution (And Gave Wynton His Superhero Origin Story)

In 1982, jazz was supposedly dying. Fusion had stolen the kids, smooth jazz was lurking, and free jazz had scared off the squares. Then comes Keystone 3—a straight-ahead hard bop album by a bunch of sharp-dressed twentysomethings led by a grandfather—and suddenly the future looked bright again.

This record is Patient Zero for the entire “Young Lions” movement of the ’80s and ’90s. Wynton and Branford left Blakey literally weeks after this gig to sign with Columbia, drag jazz back into suits and ties, and spark the whole neo-traditionalist wave. Love it or hate it (and plenty hate it—Branford included, later), the Marsalis Effect brought jazz back to Lincoln Center, PBS specials, and Grammy speeches about “preserving the tradition.” Without Keystone 3, no Wynton Marsalis Quintet debut, no Ken Burns Jazz doc with Wynton as narrator-in-chief, no endless debates about whether jazz should wear sneakers or wingtips.

It’s also one of the very best live Blakey documents—up there with A Night at Birdland, Moanin’, and Free for All. Critics routinely rank it in the top tier of the 200+ Messengers albums (yes, there are that many). The 2005 red-vinyl reissue and the ongoing digital availability keep introducing new generations to the night two New Orleans brothers got baptized in Blakey’s fire—and came out ready to rule the world.

So yeah, Keystone 3 isn’t just a great album. It’s the moment jazz said, “Hold my pocket square—we’re coming back.” And Art Blakey? He just smiled, counted off the next tune, and kept swinging till the day he dropped the sticks in 1990.

Put this on loud, pour something strong, and thank Buhaina for never retiring. The man didn’t just keep the flame alive—he turned it into a blowtorch and handed it to the kids. Legend. Absolute legend.

Leong Lau - 1976 - Dragon Man

Leong Lau 

1976

Dragon Man

01. The Atlas Revolution 4:50

02. Ghost Drums 4:49

03. Rhythm Pounding 5:55

04. Dragon Man 4:19

05. Soul Baby 5:41

06. Deep In The Jungle 8:35

07. Love Poem 3:00

Drums, Percussion – Andrew Evans

Electric Bass – Alistair Bell

Electric Guitar, Classical Guitar – Paul Pallister

Vocals, Tenor Saxophone, Alto Saxophone, Flute, Harmonica, Cornet, Percussion, Guitar – Leong Lau

The Malaysian-Australian Madman Who Invented Psychedelic Funk Down Under (And Nobody Noticed for 40 Years)

Picture 1976 Australia: AC/DC are still wearing shorts, Skyhooks are shocking the suburbs, and the entire country thinks “funky” means a bad smell. Then, out of nowhere, drops this wild-eyed Malaysian-Chinese multi-instrumentalist preaching half-sung sermons over wah-wah guitars, jungle percussion, and flute solos that sound like Jimi Hendrix got lost in Kuala Lumpur and decided to stay. Dragon Man is that album—the private-press holy grail that sounds like Funkadelic, Xhol Caravan, and a Taoist street preacher all crashed a Sydney house party and refused to leave. It’s raw, weird, sexy, spiritual, and so ahead of its time that the 1970s basically said “nah mate, too much” and buried it until the crate-diggers resurrected it like a funky Lazarus.

Original pressings were tiny (hand-sold at gigs and a couple of Sydney shops), originals now fetch four figures, and even the 2024 Left Ear Records repress sells out faster than free beer at a barbie. This is the sound of one man saying “screw your labels” and creating his own genre: call it Rongeng-Psych-Funk, East-West Cosmic Groove, or just “Leong Being Leong.”

From Chinese Opera to Sydney Symphony to “Frank Zappa Told Me To Start My Own Label”: The Wild Life of Leong Lau

Born in Malaysia of Chinese ancestry, little Leong started with Chinese Opera and flute in the community orchestra—basically the Justin Bieber of traditional Malaysian music, minus the teenyboppers. Late ’60s he lands in Adelaide on an engineering scholarship (because smart kids do that), but quickly realizes bridges are boring and music is where the real magic happens.

He dances with the Sydney Dance Company (ballet, modern, the works), joins the Sydney Conservatorium, ends up playing concert flute with the Sydney Symphony Orchestra—yes, the same guy who later screams “DEEP IN THE JUNGLE!” over fuzz guitar once wore a tux and played Mozart for posh people. Somewhere along the line he meets Frank Zappa (casual), who drops the ultimate DIY wisdom: “Start your own label, bro, total artistic freedom.” Leong listens, creates Sunscape Records, and in 1976 unleashes Dragon Man.

He only made a handful of records (this debut, 1977’s That Rongeng Sound, a single or two), then basically vanished into legend—sculpting, philosophizing, living that enlightened rogue life. In 2013 the Left Ear Records crew tracked him down in a Brisbane library for a “transcendental conversation” (translation: they probably smoked something strong) and got his blessing to reissue everything. Leong Lau: part Hendrix, part Sun Ra, part kung-fu movie extra, all genius.

The Band: A One-Time-Only Super Session of Sydney’s Funkiest Mercenaries

This wasn’t a band—it was a miracle that happened once. Two rehearsals, one studio day at Earth Media Recording Co., and boom: immortality.

Leong Lau – vocals (half-sung rants in thick Aussie-via-Malaysia accent), tenor/alto sax, flute, harmonica, cornet, percussion, guitar, composer, producer, arranger, spiritual overlord

Paul Pallister – electric & classical guitar (the wah-wah wizard who channels Hendrix like it’s 1968)

Alistair Bell – electric bass (so deep and rubbery you’ll check if your subengine is running)

Andrew Evans (or Andy Evans) – drums & percussion (locks it down tighter than a kangaroo’s pouch)

Engineered by Ross Kirkland – the unsung hero who made it sound this filthy-good on a shoestring

Seven Tracks of Pure “What the Hell Did I Just Hear?” Brilliance

Side A grabs you by the collar and doesn’t let go:

The Atlas Revolution – Opens with a monster riff, Leong preaching revolution like a psychedelic televangelist. Instant head-nod.

Ghost Drums – Tribal percussion meets echoing flute; you’ll feel ancestors dancing in your living room.

Rhythm Pounding – Six minutes of pure groove assault. The bass line should be illegal.

Dragon Man – Title track flute-funk workout. Leong declares himself the Dragon Man and you believe him.

Side B goes full jungle:

Soul Baby – The closest thing to a radio hit here—sexy, slinky, still weird as hell.

Deep In The Jungle – Nearly nine minutes of psychedelic descent: phased sax, fuzz solos, Leong howling like Tarzan on acid. The crown jewel.

Love Poem – Short, tender closer dedicated to “Kuan.” After all the madness, he reminds you he’s got a heart.

That’s it. No overdubs, no second takes, just pure spontaneous combustion.

The sound? Raw Aussie psych-funk with heavy Hendrix/Krautrock vibes, but filtered through Malaysian-Chinese mysticism and a fat dose of jazz fluency. Leong’s vocals are the star—part spoken-word shaman, part blues shouter, all delivered in that unmistakable ocker-meets-Asia twang. It’s like Captain Beefheart decided to make a funk album after ten years in Bali.

The Private-Press Prophecy That Took Four Decades to Explode

In 1976 Australia, this sold a few hundred copies max. Radio? Zero. Charts? Laughable. Meanwhile Cold Chisel were the future of Aussie rock.

Fast-forward: Dragon Man becomes the ultimate crate-digger myth. Originals trade for $1,000–$3,000+. Strawberry Rain reissued it in 2014, Left Ear did the deluxe treatment in 2024 (complete with poster—grab it before it’s gone again). It’s now hailed as one of the wildest, most original Australian albums ever—proof that world-class psychedelic funk didn’t need London or LA; it could bloom in Sydney with a bunch of session cats and one visionary madman.

Leong pioneered the Australian private-press underground, fused East-West sounds decades before “global bass” was a buzzword, and did it all on his own terms. Today it influences everyone from psych revivalists to funk beatmakers sampling those killer breaks. It’s the missing link between ’70s Afro-rock, German kosmische, and the kind of free-spirited weirdness we all secretly wish music still had.

So yeah, Dragon Man isn’t just a great lost album—it’s a middle finger to an entire industry that wasn’t ready for a flute-playing, cornet-blowing, Malaysian-Australian guru preaching love, revolution, and jungle vibes over the funkiest rhythm section Sydney ever saw.

Put it on, turn it up, and let the Dragon Man possess you. Your neighbors might complain, but your soul will thank you. Legendary stuff, mate. Absolute bloody legend.

Joao Donato - 1973 - Quem E Quem

Joao Donato 

1973

Quem E Quem

01. Chorou, Chorou

02. Terremoto

03. Amazonas (Keep Tking)

04. Fim De Sonho

05. A Rã

06. Ahiê

07. Cala Boca Menino

08. Nana Das Águas

09. Me Deixa

10. Até Quem Sabe?

11. Mentiras

12. Cadê Jodel?

Drums [Uncredited] – Lula Nascimento

Electric Piano [Rhodes, Uncredited] – João Donato

Guitar [Uncredited] – Hélio Delmiro

Percussion [Uncredited] – Naná Vasconcelos

The Comeback Album Where the Quiet Genius Finally Sang (And Brazil Wasn’t Ready for How Good It Was)

Picture this: it’s 1973, Brazil is under military dictatorship, Tropicália has been beaten into submission, and the radio is full of weepy romantic schlock and the occasional funky protest song. Into this mess strolls João Donato—39 years old, fresh off a 14-year American exile, armed with a Fender Rhodes that sounds like liquid sunshine, a voice that’s basically a sleepy whisper with perfect pitch, and a batch of songs so ridiculously catchy they should come with a health warning. The result? Quem É Quem, the album that turned the mythical “musician’s musician” into a singing, crooning, electric-piano-tickling national treasure. It’s the Brazilian equivalent of Bob Dylan going electric… except nobody booed, because you can’t boo when your hips are involuntarily swaying.

This record is pure joy concentrated into 35 minutes of groove. It’s bossa nova on psychedelic mushrooms, samba that accidentally wandered into a jazz club and decided to stay, MPB that flirts shamelessly with funk and wins. And the best part? Donato sings the whole damn thing himself in that half-asleep, couldn’t-care-less baritone that somehow makes you believe every word about earthquakes, frogs, and lost girlfriends.

The Man, The Myth, The Guy Who Invented the Bossa Nova Beat (According to João Gilberto Himself)

João Donato de Oliveira Neto was born in 1934 in the middle of the Amazon jungle, in Rio Branco, Acre—literally the last place on earth you’d expect a sophisticated jazz pianist to come from. His dad flew planes and played mandolin; his mom sang; his sister played piano. Little João started on accordion at age 8 (composing waltzes, because of course he did), then switched to piano and never looked back.

By 15 he was in Rio, playing with legends, hanging with Jobim, writing tunes with João Gilberto (who later swore Donato invented the bossa beat—take that, revisionist historians). He recorded his first sides in the ’50s, but Brazil wasn’t ready for his weird harmonies and off-kilter rhythms. Club owners literally told him, “Great playing, man, but nobody can dance to this crap.” So in 1959 he split for the USA, where Latin jazz cats like Cal Tjader, Mongo Santamaría, Tito Puente, and Eddie Palmieri welcomed him like the prodigal son.

He spent the ’60s and early ’70s being the coolest sideman you never heard of—cutting the psychedelic jazz-funk masterpiece A Bad Donato in 1970 (with a young Eumir Deodato arranging), living in LA, chilling with Herbie Mann, basically being the Brazilian Ron Carter. Meanwhile back home, a new generation (Marcos Valle, Caetano, Gil, Gal Costa) treated him like a god who’d ascended and might return any day.

He did return in 1972–73, and a friend (the singer Agostinho dos Santos) gave him the best/worst advice ever: “João, you should sing your own songs.” Donato, who had the confidence of a man who’d already survived exile and color-blind pilot exams, said “sure, why not?” and made Quem É Quem. He died in 2023 at 88, still touring, still smiling like he knew a secret the rest of us didn’t.

The Musicians: A Murderers’ Row of Brazilian Groove Assassins

This is peak 1973 Rio studio wizardry, directed/arranged by the maestro Lindolfo Gaya (the “Brazilian Quincy Jones” if Quincy had better taste in caipirinhas).

João Donato – Fender Rhodes, piano, all vocals, compositions, and general vibe overlord

Hélio Delmiro – electric and acoustic guitars (the guy who made the guitar cry happy tears)

Lula Nascimento – drums (subtle as a feather, funky as hell)

Luiz Alves or Novelli – bass (depending on the track—both absolute pocket monsters)

Naná Vasconcelos – percussion wizardry (the man who made berimbaus and water drums sound sexy)

Guests: Marcos Valle (backing vocals on a couple), some flute and extra percussion from the usual Rio suspects

Engineered by a small army (Dacy, Reny Lippi, Toninho, Nivaldo Duarte) who somehow made a Rhodes sound warmer than a beach bonfire.

The Album: 12 Tracks of Pure “How Is This Legal?” Pleasure

Side A kicks off with “Chorou, Chorou” – a mid-tempo killer where Donato croons about crying like it’s the best thing that ever happened. Then “Terremoto” (Earthquake) hits—funky bass, Rhodes stabs, and Naná going berserk on percussion. It’s the closest Brazil ever got to a James Brown track without actually hiring James Brown.

“Ahiê” is three minutes of pure seduction—Donato whispering sweet nothings over the grooviest bass line known to man. “Até Quem Sabe” is the hit that never was (later covered by everyone with taste). “Cala Boca Menino” is Dorival Caymmi’s gift to the project—Donato telling a noisy kid to shut up, in the nicest possible way.

Side B has “Nana das Águas” (pure rainforest mysticism), the frog-obsessed “A Rã” (yes, it’s literally about a frog and it slaps harder than it has any right to), and the sublime “Mentiras”—a ballad so beautiful it should be illegal after midnight.

The sound? Electric piano that sparkles like Copacabana at sunrise, rhythms that sneak up and hijack your skeleton, vocals that sound like your cool uncle who’s secretly a genius telling you life’s gonna be okay. It’s funky without trying, psychedelic without the tie-dye, and impossibly chill while still making you dance.

The Album That Saved Brazilian Music from Terminal Schmaltz

In 1973, MPB was in danger of drowning in its own tears. Then comes Donato—exile returned, singing his own tunes for the first time—with an album that basically says, “Hey kids, remember joy? Here’s a double dose.”

Critics slept on it at first (Brazil gonna Brazil), but history has been kinder: Brazilian Rolling Stone put it in the Top 100 Brazilian albums ever. It’s been reissued a million times (the latest ones sound like heaven on vinyl), and crate-diggers lose their minds over the breaks—“A Rã” and “Terremoto” have been sampled more times than your uncle’s barbecue recipe.

Quem É Quem single-handedly proved that bossa nova didn’t die—it just put on platform shoes, plugged in a Rhodes, and learned to funk. It influenced everyone from Marcos Valle’s sunshine pop to the nu-bossa revival of the 2000s to Madlib and his Brazilian obsessions. Without this album there’s no Beleza Tropical compilations, no Gilles Peterson swooning over Brazilian grooves, no hipsters in Brooklyn paying $300 for original Odeon pressings.

Fifty years later it still sounds like the future arriving fashionably late with a caipirinha in each hand. João Donato didn’t just make a comeback in 1973—he reminded an entire country how to smile with its whole ass.

Put it on, close your eyes, and let the man from the jungle take you somewhere better. You’ll thank me. And if you don’t start involuntarily humming “doot-doot-doo-doo” within five minutes, check your pulse—you might be dead.

Joe Bataan - 1975 - Afrofilipino

Joe Bataan

1975

Afrofilipino

01. Chico And The Man (Main Theme)

02. The Bottle (La Botella)

03. X-Rated Symphony

04. Laughing And Crying

05. Hey, Girl

06. When You're Down (Funky Mambo)

07. Women Don't Want To Love Me

08. Ordinary Guy (Afrofilipino)

09. What Good Is A Castle (Part 1)

10. What Good Is A Castle (Part 2)

Bass – Bill Terry (tracks: B1 to B3)

Bass – Gordon Edwards (tracks: A1 to A6)

Congas, Bongos – Louis Palomo (tracks: B1 to B3)

Drums – James Madison (tracks: A1 to A6)

Drums, Timbales – Munyungo (Darryl Jackson) (tracks: B1 to B3)

Guitar – Cornell Dupree (tracks: A1 to A6)

Guitar – Randy Russell Pigeé (tracks: B1 to B3)

Percussion – Peter (Choki) Quintero (tracks: A1 to A6)

Piano – Frank Owens (tracks: A1 to A6)

Piano – Richard Tee (tracks: A1 to A6)

Piano, Organ – Sammy Garcia (tracks: B1 to B3)

Saxophone [Alto, Baritone] – Dave Sanborn (tracks: A1 to A6)

Strings – Swinging Salsoul Strings (tracks: A1 to A6)

Trombone – Barry Rogers (tracks: A1 to A6)

Trumpet – John Faddis (tracks: A1 to A6)

Trumpet – Lou Soloff (tracks: A1 to A6)

Trumpet – Randy Brecker (tracks: A1 to A6)

Joe Bataan’s Afrofilipino (1975): The Salsoul Disco Bomb That Proved a Filipino Kid from Spanish Harlem Could Out-Latin the Latinos—and Then Some

Let’s get this out of the way upfront: in 1975, the idea of a Filipino-American former juvenile delinquent turned street-corner doo-wop singer deciding to record a full-on salsa dura album with Spanish lyrics he barely spoke fluently was so absurd that it should’ve come with a laugh track. Instead, Joe Bataan dropped Afrofilipino on Salsoul Records and accidentally created one of the hardest, funkiest, most defiant New York Latin albums of the decade. This is the sound of a man who looked at Tito Puente, Willie Colón, and Eddie Palmieri and said, “Hold my adobo, watch this.”

The result? A record so good that Puerto Ricans in El Barrio played it thinking Joe was one of theirs, only to do a double-take when they saw the album cover: a grinning Filipino guy in a dashiki, looking like he just won a bet with God.

From Gang Leader to Latin Soul King to… Wait, He’s Filipino?

Born Bataan Nitollano in 1942 (yes, named after the Bataan Death March—his mother had a dark sense of humor or an even darker sense of patriotism) to a Filipino father and African-American mother, Joe grew up in East Harlem’s 112th Street, a place where the main currencies were fists, pride, and the ability to sing harmony on a tenement stoop.

By 15 he was leader of the Dragons gang, did a stretch in Coxsackie state prison, and came out reformed—sort of. He formed a doo-wop group, sold enough “Latin soul” 45s on Fania to buy nice shirts, and coined the term “Latin boogaloo” with his 1967 monster “Gypsy Woman.” Joe was the original crossover hustler: too Black for the Latin scene, too Latin for the Black scene, too street for the clubs, and—crucially—100% Filipino in a genre that didn’t have a box for that yet.

By the early ’70s, boogaloo was declared dead by the Fania mafia (too American, not “authentic” enough), so Joe pivoted like a man who’d already survived prison and multiple musical funerals. He cut some sweet soul albums, discovered disco early, and then—in the ultimate act of “watch me” energy—decided to go full salsa dura… in Spanish. The man spoke kitchen Spanish at best. The result was Afrofilipino, the album equivalent of showing up to a gunfight with a spork and still winning.

The Musicians: A Murderers’ Row of Nuyorican Heavyweights (Who Probably Thought Joe Was Crazy Until They Heard the Playback)

Recorded at Good Vibrations Studio in NYC and released on Salsoul (the label that would soon birth disco’s golden age), Afrofilipino is stacked with the kind of players who made the ’70s New York Latin sound dangerous.

These cats had played on classic Fania albums. They walked in expecting another Latin-soul crossover cash-in and left having cut some of the nastiest, funkiest salsa of 1975. Rumor has it half the band learned the arrangements on the spot because Joe kept changing his mind like a man ordering at a Filipino buffet.

The Album: Eight Tracks of Pure “How Dare You” Energy

Side A alone should be illegal in 49 states.

“The Bottle (La Botella)” – A salsa remake of Gil Scott-Heron’s anti-addiction anthem that somehow turns into the most danceable song about alcoholism ever. Joe screams “¡No hay parque!” like he’s personally offended by every empty lot in Harlem.

“Chico And The Man (Theme)” – Yes, he salsa-fied the theme from a sitcom starring Freddie Prinze (another half-Filipino pretending to be Puerto Rican). This is meta before meta was a thing.

“The Message” – Not Grandmaster Flash, this one came first. Pure barrio philosophy set to a groove so tough it could beat up your father.

“Ordinary Guy (Afrofilipino)” – Joe literally raps/sings his résumé: ex-con, junkie turned singer, Filipino in Spanish Harlem. The hook—“Just an ordinary guy!”—is delivered with the swagger of a man who knows he’s anything but.

Side B keeps the heat: “X-Rated Sally,” “Sadie (She Smokes),” and the monster closer “When Sunny Gets Blue” turned into a 9-minute descarga that makes grown percussionists weep.

The sound? Hard salsa with disco’s low-end theory already creeping in—fat bass lines, punchy horns, breaks that would later be sampled to death (the drum intro to “Ordinary Guy” is a crate-digger’s wet dream). Joe’s Spanish pronunciation is… let’s call it “creative.” He rolls R’s like he’s trying to start a lawnmower and occasionally throws in random Tagalog syllables, but somehow it all works. The band is so ferocious they carry him like a triumphant emperor on a throne made of congas.

Importance and Legacy: The Ultimate Middle Finger to Purity Police

In 1975 the Latin establishment was obsessed with “keeping it real.” You had to be Puerto Rican (or at least pretend very hard). Joe Bataan showed up Filipino, singing half-baked Spanish, with a Jewish trombone player and a sitcom theme in his setlist—and made one of the decade’s best salsa albums. That’s not just crossover; that’s conquest.

Afrofilipino predicted everything:

The coming Salsoul disco explosion

The Nuyorican identity crisis/celebration

The idea that “Latin” music could belong to whoever had the cojones to claim it

The future sampling frenzy (everyone from Cypress Hill to Lou Vega to every underground house producer in the ’90s jacked breaks from this record)

Today it’s a holy grail: original Salsoul pressings go for stupid money, and the 2019 Mr. Bongo reissue sold out instantly. DJs spin “Ordinary Guy” and watch dance floors lose their minds. It’s the ultimate proof that authenticity is overrated—what matters is soul, hustle, and not giving a damn what neighborhood you’re from.

Joe Bataan didn’t just make a great album in 1975. He walked into the salsa kitchen, cooked with ingredients nobody thought belonged together, and served a dish so delicious that fifty years later we’re all still licking the plate.

Respect the king. The Filipino king of salsa. Who’d have thunk it? Joe Bataan did—and then he made the rest of us believe it too. ¡Dale!

Doug Hammond - 1975 - Reflections In The Sea Of Nurnen

Doug Hammond 

1975 

Reflections In The Sea Of Nurnen

01. Fidalgo Detour 7:32
02. Space II 0:35
03. Wake Up Brothers 3:05
04. Reflections 4:23
05. For Real 2:56
06. Space I 2:00
07. Sea Of Nurnen 4:34
08. Moves 4:29

Alto Saxophone – Otis Harris
Bass – Charles Metcalf
Percussion – Frederick Boon, Thomas (Turk) Trayler
Piano, Electric Piano, Synthesizer – David Durrah
Violin – Charles Burnham, Trevis Mickeel
Vocals, Drums, Melodica, Synthesizer – Doug

Doug Hammond's Reflections in the Sea of Nurnen (1975): A Laid-Back Spiritual Jazz Gem from the Tribe Vaults

Ah, Reflections in the Sea of Nurnen—the album with a title that sounds like J.R.R. Tolkien got lost in a Coltrane meditation and emerged with a jazz record. Released in 1975 on Detroit's legendary Tribe Records, this is the debut leader effort from drummer/vocalist/composer Doug Hammond, co-credited to keyboard wizard David Durrah (sometimes spelled Durra or Durrah—jazz spelling bees are brutal). It's a serene, synthesizer-kissed slice of spiritual jazz that feels like a warm bath after the fiery political broadsides of some other Tribe releases. Recorded back in 1971–72 in San Francisco but shelved until Tribe gave it a home, it's often hailed as a "masterpiece" today, though back then it probably sold about as many copies as a hobbit sells pipe-weed in Detroit. Let's dive deep into this underrated beauty, with a biography detour, some Tribe context, the lineup, a track-by-track-ish romp, and why it still matters—all with the gentle ribbing it deserves for being so chill in an era of revolution.

Who Is Doug Hammond, Anyway? (The Man Who Could Do It All, Except Stay in One Place)

Born December 26, 1942, in Tampa, Florida, Douglas Hammond grew up in a musical hotbed but started humbly: a year on trombone at age 9 (he wisely switched to drums before embarrassing himself forever). By high school, he was banging away in marching bands, then headed north for the jazz life. Hammond is one of those quietly ubiquitous figures in avant-garde and free jazz—drummer, vocalist (with a warm, spoken-sung style that's more poetic than belting), composer, poet, producer, and even professor later in life.

He's played with everyone who matters: Earl Hooker, Sonny Rollins, Nina Simone, Betty Carter, Donald Byrd, Ornette Coleman, James "Blood" Ulmer, Arthur Blythe, Paquito D'Rivera... the list reads like a who's-who of jazz rebels. Most famously, Charles Mingus recorded Hammond's tune "Moves" on his 1974 album Mingus Moves—a moody closer that Hammond himself reprises here (spoiler: his version slaps harder). In the '80s, he formed a groundbreaking trio with a young Steve Coleman (yes, that Steve Coleman of M-Base fame), releasing the influential Spaces (1982). Later work includes tentets, tributes, and even techno crossovers with Carl Craig. Hammond's career is a masterclass in versatility: free funk one day, heartfelt ballads the next. At 82 (as of late 2025), he's still active, with documentaries and reissues keeping his flame alive. The guy's like jazz's Forrest Gump—always popping up in the right revolutionary moment, drumsticks in hand.

Tribe Records: Detroit's DIY Jazz Revolution (Because Motown Wouldn't Return Their Calls)

Picture Detroit in the early '70s: auto industry crumbling, riots still echoing from '67, Black empowerment in the air thicker than exhaust fumes. Enter Tribe—a collective/magazine/label founded in 1971–72 by trombonist Phil Ranelin and saxophonist Wendell Harrison (both ex-Motown session cats tired of the assembly line). Inspired by Chicago's AACM and New York's Strata-East, Tribe was full-on self-determination: musicians controlling their art, distribution, and message. They published a magazine (also called Tribe) with Afrocentric editorials, concert listings, and calls to action—circulation hit 25,000 at its peak. The label released about a dozen albums from 1973–77, heavy on spiritual jazz, socio-political fire, and community vibes: Ranelin's The Time Is Now!, Harrison's An Evening with the Devil, Harold McKinney's cosmic explorations.

Tribe wasn't just records; it was education programs, concerts with dancers and poets, a blueprint for Black artistic independence in a city bleeding jobs. It folded by '77 (money, life, the usual), but morphed into Rebirth Inc., keeping the spirit alive. Today, thanks to reissues (shoutout Now-Again's deluxe box sets), Tribe is canonized as one of the great underground imprints—proof that Detroit could birth more than cars and techno.

Reflections is a bit of an outlier: not Detroit-recorded, not as overtly militant as, say, Ranelin's anthems. Hammond and Durrah cut it on the West Coast, shopped it to Strata-East (deal fell through), then trumpeter Marcus Belgrave (a Tribe affiliate) nudged them toward Detroit. It became one of Tribe's mellowest entries—perfect for late-night reflection rather than raising fists.

The Musicians: A Tight Crew of Unsung Heroes (Plus Enough Synthesizer to Make Herbie Hancock Jealous)

This is very much a Hammond/Durrah co-lead, with Hammond on drums, vocals, melodica, and Arp synth; Durrah manning piano, Fender Rhodes, Moog, and more Arp (early electronic jazz experimentation alert!). The core band:

Otis Harris: Alto saxophone—soulful, Coltrane-tinged lines that weave like smoke.

Charles "Chuck" Metcalf: Acoustic bass (sometimes called "bass violin") and electric bass—steady, walking heart of the groove.

Charles Burnham: Violin (improvisations that add ethereal string magic).

Trevis Mickeel: Second violin for extra texture.

Frederick Boon and Thomas "Turk" Trayler: Percussion—congas and shakers for that Afro-Latin pulse.

Art by Grace Williams, photos by Karma Stanley—vibes immaculate.

Recorded at Different Fur Trading Co. in San Francisco (a haven for experimental sounds), engineered by John Viera and David Litwin. Produced by Hammond himself. It's intimate: no big horns, no screaming solos—just hypnotic interplay.

The Album Itself: Chill Vibes in a Sea of Cosmic Calm (With a Tolkien Title for Extra Nerd Points)

Clocking in at under 30 minutes (vinyl efficiency!), Reflections blends soul jazz, modal exploration, early fusion, and spiritual introspection. It's laid-back where peers like Pharoah Sanders went full ecstasy—no yodeling here, folks. Think Alice Coltrane's serenity meets Lonnie Liston Smith's cosmic keys, but with Hammond's gentle vocals adding a poetic, almost folk-jazz touch.

Track highlights:

Fidalgo Detour (7:32): Opens with a killer alto riff you'll hum for days. Groovy mid-tempo funk, bossa hints—pure earworm.

Space II and Space I (short interstitials): Pure synthesizer weirdness—Moog/ARP doodles like floating in zero gravity. Hammond and Durrah geeking out.

Wake Up Brothers (3:05): Righteous vocals over percolating percussion. The closest to a "message" track—uplifting without preaching.

Reflections (4:23): Lush Rhodes reverie. Meditative title track; close your eyes and float.

For Real: Funky, vocal-led swing—Hammond's voice shines, warm and sincere.

Sea of Nurnen (4:34): Title homage to Tolkien's salty slave sea in Mordor. Moody, oceanic groove—ironic for such a peaceful tune.

Moves (4:29): Hammond's own composition, later gifted to Mingus. Brooding closer, full of tension and release.

Overall sound: Warm, skittering rhythms; electric keys that shimmer; acoustic bass anchoring the spirituality. It's "spiritual jazz" without the fire-and-brimstone—more healing force than revolution. Critics call it hypnotic, comforting, freeing. One reviewer nailed it: memorable hooks that'll "rattle around your brain for months."

The Quiet Giant of the Tribe Catalog

In 1975, this flew under radar—spiritual jazz was niche, Tribe was hyper-local. But today? A cult classic, reissued multiple times (Now-Again's versions are gorgeous). It's prized for bridging '70s soul jazz with electronic experimentation, influencing everyone from floating-point cosmic revivalists to crate-diggers. "Moves" alone links it to Mingus lore. In the broader spiritual jazz canon (think Strata-East, Impulse!'s late era), it's the mellow counterpoint—proof the genre could be introspective, not just ecstatic.

Legacy-wise, it underscores Tribe's ethos: artist control in turbulent times. Hammond's career arc (from this to mentoring Steve Coleman) shows its ripple. And in a world still needing "wake up" calls, its gentle positivity feels timeless. Plus, any album named after a Tolkien inland sea deserves props for sheer whimsy.

If you love Pharoah, Lonnie Liston, or just good vibes with your avant-garde, spin this. It's not the loudest Tribe record, but sometimes the quiet ones heal deepest. Namaste, jazz nerds—or as they'd say in Nurnen, "Pass the melodica."

Ron Everett - 1977 - The Glitter Of The City

Ron Everett

1977

The Glitter Of The City

01. Royal Walk 5:05

02. Glitter Of The City (Song By Tahira) 5:21

03. Tipsy Lady 3:28

04. Mood Two Latin For You 7:47

05. Pretty Little Girl 2:05

06. Musicman New Rock Joy 11:34

07. Let Your Spirits Be Free 8:29

08. Fanfare For Coltrane 14:51

09. Untitled I 9:01

10. Untitled II 11:05

Alto Saxophone – Jimmy Savage (tracks: 1)

Alto Saxophone, Baritone Saxophone – Bobby Zankel (tracks: 1)

Bass – Bean Chandler (tracks: 2, 4 to 6)

Bass – Earl Womack (tracks: 3, 5)

Bass – Lenard Fletcher Bey (tracks: 1)

Bass – William P. Bennett (tracks: 1)

Congas – Adib (tracks: 2, 4, 6, 7)

Drums – Lex Humphries (tracks: 3, 5)

Drums – Nate Jones (tracks: 2, 4, 6, 7)

Flugelhorn – Hakim Yusef Sadiz (tracks: 1)

Guitar – Warren Marcus (tracks: 2, 4, 6, 7)

Percussions – Ron Mitchell Howerton (tracks: 1)

Piano – Charles King (tracks: 2, 4, 6, 7)

Piano – Dennis Fortune (tracks: 1)

Piano – Ron Everett (tracks: 3, 1)

Saxophone – Jim Miller (tracks: 2, 4, 6, 7)

Saxophone – Robert Shabazz (tracks: 2, 4, 6, 7)

Trumpet – Bill Walsh (tracks: 1)

Trumpet – Ron Everett (tracks: 1, 2, 4, 6, 7)

Vocals – Ron Everett (tracks: 1, 3, 5)

Vocals – Tahira (tracks: 2)

Ron Everett: The Unsung Philly Jazz Maverick and His 1977 Gem, The Glitter of the City

Ah, Ron Everett – the kind of musician who makes you wonder if the jazz gods were playing a cosmic prank by keeping him under the radar for so long. Born Ronald McCoy Everett on July 9, 1936, in the City of Brotherly Love (Philadelphia, for those not up on their cheesesteak geography), Ron kicked off his musical journey not with a trumpet blast, but as a bass singer in the doo-wop scene. Yep, this future jazz-funk alchemist was harmonizing with The Castelles, a classic 1950s vocal group known for hits like "My Girl Awaits Me." He joined around 1951-1953, replacing members and adding his deep tones to their sweet, street-corner serenades. Imagine: a guy who could croon like a lovesick teen one decade, then pivot to soulful sax and trumpet wizardry the next. By the 1970s, he'd evolved into a free/soul jazz saxophonist (though he'd grab the trumpet for this album), blending Philly's gritty vibes with spiritual grooves. Sadly, Ron passed away in August 1990 at just 54, leaving behind a legacy that's equal parts enigmatic and tragically overlooked – like a hidden speakeasy in a city full of flashy nightclubs. His story? One of selflessness, determination, and a dash of tragedy, as unearthed by dedicated diggers like "Philly Dave" Louis.

Now, onto The Glitter of the City, Ron's 1977 solo album – a shimmering, self-released oddity that's less "glitter" in the disco sense and more like the sparkle of Philly's underbelly reflecting off cracked sidewalks. Recorded on a shoestring budget (think " ramen-noodle-level funding"), this was no glossy studio affair. Ron poured his heart into it as a love letter to Philadelphia's vibrant musical heritage, capturing the city's soul-jazz pulse amid the disco fever that was dominating the airwaves. Picture this: while everyone else was boogieing to "Stayin' Alive," Ron was out here crafting funky jams infused with blues, spiritual jazz, and Latin rhythms – basically thumbing his nose at trends like a rebellious uncle at a family disco party. The sessions? Shrouded in mystery, but we know it was a DIY Philly affair, with Ron handling trumpet, vocals, and even piano on a couple tracks. No big-label polish here – just raw, community-driven energy from local talents. The original pressing was under his Vagabond King label, limited to tiny quantities, and circulated mostly in the Philadelphia region. Fun fact: the cover was a plain white sleeve with a black-and-white Xerox glued on, because why spend on graphic design when you can DIY like a punk rocker in jazz drag?

Speaking of the crew, Ron didn't go solo – he assembled a who's-who of Philly's underground scene, like a jazz Avengers team on a budget. Here's the breakdown by track, because why not geek out over credits?

Royal Walk: Alto sax by Jimmy Savage and Bobby Zankel (who also handles baritone); flugelhorn by Hakim Yusef Sadiz; flexotone and bongos by Ron Mitchell Howerton; piano by Dennis Fortune; trumpets by Bill Walsh and Ron himself (plus his voice).

Glitter of the City (Song by Tahira): Bass by Bean Chandler; congas by Adib; drums by Nate Jones; guitar by Warren Marcus; sax by Jim Miller; trumpet by Ron; vocals by the ethereal Tahira.

Tipsy Lady: Bass by Earl Womack; drums by Lex Humphries; piano and voice by Ron.

Mood Two Latin for You: Bass by Bean Chandler; congas by Adib; drums by Nate Jones; guitar by Warren Marcus; trumpet by Ron.

Pretty Little Girl: Bass by Earl Womack; drums by Lex Humphries; piano and voice by Ron.

New Rock Joy (or "Musicman New Rock Joy" in some listings): Bass by Bean Chandler; congas by Adib; drums by Nate Jones; guitar by Warren Marcus; voice and trumpet by Ron.

Let Your Spirits Be Free: Bass by Bean Chandler; congas by Adib; drums by Nate Jones; guitar by Warren Marcus; trumpet by Ron. (Composed by Alvin "Bean" Chandler – yes, that's the bassist pulling double duty.)

These folks were Philly lifers, bringing that authentic, street-honed flair. Lex Humphries, for instance, was a drumming legend who'd played with everyone from Dizzy Gillespie to Sun Ra – talk about upgrading your session like adding hot sauce to a bland sandwich. Ron's multi-instrumental prowess shines, but it's the ensemble's synergy that makes the album pop.

This album's backstory is comedy gold wrapped in vinyl tragedy. Ron didn't bother with stores or distribution; he sold copies straight from Philly street corners, like a one-man lemonade stand for jazz heads. In the disco-drenched '70s, pushing an avant-garde jazz LP was like trying to sell kale smoothies at a candy convention – surprising anyone bought it at all! Originals are so rare, they're owned by "literally just a handful of collectors worldwide," and even in Philly, they're unicorn-level elusive. One tale from the reissue hunt: Researchers stumbled on a master tape for an unreleased follow-up album, yielding three bonus tracks – like finding buried treasure in your grandma's attic. And the controversy? Whispers of it being "obscure, controversial, and mysterious" abound, perhaps tied to Ron's enigmatic life or the album's raw, unpolished edge that defied categorization. 

The Glitter of the City is the ultimate "holy grail" – Jazzman Records saved it from oblivion in 2021 as part of their Holy Grail Series (catalog #100, no less, like reserving the VIP table). Limited to 1,500 copies with restored audio, liner notes, and photos, it's now accessible to mere mortals. But its true impact? A testament to Philly's unsung jazz scene, blending soulful grooves with experimental flair that influenced underground funk and jazz-funk revivals. Ron's determination shines through – a reminder that great art doesn't need billboards; sometimes, street-corner hustle is enough. In a world of auto-tuned pop, this album's raw glitter feels like a rebellious wink from the past.

Clocking in at about 45 minutes across seven tracks, The Glitter is a genre-hopping joyride that's equal parts soothing and surprising. Opener "Royal Walk" struts in with horns and percussion like a Philly parade gone cosmic – those saxes and flugelhorn weave a tapestry that's regal yet relaxed, as if the band is tipsy on inspiration. The title track? A soul-jazz stunner with Tahira's vocals floating over congas and guitar, evoking a hazy city night where the glitter isn't sequins, but streetlights on rain-slicked pavement. "Tipsy Lady" lives up to its name: Ron's piano and voice stumble charmingly through a boozy blues, like a lounge act after one too many. Then "Mood Two Latin for You" heats up with Latin rhythms and trumpet flares – it's eight minutes of infectious groove that could've soundtracked a '70s cop show if anyone had noticed.

The B-side gets introspective: "Pretty Little Girl" is a tender, two-minute vocal-piano ditty, sweet as a stolen kiss. "New Rock Joy" stretches to 11 minutes of funky fusion, with Ron's trumpet and voice riffing over guitar licks – irregular beats add that "strange" free-jazz edge, like the track's trying to escape its own genre. Closer "Let Your Spirits Be Free" is spiritual jazz at its finest, uplifting and expansive, composed by bassist Bean Chandler as a freeing anthem. Overall, the album's a funky, bluesy celebration of Philly's musical melting pot, with half the tracks vocal-led for that soulful punch. It's not flawless – production's raw, like a bootleg gem – but that's the charm. In a humorous twist, it's jazz that's too cool for its era, now rediscovered like that forgotten mixtape that blows your mind. If you're into spiritual jazz with a side of funk (think Pharoah Sanders meets Roy Ayers, but on a budget), this is your new obsession. Ron Everett, we salute you – the glitter may have faded, but the city's soul shines eternal.

Agustus Pablo - 1976 - King Tubbys Meets Rockers Uptown

Agustus Pablo

1976

King Tubbys Meets Rockers Uptown

01. Keep On Dubbing

02. Stop Them Jam

03. Young Generation Dub

04. Each One Dub

05. 555 Dub Street

06. Braces Tower Dub

07. King Tubby Meets Rockers Uptown

08. Corner Crew Dub

09. Say So

10. Skanking Dub

11. Frozen Dub

12. Satta Dub

Bass – Aston (Family Man) Barrett, Leroy Horsemouth, Robert (Robby) Shakespear*

Drums – Carlton (Carlie) Barrett

Guitar – Earl (Chinna) Smith*

Organ, Piano, Clarinet – Agustus Pablo

Saxophone [Tenor] – Richard (Dirty Harry) Hal

Trombone – Vincent (Don D Junior) Gordon*

Trumpet – Bobby Ellis

Augustus Pablo's 1976 Dub Masterpiece: King Tubbys Meets Rockers Uptown – Where Melodica Meets Echo in a Jamaican Jam Session

Ah, Augustus Pablo – the melodica maestro who turned a kid's toy instrument into the sonic equivalent of a Rastafarian sermon. Born Horace Swaby on June 21, 1954, in St. Andrew, Jamaica, Pablo grew up in a musical hotbed, attending Kingston College where he tickled the ivories on the organ like a prodigy in short pants. By his teens, he was already experimenting with the melodica, that quirky wind keyboard that sounds like a harmonica got cozy with a piano. His big break came through producer Herman Chin Loy, leading to early hits that blended roots reggae with dub's spacey echoes. Pablo wasn't just a player; he was a producer, keyboardist, and dub innovator who helped birth the genre's golden era. Tragically, he passed away on May 18, 1999, at 44 from a nerve disorder (myasthenia gravis), but not before leaving a legacy that's as enduring as a well-rolled spliff. Think of him as the dub world's Gandalf – mystical, influential, and always one step ahead of the orcs (or in this case, mainstream pop).

Now, dive into King Tubbys Meets Rockers Uptown, the 1976 album that's basically dub's Declaration of Independence – declaring freedom from vocals and straight-up rhythms. This wasn't just an album; it was a cosmic collision between Pablo's Rockers International label and the mixing wizardry of King Tubby (Osbourne Ruddock), the engineer who treated the studio console like a mad scientist's lab. Recorded amid Jamaica's mid-70s reggae boom, when roots sounds were evolving into dub's echo-heavy experiments, the sessions happened at Randy's Studio in Kingston – a legendary spot where hits were born faster than you could say "irie." Pablo brought in his original Rockers band tracks, mostly instrumentals he'd produced earlier, and handed them to Tubby for remixing at his Waterhouse studio. Tubby, with assistant Errol Thompson, flipped them into dub versions, stripping away elements, adding reverb, delay, and echo like a chef overdosing on spices. The result? A 30-minute trip that's sparse yet immersive, proving dub could stand alone without the original songs' baggage. Fun background: This was during reggae's "rockers" era, with militant rhythms and social commentary, but Pablo and Tubby turned it into something meditative – like yoga for your eardrums, if yoga involved bass drops that could rattle your ribcage.

The musicians? Pablo didn't skimp – he assembled the Rockers All-Stars, a supergroup of Jamaica's finest, like the Avengers but with more dreadlocks and less CGI. Pablo himself handled melodica, piano, organ, clavinet, and production duties, his signature melodica weaving through like a ghostly whistle in the wind. On the mixing board: King Tubby, the dub godfather, with Prince Jammy (Lloyd James) occasionally lurking as an apprentice. The core band featured:

Drums: Carlton "Santa" Barrett (of Wailers fame, bringing that one-drop rhythm like a heartbeat on steroids).

Bass: Aston "Family Man" Barrett (Carlton's brother, laying down lines so deep they could plumb the Mariana Trench) or Robbie Shakespeare (of Sly & Robbie, adding funky precision).

Guitar: Earl "Chinna" Smith (whose riffs slice through the haze like a machete through sugarcane).

Percussion: Various, including Pablo's own touches.

Horns: Dirty Harry (tenor sax), Vin Gordon (trombone), and Bobby Ellis (trumpet), adding brass bursts that pop like fireworks in a echo chamber.

These were session pros who'd backed everyone from Bob Marley to Burning Spear, but here they served Pablo's vision – tight grooves turned inside out by Tubby's tweaks. No egos, just vibes; it's like they all showed up to a party where the DJ decided to remix reality itself.

Anecdotes from these sessions read like a stoner's fever dream. Tubby's studio was a tiny shack in Waterhouse, crammed with gear that looked like it could launch a rocket – or at least send your mind into orbit. One tale: Tubby would drop out instruments mid-track, creating "space" that felt revolutionary, like he was inventing silence as a instrument. Pablo, ever the mystic, reportedly chain-smoked while laying down melodica lines, turning the room into a foggy dub sanctuary. There's a humorous bit about how the title track became a hit single in 1975 before the album dropped – it was a dub of Jacob Miller's "Baby I Love You So," but Tubby mangled it so beautifully it outshone the original, proving remixes could steal the spotlight. And get this: After this album, Tubby's studio became legendary, with artists queuing up like it was the hottest club in Kingston. Pablo once joked (or so legend says) that the melodica was his "far east sound," blending Asian influences with Jamaican roots – imagine explaining that to your grandma over tea. On X, fans still geek out: One user blasted it on a sunny day with windows open, daring neighbors to complain, while another pairs it with spring vibes like a seasonal ritual.

Legacy? Oh boy, this album didn't just influence dub – it defined it, like how pizza defines "comfort food." Released on Clocktower Records, it's hailed as one of the finest dub records ever, shaping everything from punk (John Lydon was a fan) to electronic music (think early Massive Attack or even modern bass-heavy genres). It popularized the "rockers" style – militant, stepping rhythms – and proved dub was art, not just B-sides. Critics call it a "landmark," "seminal," and "revolutionary," influencing artists like Simon Raymonde (Cocteau Twins) and Adrian Sherwood. In Jamaica, it cemented Pablo and Tubby as icons; globally, it's a gateway drug to reggae for newcomers. Even today, reissues fly off shelves, and X threads recommend it as essential listening – one post calls it a "trance-setter." In a world of overproduced beats, its raw, echoey minimalism is a hilarious rebuke: "Why add more when less hits harder?"

As for the in-depth review: Clocking in at 12 tracks (plus bonuses on reissues), King Tubbys is a dub odyssey that's hypnotic, sparse, and groovy – like floating in a zero-gravity bass bin. Opener "Keep on Dubbing" sets the tone with echoing horns and dropping rhythms, as if the band is playing hide-and-seek with the listener. The title track? A stone-cold classic – Pablo's melodica dances over a riddim that's equal parts militant march and laid-back stroll, with Tubby's effects making it feel like the music's breathing. "Each One Dub" strips "Each One Teach One" to its bones, all bass thumps and ghostly echoes, perfect for pondering life's mysteries (or just zoning out). "Frozen Dub" chills with icy delays, while "Satta Dub" (a dub of "Satta Massagana") elevates spiritual vibes to nirvana levels.

The album's genius is in its restraint: No filler, just pure dub alchemy where silence speaks volumes. Humorously, it's the anti-disco of 1976 – while everyone boogied, Pablo and Tubby were out here engineering echoes that could make a mirror jealous. Production's raw and revolutionary, with Tubby's four-track mixer pushing boundaries like a budget Einstein. If you're into dub, reggae, or just sounds that massage your soul, this is essential – a timeless trip that's as fresh as a Jamaican breeze. Augustus Pablo and King Tubby, we dub thee legends; your glitter (or should I say echo) still shines.

Maze featuring Frankie Beverly - 1978 - Golden Time of Dayz

Maze featuring Frankie Beverly

1978

Golden Time of Day

01. Travelin' Man 5:06

02. Song For My Mother 5:02

03. You're Not The Same 5:13

04. Workin' Together 5:30

05. Golden Time Of Day 5:30

06. I Wish You Well 4:37

07. I Need You 10:00

Bass Guitar – Robin Duhe

Congas, Vocals – Ronald "Roame" Lowry*

Drums – Ahaguna G. Sun

Drums – Joe Provost (tracks: A1, B2)

Keyboards – Sam Porter

Lead Guitar – Wayne Thomas

Vocals, Rhythm Guitar – Frankie Beverly

Vocals, Percussion – McKinley (Bug) Williams

Golden Time of Day – Where Funk Meets Sunset Vibes

Ah, Frankie Beverly – the smooth-voiced architect of feel-good R&B who turned life's ups and downs into grooves so infectious, they could make a statue tap its toes. Born Howard Stanley Beverly on December 6, 1946, in Philadelphia's East Germantown neighborhood, Frankie kicked off his musical odyssey as a gospel-singing kid in the local church, belting out hymns like a pint-sized preacher with a side of soul. He graduated from Germantown High School, but his real education came on the streets, forming doo-wop groups like The Blenders (an a cappella crew inspired by The Dells and The Moonglows) and later The Butlers in 1963. By the late '60s, as Frankie Beverly and the Butlers, they dropped Northern soul gems like "If That's What You Wanted," catching the ear of Philly producer Kenny Gamble – though their raw edge didn't quite fit the slick Philly Sound. Undeterred, Frankie toured relentlessly, eventually relocating the band (then called Raw Soul) to San Francisco in the early '70s. There, a fateful connection via Marvin Gaye's sister-in-law led to opening slots for the Motown legend himself. Gaye, in a stroke of genius (or perhaps just good branding), suggested renaming them Maze – because navigating the music biz felt like one big labyrinth. Signed to Capitol Records, Maze became synonymous with uplifting, groove-heavy R&B, releasing nine Gold albums and building a cult following that adored their live energy. Frankie's signature? Performing in all-white outfits – slacks, shirts, and baseball caps – inspiring fans to dress like a collective wedding party at concerts. His son Anthony even drummed for the band, turning Maze into a family affair. Tragically, Frankie passed away on September 10, 2024, at 77, leaving a void in soul music bigger than a disco ball's shadow – but not before racking up honors like the 2012 BET Lifetime Achievement Award, the 2024 NAACP Image Awards Lifetime Achievement, and even having his childhood street renamed Frankie Beverly Way.

Enter Golden Time of Day, Maze's sophomore album from 1978 – a sun-kissed slab of soul-funk that's less about chasing trends and more about capturing that magical hour when the light hits just right, turning everyday chaos into pure bliss. Released on Capitol Records, this was the follow-up to their self-titled debut, building on their Bay Area roots with a mellow yet funky vibe that screamed "California cool" amid the late-'70s disco frenzy. Recorded at Applewood Studios in Golden, Colorado – a fittingly "golden" location that might explain the title, or perhaps Frankie just liked the irony of recording sunset anthems in a mountain town – the sessions were helmed entirely by Beverly as producer, songwriter, and multi-instrumentalist. Clocking in at about 41 minutes, it's a concise seven-track affair in the soul/funk genre, emphasizing positive messages and tight musicianship over flashy production. No over-the-top strings or synthesizers here – just organic grooves that feel like a backyard barbecue with your wisest uncles dropping life lessons. The album dropped in a year when R&B was evolving, and Maze positioned themselves as the anti-disco: thoughtful, uplifting tracks that prioritized feel over flash, much like how Frankie navigated his career – steady, soulful, and stubbornly authentic.

The musicians? Maze was a well-oiled machine, with Frankie at the center like a benevolent bandleader in white. Here's the core lineup for Golden Time of Day, blending Philly grit with West Coast smoothness:

Frankie Beverly: Lead vocals, rhythm guitar, piano – the heart and soul, writing every track and producing like a one-man Motown.

Wayne Thomas: Lead guitar – adding those shimmering riffs that sparkle like afternoon sunlight.

Sam Porter: Keyboards – laying down the melodic foundations with organ and piano swells.

Robin Duhe: Bass – providing the funky backbone, groovy enough to make your hips sway involuntarily.

Joe Provost: Drums on "Travelin' Man" and "I Wish You Well" – precise beats for the more introspective cuts.

Ahaguna B. Sun: Drums on the remaining tracks – bringing a percussive punch that's pure energy.

Ronald "Roame" Lowry: Congas, backing vocals – infusing Latin flair and harmonious support.

McKinley "Bug" Williams: Percussion, backing vocals – the rhythmic glue, shaking things up with congas and vibes.

This crew wasn't just session players; they were Maze's touring band, honing their chemistry on the road, which translated to the studio like a well-rehearsed comedy routine – seamless and full of heart.

Anecdotes from the Golden Time era read like feel-good tales from a soul survivor's memoir. Frankie once admitted he never imagined singing for 50 years when he started out, let alone creating anthems that still pack arenas – talk about underestimating your own groove! The title track became a tear-jerker for fans; singer Jill Scott shared on X how she'd cry every time Frankie performed it live at Philly's Dell Music Center, calling it "bliss recorded" – like emotional therapy set to music. Post-Frankie's passing, tributes flooded in: Bands like Alabama State's Mighty Marching Hornets honored him with medleys of "Golden Time of Day" at events like the Magic City Classic, proving his tunes are marching band-approved. And in a humorous twist, the album's recording in Golden, CO, sparked whispers that the "golden time" was inspired by the town's name – or maybe just the high-altitude inspiration (wink, wink). Fans on X still blast it for nostalgic vibes, with one user pairing it with spring days like a seasonal soundtrack. Frankie’s all-white stage look? It started around this time, turning concerts into flash mobs of purity – because nothing says "soul legend" like coordinating outfits with 10,000 strangers.

Legacy-wise, Golden Time of Day solidified Maze as R&B royalty, peaking at #27 on the Billboard 200 and #9 on the R&B charts, with singles like "Workin' Together" hitting #9 R&B. It was part of Maze's string of Gold-certified albums, influencing the quiet storm subgenre with its mellow, introspective funk – think the blueprint for later acts blending soulful lyrics with danceable beats. Frankie's work inspired covers galore, like Beyoncé's take on "Before I Let Go" (from a later album, but the vibe echoes here), and tributes from Mary J. Blige to Mint Condition. In the UK, Maze exploded thanks to DJs like Robbie Vincent, making them bigger overseas than some American pop stars – a hilarious reversal for a Philly boy. Today, the album's enduring appeal lies in its positivity; as one fan put it on X, it's the ultimate "golden" mood booster. Maze's live legacy – staples at Essence Festival and beyond – ensures Golden Time isn't just vinyl; it's a living, breathing part of Black music history, proving Frankie navigated the maze of fame with grace and groove.

This 41-minute gem is a masterclass in understated funk, where every track feels like a warm hug from an old friend. Opener "Travelin' Man" struts in with breezy guitars and Frankie's velvety vocals, painting a wanderer's tale over a mid-tempo groove – perfect for road trips or pondering life's detours. "Song for My Mother" tugs heartstrings with piano-led tenderness, a heartfelt ode that's equal parts gospel and gratitude. "You're Not the Same" amps the funk with bass slaps and conga rhythms, calling out changes in love like a sassy therapist. Side A's closer, "Workin' Together," is the hit single – an upbeat call for unity with infectious horns (wait, no horns listed, but the energy feels brassy) that hit #9 on R&B charts, urging harmony in a divided world.

Flip to the B-side: The title track "Golden Time of Day" is the crown jewel, a five-and-a-half-minute sunset symphony of piano, guitar, and Frankie's soaring falsetto, evoking that magical dusk hour where worries melt away – it's pure auditory therapy, peaking at #39 R&B but timeless in impact. "I Wish You Well" keeps the mellow flow with reflective lyrics and smooth percussion, while the epic 10-minute closer "I Need You" stretches out into a jam session of longing, building layers of guitar and keys like a slow-burn romance. Overall, the album's production is clean yet raw, emphasizing Maze's live-band synergy over studio tricks – three stars from AllMusic, but fans rate it higher for its emotional depth. In a humorous nod, it's funk that's too laid-back for the disco crowd, yet groovy enough to outlast them all. If you're craving soul that soothes the spirit (think Earth, Wind & Fire meets quiet storm), Golden Time of Day is your golden ticket – Frankie and Maze, you still amaze.

Bill Barron - 1972 - Motivation

Bill Barron
1972
Motivation

01. Motivation
02. Land Of Sunshine
03. Blues For R. A.
04. Cosmos
05. Hold Back Tomorrow
06. Mental Vibrations

Manufactured By – Modern Album Of New Jersey Inc.

Bass – Chris White
Drums – Al Hicks
Piano – Kenny Barron
Tenor Saxophone – Bill Barron
Recorded NYC, 1972.

The Unsung Sax Hero and His 1972 Opus, Motivation

Ah, Bill Barron—the jazz world's best-kept secret, like that one uncle who shows up to family reunions with killer stories but never gets the mic. Born William Barron Jr. on March 27, 1927, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, he was the eldest of five siblings in a music-loving household. His mom, spotting his early knack for tunes, got him started on piano at age 9. But like many a rebellious teen, Bill ditched the keys for the saxophone in high school, probably because blowing into a horn lets you emote without all that finger-cramping. After serving in the Army from 1943 to 1946 (where he likely honed his discipline amid the chaos of WWII), he used the GI Bill to study at the Ornstein School of Music. By 1958, he'd hightailed it to New York City, the jazz mecca where dreams go to duke it out.

Barron's career was a masterclass in quiet brilliance. His debut recording was on Cecil Taylor's 1959 album Love for Sale, rubbing elbows with the avant-garde elite. He gigged with heavyweights like Philly Joe Jones, Charles Mingus, and Ted Curson, but as a leader, he flew under the radar—recording sporadically for labels like Savoy and Muse. His style? Adventurous tenor (and soprano) sax that blended hard bop's swing with modernist edges, never compromising for fame. Think Coltrane's spiritual quest meets Sonny Rollins' lyricism, but with Barron's unique, probing tone that could whisper secrets or shout revelations. He wasn't just a player; he was a composer and arranger too, crafting tunes that pushed boundaries without alienating the groove.

In the '70s, Barron pivoted to academia, teaching at City College of New York before heading the music department at Wesleyan University from 1975 until his death from cancer on September 21, 1989, at age 62. He left behind a legacy of innovation, including private recordings that later surfaced, proving he was ahead of his time. Oh, his kid brother Kenny? Yeah, that Kenny Barron, the piano legend. Family talent runs deep—must've been something in the Philly water.

Motivation (1972, Savoy Records) – A Hidden Gem in the Jazz Underground

Now, onto Motivation, Barron's 1972 quartet outing that's like finding a vintage wine in your grandma's basement: rare, potent, and way more sophisticated than expected. Recorded circa 1972 in New York City (exact date fuzzy, like many jazz sessions back then), it was Savoy's swan song before the label folded—talk about going out with a understated bang. This wasn't your cookie-cutter hard bop; it's modernist jazz with a spiritual twist, blending freewheeling improvisation and tight structures. Barron leads on tenor sax, channeling his inner explorer over six original tracks that clock in around 40 minutes. It's post-bop with avant-garde whispers, swinging hard while pondering the cosmos (literally, one track's named that). If albums had personalities, Motivation is the introspective intellectual at the party—deep, engaging, and criminally overlooked.

The sound? Groundbreaking for its time, especially coming from musicians moonlighting in Dizzy Gillespie's Latin-tinged band. It's free yet rhythmic, like a philosophical debate set to a killer backbeat. Barron's tone is warm and searching, probing melodies with a mix of urgency and restraint. The production is raw and intimate, capturing the quartet's chemistry without overpolish—think live-in-the-studio vibe, warts and all (but mostly genius). In a era dominated by fusion experiments and electric Miles, Motivation stuck to acoustic roots but pushed forward, a bridge between '60s innovation and '70s soul-searching.

Tracklist (because every good review needs a roadmap):

1. Motivation (10:25) – Kicks off with Barron's tenor laying down a motivational manifesto, pun intended. Swinging yet exploratory, it's like a pep talk from a zen master.
2. Land of Sunshine (9:35) – Breezy and optimistic, with piano runs that evoke rays breaking through clouds. Barron's solos dance like they're on vacation.
3. Blues for R.A. (8:40) – A heartfelt blues nod, probably to a friend or muse. Slow-burning, with bass lines that tug at the heartstrings—bluesy without the clichés.
4. Cosmos (9:15) – Spacey and expansive, living up to its name. Avant-garde edges here, with dissonant harmonies that feel like stargazing on a clear night.
5. Hold Back Tomorrow (8:20) – Introspective balladry meets uptempo drive. Barron holds notes like he's savoring the moment, urging us not to rush life.
6. Mental Vibrations (7:25) – Closes with psychic energy, vibing on mental wavelengths. It's the album's wild card, blending intellect and groove.

This is landmark stuff, folks. Motivation shines as Barron's freest work to date, a rare peek into jazz's underbelly where innovation thrived away from the spotlight. It's spiritually tinged post-bop that rewards repeated spins—first listen hooks you with the swing, subsequent ones reveal the depth. If it has a flaw, it's brevity; you want more. Rating? 4.5/5 stars—docked half for being so obscure it practically hides from fame. In Dusty Groove's words, it's "one of the most striking jazz sessions you'll find from the time," outshining some hyped avant-garde bigwigs with its quiet fire. Humorously, it's motivational music that might inspire you to dust off your own neglected talents—or at least your record player.

A Family Affair with Sidekicks

• Bill Barron (tenor saxophone): The star, as detailed above. His playing here is peak form—adventurous yet accessible, like a sax that went to therapy and came out enlightened.
• Kenny Barron (piano): Bill's baby bro, born June 9, 1943, in Philly. A jazz piano titan with hundreds of credits, Kenny started gigging as a teen in Mel Melvin's orchestra alongside Bill. By 19, he was in NYC freelancing with Roy Haynes, Lee Morgan, and James Moody. His touch on Motivation is elegant and supportive, adding harmonic richness without stealing the show—like the perfect wingman. Today, he's an NEA Jazz Master, still composing and educating. Sibling synergy? Chef's kiss.
• Chris White (bass): Born July 6, 1936, in Harlem, raised in Brooklyn. Turned pro at 15 (talk about child prodigy vibes), studied at Westchester Conservatory and Manhattan School of Music. Early gigs with Cecil Taylor, then Nina Simone (1960-61), but his big break was Dizzy Gillespie's quintet (1962-66), touring globally and recording classics like The New Continent. On Motivation, his bass is the glue—steady, inventive, with Latin inflections from his Dizzy days. Later, he became an educator, directing programs at Bloomfield College. Died November 2, 2014, at 78, leaving a legacy of groove and guidance. Fun twist: Not to be confused with the Zombies' bassist—different Chris White, same name, zero undead vibes.
• Al Hicks (drums): The mystery man of the bunch. Not much bio out there—he's like the drummer who shows up, kills it, and vanishes into jazz lore. Likely a NYC session player in the '70s scene, his work here is crisp and propulsive, keeping the modernist fire lit without overwhelming. If he's the Australian Alan Hicks (filmmaker and ex-drummer who studied jazz in NYC), that'd be a wild crossover, but probably not—more likely an underdocumented pro. Either way, his beats motivate the whole affair, pun very intended.

How Motivation Was Received Back in the Day: Crickets, Then Cult Status

In 1972, jazz was in flux—fusion was exploding, labels were consolidating, and Savoy was on its last legs. Motivation dropped as the label's final release, which meant zero marketing muscle. Contemporary reviews? Scarce as hen's teeth. No Billboard buzz, no DownBeat spreads—it flew under the radar, overshadowed by giants like Weather Report or Herbie Hancock's electric experiments. Barron himself was underrated, so the album didn't make waves; it was more a ripple in the underground pond.

That said, those who heard it loved it. Jazz insiders hailed it as a modernist gem, with its free-swinging vibe earning quiet nods. Forum chatter from collectors (like on Organissimo) shows fans hunting LPs desperately, even scoring cassettes from Barron's widow—talk about dedication! Priced at $200 today for originals, it's a collector's holy grail. Reception evolved to cult acclaim: Sites like Rate Your Music give it 3.6/5 from sparse ratings, calling it solid post-bop. Modern retrospectives praise its innovation, with JazzTimes noting Barron's "significant artistic innovation" in compilations. Humorously, it was so underreceived, it might've motivated Barron to teach instead—where at least students had to listen!

In sum, Motivation is essential for jazz heads craving depth with a side of swing. Barron's legacy? Proof that the quiet ones often blow the loudest horns. Give it a spin; you might just get... motivated.