Charles Mingus - 1978 - Cumbia & Jazz Fusion

Charles Mingus

1978

Cumbia & Jazz Fusion

01. Cumbia & Jazz Fusion 27:58

02. Music For "Todo Modo" 22:18

1 Cumbia & Jazz Fusion:

Bass, Contrabass Clarinet – Gary Anderson

Bassoon – Gene Scholtes

Bass, Vocals, Percussion – Charles Mingus

Congas – Alfredo Ramirez

Congas – Candido Camero

Congas – Daniel Gonzalez

Congas – Ray Mantilla

Drums – Dannie Richmond

Flute, Piccolo Flute, Soprano Saxophone, Alto Saxophone – Mauricio Smith

Oboe, Tenor Saxophone – Paul Jeffrey

Percussion – Bradley Cunnigham

Piano – Bob Neloms

Tenor Saxophone, Percussion – Ricky Ford

Trombone, Bass Trombone – Jimmy Knepper

Trumpet, Percussion – Jack Walrath

2 Music For "Todo Modo"

Alto Saxophone – Quarto Maltoni

Bass Clarinet – Roberto Laneri

Bassoon – Pasquele Sabatelli

Bass – Charles Mingus

Drums – Dannie Richmond

Oboe, English Horn – Anastasio Del Bono

Piano, Organ – Danny Mixon

Tenor Saxophone, Alto Flute – George Adams

Trombone – Dino Piana

Trumpet – Jack Walrath

"Cumbia & Jazz Fusion" recorded on March 10, 1977 at Atlantic Studios, New York, N.Y.

"Music For "Todo Modo"" recorded & re-mixed on March 31, And April 1, 1976 at Dirmaphon Studio, Rome, Italy.

Cumbia & Jazz Fusion: Charles Mingus's Swansong Salsa Party

Ah, Charles Mingus. The man was a walking earthquake in the jazz world – a bassist who could slap strings like they owed him money, a composer whose scores read like fever dreams scripted by a committee of angry angels, and a bandleader notorious for firing musicians mid-set (sometimes literally hurling chairs to make his point). By 1978, Mingus was 56, battling the early stages of the ALS that would claim him just two years later in 1979. You'd think his swan song would be a somber elegy, a misty-eyed valediction to the bebop glory days. Instead, he drops Cumbia & Jazz Fusion, an album that sounds like he raided a Colombian street festival, spiked the punch with avant-garde dissonance, and invited the whole neighborhood to crash the afterparty. It's a 45-minute fever of Latin percussion, jungle bird calls, and basslines that slither like a python on espresso. And yet, this gem – Mingus's last studio effort of real heft – sits in the shadows of his canon, overshadowed by titans like Mingus Ah Um or The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady. Why? We'll get to that. But first, let's unpack this beast like it's a piñata full of surprises, because if there's one thing Mingus taught us, it's that fusion isn't just for Weather Report wannabes; it's for when you decide to marry jazz to cumbia and see if the kids come out swinging.

The Setup: From Italian Film Noir to New York Sweatbox – How This Album Came to Groove

Picture this: It's 1977, and Mingus is in Italy, nursing a scotch and a grudge against the universe. He's been commissioned to score Todo Modo, a gritty political thriller directed by Elio Petri – think The Godfather meets All the President's Men, but with more chain-smoking intellectuals and fewer horse heads. The plot? A Machiavellian politico (Mariangela Melato, looking fabulous in existential dread) holes up in a luxury hotel with a cabal of shady power brokers, only for paranoia to erupt like a bad batch of espresso. It's based on a Leonardo Sciascia novel, heavy on the corruption and light on the happy endings. Mingus, ever the contrarian, pens two sprawling suites for the flick: one a cumbia-jazz hybrid evoking the sultry underbelly of Latin American smuggling routes (the film nods to cocaine traffic between New York and Colombia), the other a brooding big-band lament for the hotel's claustrophobic intrigue.

But here's the punchline – or should I say, the punch? Mingus records the bulk of the material in Rome that March, corralling a multinational orchestra of Italian reed players who, bless their pasta-loving hearts, have about as much swing in their step as a plate of overcooked linguine. The results? Stiff as a board, with woodwinds that honk like geese at a funeral. Mingus, never one to suffer fools (he once decked a trombonist for flubbing a cue, damaging the poor guy's embouchure – talk about blowing it), hauls the tapes back to New York like a disappointed dad lugging home a report card full of Cs. There, on March 10, 1977, at the steamy Atlantic Studios, he overdubs the hell out of it with his trusted American crew. Congas cascade in like a tropical downpour, trumpets bite with bebop fire, and Mingus himself scats like a grizzled uncle gatecrashing karaoke night. The film uses snippets, but the full monty gets stitched into this album, released on Atlantic in May 1978. It's not a soundtrack proper; it's Mingus saying, "Screw the movie – here's the real deal." And in a cosmic irony, Cumbia hits shelves just as Mingus's health starts its nosedive, making it his final studio hurrah before posthumous releases like the unfinished Me, Myself an Eye (1979) mop up the scraps.

Humorously enough, the album's very existence feels like a middle finger to retirement. Mingus, who'd already conquered everything from cool jazz to Third Stream experiments, could've phoned in a standards album. Instead, he dives into cumbia – that accordion-laced, accordion-free (in this case) Colombian dance rhythm born from African slaves, Indigenous flutes, and Spanish guitars – and fuses it with jazz like he's playing mad scientist with a blender. The result? A record that's equal parts fiesta and funeral dirge, as if Mingus knew the reaper was RSVP-ing but decided to boogie anyway.

The Players: A Carnival of Characters, from Conga Kings to Bassoon Bandits

Mingus didn't assemble a band; he summoned an army. This is big-band Mingus at its most extravagant – 20-plus souls on the date, blending his New York regulars with Italian ringers and Latin firebrands. It's like he cast The Magnificent Seven but swapped the guns for horns and added a conga line. At the helm, of course, is Mingus himself: bass (throbbing like a heartbeat on life support), occasional vocals (gravelly scats that sound like he's gargling bourbon), percussion (shakers and bells for that jungle vibe), and arranger extraordinaire. His lines anchor everything, slinking through the chaos with the authority of a man who's survived more label execs than solos.

On drums, the irreplaceable Dannie Richmond – Mingus's rhythmic soulmate since the '50s, a partnership as telepathic as Lennon-McCartney but with fewer harmonies and more hi-hat fury. Richmond's sticks drive the fusion, shifting from cumbia's loping 2/4 gait to jazz's mercurial swing without breaking a sweat. Trumpet duties fall to Jack Walrath, a fiery upstart Mingus plucked from the ether (Walrath would later helm the Mingus Dynasty band post-mortem). Walrath's horn cuts through like a switchblade in a sock hop – bright, biting, and unapologetically bold. Jimmy Knepper on trombone (and bass trombone) adds that mournful glide; he'd been Mingus's bone man since the '50s, surviving two alleged punches from the boss (once in 1953, chipping a tooth; another time in the '70s, just because). "Mingus had a way of motivating you," Knepper later quipped. "With his fists."

The reed section is a glorious mess – a polyglot parade of winds that Mingus uses like a psychedelic paintbrush. You've got Paul Jeffrey on tenor sax and oboe (yes, oboe – because why not add a screechy classical twist to your cumbia?), Ricky Ford on tenor and percussion (doubling as a one-man Greek chorus), and George Adams on tenor sax and alto flute (his flute wails like a homesick peacock). Then the Italians crash the party: Mauricio Smith (flute, piccolo, soprano and alto sax), Gene Scholtes (bassoon – because nothing says "fusion" like a bassoon solo in a conga breakdown), Gary Anderson (contrabass clarinet and bass clarinet, growling like a subterranean beast), plus ringers like Anastasio Del Bono (oboe and English horn) and Pasquale Sabatelli (bassoon). It's overkill, hilariously so – Mingus layers these reeds into swirling clouds of timbre, evoking a flock of exotic birds migrating through a smoke-filled club. Pianos ping-pong between Bob Neloms and Danny Mixon (the latter also on organ), providing harmonic fireworks that sparkle amid the steam.

And oh, the percussion – this is where the cumbia blood pumps hottest. A quartet of conga wizards: Candido (the Cuban legend, whose hands could coax rhythms from a parking meter), Daniel Gonzales, Ray Mantilla, and Alfredo Ramirez, all pounding away like they're summoning rain gods. Bradley Cunningham adds miscellaneous clatter, and Ricky Ford chips in on "Cumbia" proper. It's a tidal wave of polyrhythms, bells, shakers, and – get this – jungle bird sound effects (likely tape loops or field recordings, because Mingus was extra like that). The whole ensemble feels like a United Nations of groove: Americans bringing the jazz heat, Latinos the cumbia pulse, Italians the operatic excess. No wonder it took two sessions across continents; coordinating this circus must've been like herding caffeinated cats.

The Sound: A 28-Minute Epic and a Moody Sequel – Where Cumbia Meets Chaos

Clocking in at just two tracks (plus a cheeky 30-second coda), Cumbia & Jazz Fusion isn't built for short attention spans – it's a double-barreled shotgun blast of ambition. Side A is the monster: "Cumbia & Jazz Fusion" (27:12), a multi-part odyssey that kicks off with seven minutes of pure percussion foreplay. Congas rumble like distant thunder, shakers hiss like serpents in the grass, and those bird calls? They're straight out of a David Attenborough nightmare, chirping over the din like Mingus is scoring a nature doc gone rogue. "Cumbia, My Lord," he scats midway, his voice a raspy benediction that's equal parts prayer and prank.

Then the jazz barges in: Walrath's trumpet riffs slash through lush horn swells, Knepper's trombone slurs like a tipsy philosopher, and the reeds weave a tapestry of dissonance that's pure Mingus – think Pithecanthropus Erectus but with maracas. The fusion isn't gimmicky; it's organic, cumbia's hypnotic loop fracturing into bebop bursts, then snapping back like a rubber band soaked in rum. Midway, it builds to a frenzy – piano pyrotechnics from Neloms, Richmond's drums in overdrive – before collapsing into a funky riff that's as simple and infectious as a one-chord wonder. It's exhilarating, exhausting, and endlessly replayable; you can lose hours chasing the way those congas dovetail with the bassoon's basso profundo growl. Humor creeps in via Mingus's scat – he's backed by the band in a call-and-response that's less sophisticated than Goodbye Pork Pie Hat, more like a barroom shanty sung by pirates who'd discovered ayahuasca.

Flip to Side B: "Music for 'Todo Modo'/Wee (Themes from 'Todo Modo')" (17:35), a more restrained affair. The cumbia heat cools to a simmer, yielding to big-band swells that evoke the film's hotel-of-horrors vibe – shadowy, sinister, with Adams's alto flute haunting the edges like a ghost in a turtleneck. It's got fresh colors (those Italian oboes add a baroque bite), but as Robert Christgau snarked in The Village Voice, it flirts with "kitschy assumed seriousness" that nearly torpedoes the mood. Still, it's no slouch: Richmond's brushes whisper conspiracies, and Mingus's bass prowls like a detective on the lam. The coda, "Cumbia & Jazz Fusion" reprise (0:35), is a wink – just enough conga fade-out to leave you craving seconds.

Sonically, it's a trip. Engineered by Bobby Warner at Atlantic (with George Piros mastering), the mix captures the sprawl without drowning in it – percussion pops like fireworks, reeds flutter in stereo splendor. But it's Mingus's arrangements that shine: voicings that stack chaos into catharsis, proving even on his last legs, he could orchestrate a riot better than most.

Reception: Critics Sniff, Fans Swoon – The Underrated Enigma

Upon release, Cumbia landed with a polite thud. Christgau dubbed it "rich, lively, irreverent," but griped about "Hollywood-at-the-carnival" fluff and that pesky kitsch – fair, but it pegs Mingus as an "important jazz eccentric" rather than a capital-G Great. AllMusic's Scott Yanow calls it "enigmatic," praising the exploratory spirit but noting the film's shadow looms large. Rate Your Music fans rank it #112 for 1978 (solid, but no Ah Um territory), with reviewers hailing the title track as a "28-minute epic" and "gem," though some lament the Side B dip. Dusty Groove nails the vibe: "darker and more brooding" than Tijuana Moods, a "freely exploratory" beast that transcends its soundtrack roots. Album of the Year users are split – some yawn "not groundbreaking," others gripe the cumbia motifs feel "rudimentary." But the chorus from diehards? "Underrated and best work," a "must-listen" bridging jazz, Latin America, and Africa.

It's a slow-burn cult classic. Streams on Spotify hover in the low thousands monthly – peanuts next to Miles Davis's fusion epics. Recent X chatter (as of late 2025) treats it like a hidden track: Japanese fans geek over its "historical trends" mashup, Colombian percussion great Hiram "Remón" (who played tambor on the conga sessions, dying at 92 in June 2025) gets a nod in tributes, and vinyl heads post grainy jacket scans with heart-eyes. No viral TikToks here; it's for the deep divers.

Why It Matters (and Why You've Probably Never Heard It): The Important Underdog with a Conga in Its Step

So, why hoist Cumbia onto a pedestal it doesn't quite occupy? First, context: This is Mingus's last gasp of creative fire before ALS turned his hands to stone. His autobiography Beneath the Underdog rants about race, rage, and rhythm; here, he channels that into a globalist gumbo, predating the '90s Latin jazz boom by a decade. Cumbia, once dismissed as "hillbilly" folk in Colombia, was barely on U.S. radars in '78 – think Tijuana Taxi vibes, but Mingus flips it avant-garde, layering African polyrhythms (nod to his Black classical roots) with jazz's democratic improv. It's prophetic: Today, cumbia's remixed into global electronica (Shakira owes royalties), and Mingus looks like the OG fusionist who saw it coming. As one Discogs reviewer deadpans, "Cumbia is now 'cool' universally... Mingus was on to it over 40 years ago." Important? Hell yes – it bridges Mingus's civil rights anthems (Fables of Faubus) to world music, proving jazz's elasticity when wielded by a genius unafraid of bird noises.

Yet it's not well-known because... well, timing's a bitch. Dropped in the fusion explosion's shadow (Herbie Hancock's Head Hunters still echoing), it got lumped with "eccentric" late-period Mingus – too weird for purists, too jazzy for Latin heads. The film tie-in? Todo Modo flopped outside Italy, so no crossover buzz. Plus, at 45 minutes of sprawl, it's not playlist-friendly; you commit or you bail. Critics like Christgau saw "carnival" cheese where fans hear irreverent joy. Posthumous releases (like 2023's The Lost Album from New Orleans) steal the "final" thunder, and Mingus's rep as a volatile tyrant (those punching anecdotes don't help) keeps casuals at arm's length. It's the album you discover at 2 a.m. on a vinyl hunt, not the one your Spotify algorithm shoves first.

In a canon bloated with Mingus masterpieces, Cumbia is the quirky uncle – vital for showing the family tree's wild branches, but easy to overlook amid the wedding photos. Its importance lies in the audacity: A dying titan, defying genre silos, smuggling social commentary (that coke-trade undercurrent winks at '70s excess) into a dance party. It's Mingus unfiltered – angry, alive, and absurdly fun.

Final Verdict: Drop the Needle, Shake Your Tailfeathers – This Fusion's Still Fizzing

Cumbia & Jazz Fusion isn't Mingus's summit; it's his sunset scramble – a glorious, groping grab at immortality via congas and cacophony. Flaws? Sure: Side B sags like a hungover philosopher, and those bird calls might make you reach for the fast-forward (or chuckle at Mingus's inner David Lynch). But the title suite? A masterpiece of mayhem, as vital now as in '78, when it whispered prophecies of borderless beats. If you're new to Mingus, start with Ah Um; if you're a vet, crank this at dawn with coffee strong as your regrets. It's important because it reminds us: Jazz isn't a museum; it's a mutiny. And underrated? Perfect – means you get to feel like you unearthed buried treasure, not just streamed the hits. Now excuse me while I cue up those congas; my inner bassoon's calling for a riot.