Alan Shorter - 1970 - Tes Esat

Alan Shorter

1970

Tes Esat

01. Disposition Part One 26:30

02. Beast Of Bash 3:10

03. One Million Squared 8:10

Bass, Flute, Piano, Bells – Johnny Mbizo Dyani

Drums, Bells – Rene Augustus

Tenor Saxophone – Gary Windo

Trumpet, Composed By – Al Shorter

Recorded March 11, 1970 in Paris at the studio Decca (rue Beaujon).

Alan Shorter’s Tes Esat (1971) stands as one of the most intriguingly elusive artifacts of the free jazz era—a record that feels less like a collection of tracks and more like a cryptic communiqué from some parallel dimension where melody goes to stretch its legs, occasionally trips over its own shadow, and decides the stumble was the point all along.

Born in 1932 in Newark, New Jersey’s Ironbound District, Alan Shorter was the elder brother of the far more famous Wayne Shorter. While Wayne would chart a course through hard bop, modal mastery, and eventual fusion mysticism, Alan carved out his own stubbornly idiosyncratic path. He began on alto saxophone before switching to trumpet after high school, attended Howard University (only to bail on its conservative vibe), and later graduated from NYU. Early gigs came with the Jackie Bland Band alongside his brother, Grachan Moncur III, and others in a local bebop scene. But Alan quickly gravitated toward the freer fringes. A brief stint in a U.S. Army band was one of his few concessions to more structured playing; otherwise, he committed fully to the avant-garde.

Shorter’s influences drew from the usual suspects—Sonny Rollins, John Coltrane, Coleman Hawkins—but he absorbed them through a filter of deliberate strangeness. Nicknamed “Doc Strange” as a kid, he cultivated a personality and musical voice that could be intellectual, anarchic, and playfully confrontational. His playing has been compared to Don Cherry’s, but with a more aggressive, less whimsical edge. Where Cherry might float poetically, Shorter often charged in like a bull in a china shop that had read too much philosophy and decided the china was an illusion anyway. He recorded as a sideman with Archie Shepp (including the landmark Four for Trane), Marion Brown, and even made a cameo on his brother’s The All Seeing Eye, contributing compositions like the notorious “Mephistopheles.” By the mid-1960s, he had decamped to Europe, finding the audiences there marginally more tolerant of his sonic experiments than those back home.

Tes Esat, his second and final album as a leader, was recorded on March 11, 1970, at Decca Studios in Paris and released the following year on the French America label (America Records, catalog 30 AM 6118), produced by Pierre Berjot. The label was part of a vibrant European scene that gave space to American expats and free players who struggled for visibility stateside. It later found a home in Verve’s “Free America” reissue series, which helped rescue these obscurities from vinyl purgatory. The quartet assembled here is compact yet combustible: Alan Shorter on trumpet (and flugelhorn), British tenor saxophonist Gary Windo, South African bassist Johnny Mbizo Dyani (who also contributes flute, piano, and bells), and drummer Rene Augustus (also on bells). This multinational crew—reflecting the era’s cross-pollination in European jazz hubs—brings a rich palette of textures, from Dyani’s earthy, vocalic bass work to Windo’s unhinged eruptions.

The album’s four tracks, all composed by Shorter, clock in at a brisk 40-plus minutes and unfold with a logic that defies easy parsing. The epic “Disposition Part One” (around 20 minutes) and its shorter companion “Part Two” form the core. They begin with vague, stutter-step heads—more like musical suggestions than firm declarations—before plunging headlong into collective free improvisation. Windo, in particular, delivers what might be one of the most “out” tenor saxophone solos ever captured on tape, squealing into upper-register territories that make you wonder if the reed is filing a complaint with the union. Shorter’s own trumpet lines dart and stab with a raw, parabolic intensity, full of wide intervals, abrupt silences, and moments that feel like controlled chaos. The rhythm section doesn’t so much keep time as converse in overlapping riddles; Dyani’s bass and piano excursions add lyrical, almost folk-tinged respites, while Augustus provides loose, responsive propulsion. Shorter’s shorter pieces—“Beast of Bash” and “One Million Squared”—offer concentrated bursts of the same energy, the former a punchy, almost danceable squall and the latter a more expansive exploration.

Technically, Tes Esat is a masterclass in free jazz tension and release—or, more accurately, tension and further tension with occasional deceptive calms. There’s little reliance on traditional chord progressions or swing; instead, the music thrives on timbral exploration, dynamic extremes, and group interplay. Shorter’s compositions function as springboards rather than scaffolds, allowing the players to negotiate space in real time. The recording captures a live-in-the-studio immediacy, with the Paris Decca room lending a slightly reverberant, intimate quality that makes the wilder moments feel even more unhinged. It’s not always “pretty,” and it demands surrender from the listener. Approach it like a riddle wrapped in an enigma played at high volume, and you might just find yourself grinning at its audacity.

The album artwork, featuring photography by Gilbert Moreau, is a striking black-and-white affair that perfectly mirrors the music’s confrontational spirit. Musicians are caught in a harsh spotlight against a dark backdrop, looking simultaneously illuminated and interrogated—like suspects in a cosmic police lineup or prophets under divine scrutiny. The glare is intimidating, yet the figures hold their ground with quiet defiance. Back-cover shots show a more relaxed Shorter laughing in the studio, providing a human counterpoint to the front’s intensity. Design elements from the likes of Element S, Gilles Guerlet, and Jérôme Witz (on reissues) add a minimalist, enigmatic flair that screams 1970s European avant-garde: no flashy graphics, just raw presence. It’s cover art that doesn’t sell the album so much as warn you what you’re in for—enter at your own risk, and don’t expect easy answers.

Upon its release and in subsequent years, Tes Esat received a mixed but respectful hearing from those attuned to the outer reaches. AllMusic’s Brandon Burke awarded it four stars, praising the dive into unbridled improvisation and Windo’s ferocious contributions. Peter Margasak in JazzTimes called it a “scalding album” with fire-breathing sax. Clifford Allen noted its sketchy, mysterious quality, pondering whether it was sloppy genius or something more profound—he landed somewhere in appreciative ambivalence. The Penguin Guide to Jazz offered measured endorsement. Publicly, the album (like much of Shorter’s work) flew under the radar, appealing to hardcore free jazz devotees while alienating broader audiences. Shorter himself was no stranger to boos; legend has it he’d yell back at crowds, “You’re not ready for me—yet!” Europe gave him more oxygen than America, but commercial success remained elusive.

Its legacy is that of a cult classic—cherished by crate-diggers, reissue enthusiasts, and those who value jazz’s most uncompromising spirits. Reissued in the 2000s as part of Verve’s Free America series, it helped introduce Shorter’s work to new generations. In the broader tapestry of free jazz, Tes Esat sits alongside the wilder ESP-Disk and BYG Actuel outings as a testament to the era’s exploratory zeal. It’s not the most accessible entry point, nor the most polished, but it carries an authentic, parabolic weirdness that still feels vital. Alan Shorter may have faded into relative obscurity after this, teaching briefly and living quietly until his death in 1988, but Tes Esat endures as proof that sometimes the most rewarding music doesn’t meet you halfway—it dares you to catch up. And if you’re game for the ride, it rewards with strange, exhilarating vistas. You might not be ready for it yet… but give it time.