Tenor Saxophone, Soprano Saxophone – Pat LaBarbera
Elvin Jones Jazz Machine's Dear John C. - Live in Japan 1978 (1993 Compilation): A Thunderous Tribute That Combines Two Japanese Mini-Albums
Elvin Ray Jones, the polyrhythmic powerhouse who turned drumming into a spiritual force, was born September 9, 1927, in Pontiac, Michigan, the youngest of the legendary Jones brothers (pianist Hank and trumpeter/composer Thad). From circus parades to Army bands, Elvin was drum-obsessed early on, hitting New York in 1955 and quickly backing icons like Miles Davis and Sonny Rollins. But his legend was forged from 1960-1966 in John Coltrane's classic quartet, where his swirling triplets and explosive independence propelled masterpieces like A Love Supreme – making time feel optional. Leaving in '66 (not thrilled about drum-sharing with Rashied Ali – Elvin liked his thunder solo), he toured with Duke Ellington briefly before launching his own groups. The Elvin Jones Jazz Machine became his vehicle in the '70s and beyond: a hard-swinging, post-Coltrane beast that toured relentlessly, blending fiery improvisation with groove. Elvin led until his death in 2004, influencing generations – humorously, if jazz drummers have a patron saint of endless energy, it's Elvin, the guy who could play triplets in his sleep and still wake up swinging.
Now, Dear John C. - Live in Japan 1978 (often just called Live in Japan 1978: Dear John C.) – this 1993 compilation (and various reissues) smartly combines two original 1978 Japanese "mini-albums" released on Trio Records: the initial Live in Japan 1978 (PAP-9111) and Vol. 2 (PAP-9200). Recorded over two nights (April 8-9, 1978) at Yomiuri Hall in Tokyo, it's a blistering live document of the Jazz Machine paying homage to Coltrane (the title nods to Elvin's 1965 studio album Dear John C., a tribute to Trane). Clocking in at over 70 minutes in full form, it captures extended workouts, including a monumental 26-minute "A Love Supreme" – because why rush a spiritual epic?
This quintet was a killer post-Coltrane lineup: dual tenors from Pat LaBarbera (tenor/soprano sax, fiery and lyrical) and Frank Foster (tenor/soprano, bringing big-band punch and soul), Roland Prince on electric guitar (that smooth Antiguan adding chordal depth and melodic sparkle, no piano to crowd the space), Andy McCloud on steadfast bass (locking in like a human metronome), and Elvin thundering on drums. It's lean, mean, and horn-heavy – perfect for stretching Coltrane-inspired themes without aping the master.
Typical tracks across the two volumes/compilation: "Keiko’s Birthday March," "Bessie’s Blues," "Antigua," "E.J. Blues," "A Love Supreme," plus others like "House That Love Built" in some editions. Pure post-bop fire with modal explorations.
Raw live energy from Tokyo's Yomiuri Hall – no studio polish, just audience roar and analog warmth from Trio's engineering. Elvin's kit dominates: booming toms, crashing cymbals, those signature rolling triplets captured with punchy clarity. Horns soar over Prince's guitar comping (electric for a subtle '70s edge), bass grounds it all. Sound is dynamic and spacious, though bootleg-like in spots (crowd noise adds vibe). The 1993 and later reissues (Venus Records, Japanese paper sleeves, SHM-CD) clean it up nicely – remastered for better separation, letting Elvin's polyrhythms dance without mud.
Oh boy, this is the Jazz Machine in full beast mode: a direct descendant of the Coltrane quartet's intensity, but with Elvin front and center, unleashing waves of propulsion. The dual tenors trade blistering solos – LaBarbera channeling Trane's sheets of sound, Foster adding bluesy grit – while Prince's guitar provides airy harmony (a clever no-piano choice, opening space like Ornette's harmolodics but swingier). McCloud's bass walks tirelessly, and Elvin? He's the star, driving extended jams with relentless creativity – sensitive on ballads, volcanic on uptempos. Highlights: the epic "A Love Supreme" suite (Acknowledgment, Resolution, etc., stretched to ecstatic lengths) and swinging originals like "Keiko’s Birthday March" (nod to Elvin's wife). Humorously, it's like Elvin saying, "Miss me with Trane? Here's what I've been cooking – hold onto your seats!" Not wildly experimental, but pure joy: urgent, spiritual, groove-heavy. Critics call it a "direct outgrowth" of Coltrane without imitation – accessible yet deep. A rollicking 4.5 out of 5 thunderclaps.
The original 1978 Japanese volumes were niche hits in Japan (jazz fans there adored Elvin's tours), but flew under global radar amid fusion's dominance. No big Western push initially – more for import hunters. The combined/reissued versions in the '90s (and beyond) got warmer love from critics rediscovering Elvin's '70s output.
This compilation endures as a prime snapshot of Elvin's Jazz Machine era – raw, live Coltrane homage without nostalgia traps. It's a cult favorite for drum enthusiasts (transcribe at your peril) and post-bop lovers, often reissued (Venus, Japanese editions) for its energy. In Elvin's vast discography, it bridges his Impulse classics and later works, proving the thunder god could tribute Trane while forging ahead. Essential for understanding his post-1966 fire – grab the full combo, crank it, and feel the earth move. Just warn the neighbors: Elvin's triplets might cause spontaneous dancing... or earthquakes.
Tenor Saxophone – Frank Foster (tracks: A1, A2, B1), Pat La Barbera (tracks: B1, B2)
Recording dates & place
March 22, 23 & 24, 1978 The Educational Center For The Arts, New Haven, Connecticut, U.S.A.
Elvin Ray Jones – the polyrhythmic thunder god who made John Coltrane's quartet sound like a divine storm – was born September 9, 1927, in Pontiac, Michigan, youngest of the powerhouse Jones brothers (pianist Hank and trumpeter Thad). Drum-obsessed from parade-watching childhood, he gigged in Detroit post-Army before storming New York in 1955. Sideman stints with Miles, Rollins, and Mingus followed, but his 1960-1966 tenure with Coltrane immortalized him: those swirling triplets and limb independence on A Love Supreme turned drumming into a cosmic conversation. Post-Trane (he wasn't thrilled sharing with Rashied Ali – Elvin preferred solo thunder), he joined Ellington briefly, then unleashed his own groups, evolving into the relentless Elvin Jones Jazz Machine. Touring like a man possessed into his 70s, he influenced everyone from rock drummers to jazz innovators until his 2004 passing. Humorously, Elvin's kit wasn't just instruments – it was a full weather system, capable of sunshine brushes or hurricane fills.
Elvin Jones Music Machine (1982) is a Japanese compilation that smartly combines two ultra-rare 1979 Japanese-only 45rpm mini-albums (Vol. 1 and Vol. 2), both pressed as high-end audiophile releases on the Mark Levinson label (yes, the hi-fi equipment guy – because nothing says "jazz thunder" like premium sound demos). Recorded live over three nights (March 22-24, 1978) at The Educational Center For The Arts in New Haven, Connecticut, this full LP clocks in at around 35-40 minutes, blending fiery post-bop with subtle swing. It's the Jazz Machine in intimate, straight-ahead mode – no electric excesses, just pure acoustic drive.
A killer quintet: Elvin Jones on drums (the unstoppable engine), Andy McCloud on bass (steady as a rock, locking in flawlessly), Roland Prince on guitar (that silky Antiguan touch adding melodic warmth and comping clarity – no piano to clutter things), Frank Foster on tenor saxophone (big-band veteran bringing soulful punch), and Pat LaBarbera on tenor and soprano sax (switching seamlessly for Coltrane-esque wails). Dual saxes for thick harmonies and blistering trades – it's lean, mean, and horn-heavy.
Tracks typically include originals like "Shi-Tsu-Mon" (soprano-led urgency), standards such as "Like Someone In Love" (brushes magic), and extended blowouts showcasing the band's interplay – think modal explorations with Elvin's signature propulsion.
This is audiophile heaven – originally direct-to-disc on Mark Levinson's setup (engineered by Dean Roumanis and Levinson himself), then compiled for the 1982 Nippon Phonogram/East Wind release. The 45rpm minis were limited, numbered editions in fancy packaging (gatefold plastic boxes, obis, seals), designed for ultimate fidelity: wide dynamics, crystal separation, and Elvin's kit captured with thunderous depth (toms booming, cymbals shimmering). The full 1982 LP retains that warmth – raw live energy without crowd noise overload, horns cutting sharp, guitar sparkling. Strengths: Intimate venue sound feels like you're in the room; weaknesses: Short runtime (those minis were teases), and '70s live quirks like occasional balance shifts. But for drum nerds, Elvin's nuances shine – every triplet audible.
Elvin Jones Music Machine is the Jazz Machine stripped down and sparkling: relaxed yet explosive, like Elvin decided to invite friends over for a casual blowout that accidentally summons Coltrane's spirit. Opener "Shi-Tsu-Mon" kicks with soprano fire, "Like Someone In Love" floats on brushes (Elvin's tender side – who knew thunder could whisper?), and the tenors duel with Foster's gritty soul clashing LaBarbera's intensity. Prince's guitar is the secret weapon – transparent comping opens space, letting Elvin weave polyrhythmic webs without overwhelming. It's straight-ahead post-bop with edge: subtle listening, flowing commentary, no wild avant-garde, but endlessly swinging. Humorously, this is Elvin in "demo mode" – proving his Machine runs smooth even on fancy hi-fi gear, like a sports car tuned for audiophiles. Not as epic as his Japan lives, but delightfully human and listenable. A crisp 4 out of 5 audiophile thunderbolts.
Niche audiophile darling in Japan (those 1979 minis were promo treasures for hi-fi enthusiasts), but obscure elsewhere – no big Western push, more for import hunters amid fusion's flash. Critics who caught it praised the fidelity and band's cohesion, though some purists yawned at the restraint compared to Elvin's wilder outings.
A cult gem for collectors – those original 45rpm minis fetch serious yen today, prized for sound quality and rarity. The 1982 compilation made it accessible, highlighting a prime '70s Jazz Machine lineup (Foster and Prince shining). In Elvin's canon, it's a bridge between Coltrane intensity and later explorations: proof he could groove intimately without losing fire. Drum students worship the clarity, sax fans dig the duels. Essential for understanding Elvin's post-'70s versatility – hunt a copy, spin it loud, and let the Machine rev up. Just don't blame the neighbors if your walls start vibrating – Elvin's triplets have that effect.
Tenor Saxophone, Soprano Saxophone – Michael Stuart
Tenor Saxophone, Soprano Saxophone – Pat LaBarbera
Recorded February 3, 4 and 5, 1978 at Tonstudio Zuckerfabrik, Stuttgart, Germany
Elvin Jones Jazz Machine's Remembrance (1978): The Thunder God Goes Quintet and Still Shakes the Foundations
Elvin Ray Jones – the youngest of the legendary Jones brothers (with pianist Hank and trumpeter Thad), born September 9, 1927, in Pontiac, Michigan – was the drummer who turned the kit into a full orchestra of polyrhythmic fury. Growing up in a musical household, he was hooked on drums early, practicing like a man possessed and serving in the Army band before hitting Detroit's vibrant scene in the early '50s. By 1955, he was in New York, gigging with Miles Davis, Sonny Rollins, and Charles Mingus, but his eternal fame came from 1960-1966 as the explosive heartbeat of John Coltrane's classic quartet. On albums like A Love Supreme, Elvin's swirling triplets and independent limb wizardry redefined jazz drumming – no longer just timekeeping, but a tidal wave propelling Trane's spiritual quests.
He left Coltrane in '66 (not thrilled about sharing the throne with Rashied Ali – Elvin wasn't big on drum duets that cramped his style), briefly joined Duke Ellington, then launched his own groups. The '70s saw him fronting various ensembles under his name, evolving into the Elvin Jones Jazz Machine – a powerhouse that toured relentlessly and featured killer sax talent. Elvin kept pushing boundaries until his death in 2004, influencing drummers from rock (Ginger Baker) to jazz icons. Humorously, if Coltrane was searching for God, Elvin was the guy providing the thunderous soundtrack – and occasionally elbowing the cymbals for emphasis.
Remembrance, recorded February 3-5, 1978, and released on the prestigious German MPS label, captures the Jazz Machine in peak form – a tight, energetic quintet delivering post-bop with serious drive. Clocking in at around 44 minutes across seven tracks, it's mostly originals (four by Pat LaBarbera, one each by Michael Stuart and Andy McCloud, plus Sam Rivers' "Beatrice"), blending hard-swinging grooves with Coltrane-esque intensity and a touch of soul-jazz warmth.
No piano here – an unusual lineup of two tenor/soprano saxes (Pat LaBarbera and Michael Stuart, both blowing with fiery post-Trane passion), Roland Prince on guitar (that smooth Antiguan tone adding melodic clarity and lighter comping, a fresh contrast to McCoy Tyner's dense chords), Andy McCloud III on rock-solid bass, and Elvin himself thundering away. It's a lean, mean machine: dual saxes for thick harmonies and blistering solos, guitar for transparency, bass locking in, and Elvin... well, being Elvin.
Tracks highlight the vibe: opener "Giraffe" (LaBarbera) stretches out with urgent energy, "Section 8" swings hard, "Little Lady" brings lyrical grace, "Familiar Ground" grooves mid-tempo, "Kalima" dives into soulful Coltrane territory, "Beatrice" is a tender ballad showcase, and the title closer "Remembrance" features Elvin's epic drum statements – because why not end with a bang?
Technical Specifications: Classic MPS analog excellence – recorded at Tonstudio Zuckerfabrik in Stuttgart by Gibbs Platen, produced by the legendary Joachim-Ernst Berendt. The sound is dynamic, spacious, and crystal-clear: Elvin's kit roars with depth (those toms booming like distant thunder), saxes cut through sharply, guitar sparkles without mud, and bass anchors everything. No overdubs; it feels live-in-the-studio, raw yet polished. Strengths: Immac impeccable separation and warmth that lets polyrhythms dance. Minor quibble: In the fusion-heavy '70s, the guitar-sax setup might feel a tad restrained compared to electric excesses elsewhere, but that's the charm – pure acoustic fire.
Remembrance is the Jazz Machine in full roar: urgent, in-your-face, and groove-heavy, like if rock had jazz's soul (one reviewer nailed it – groove to "Giraffe" and "Kalima," and you'll nod along like it's arena-ready). The dual tenors wail with Coltrane influence without copying, Prince's guitar weaves elegant solos and comps transparently (a smart pivot from piano-driven groups), McCloud's bass is the unsung hero providing Elvin's perfect foil, and Jones? He's the star – propulsive, melodic, explosive yet sensitive. It's post-bop with edge: straightforward excellence, diverse moods from ballad tenderness ("Beatrice") to drum showcases ("Remembrance"). Humorously, this is Elvin proving he didn't need Trane to levitate – just a killer band and his endless energy. Not wildly avant-garde, but relentlessly swinging and human. A solid 4.5 out of 5 polyrhythmic thunderstorms.
In 1978, amid fusion and disco, it flew under mainstream radar – no blockbuster sales, but jazz circles dug it. One critic (Globe and Mail) griped about lacking "energy and originality," blaming Elvin for not stoking enough fire (harsh – the man's a volcano!). Others praised the tight band and sparkling originals. European audiences (thanks to MPS) embraced it more warmly.
Today, Remembrance is a reissue darling – remastered CDs keep it alive for crate-diggers and drum students transcribing Elvin's magic. It's a prime example of his '70s Jazz Machine era: versatile, hard-hitting, bridging Coltrane intensity with accessible post-bop. Not his most famous (that stays with Impulse classics), but a cult favorite showcasing unsung gems like LaBarbera and Prince. In Elvin's vast canon, it's proof the master could lead a lean quintet to greatness well into his career. Essential for fans of swinging, sax-driven jazz – crank it, feel the pulse, and remember: Elvin was the beat of life itself. Just don't try keeping up with his triplets unless you're ready for a workout.
Reeds – Azar Lawrence (tracks: A3, B1), Frank Foster (tracks: A1, A2, B2), Steve Grossman
Saxophone – Joe Farrell (tracks: B2, B4)
When the Thunderous Drummer Tries a Little Tenderness (and Percussion Overload)
Elvin Ray Jones – the human polyrhythmic volcano who made John Coltrane's quartet sound like a spiritual earthquake – was born on September 9, 1927, in Pontiac, Michigan, the baby of a ridiculously talented musical family (big brothers Hank on piano and Thad on trumpet weren't exactly slouches). Young Elvin was obsessed with drums from toddlerhood, mesmerized by circus parades and practicing rudiments like his life depended on it. After a stint in the Army (where he honed his marching chops), he gigged around Detroit before hitting New York in 1955. He quickly became the go-to sideman for heavyweights like Miles Davis, Sonny Rollins, and Bud Powell.
But immortality came in 1960 when he joined Coltrane's classic quartet alongside McCoy Tyner and Jimmy Garrison. For six explosive years, Jones redefined jazz drumming: no longer just keeping time, but weaving independent rhythms across the kit – triplets swirling like storm clouds, accents shifting unpredictably, propelling Trane's sheets of sound into the cosmos on masterpieces like A Love Supreme and Crescent. He left in 1966 (rumor has it, miffed by the addition of second drummer Rashied Ali – Elvin wasn't one for sharing the thunder). Post-Coltrane, he briefly joined Duke Ellington, then formed his own groups, eventually dubbing them the Elvin Jones Jazz Machine. He led relentlessly until his death in 2004 at age 76, influencing everyone from Ginger Baker to Mitch Mitchell with his relentless energy and innovative flow. Humorously, if drums could talk, Elvin's would say: "Why play four-on-the-floor when you can play everything at once?"
New Agenda, his 1975 debut for Vanguard Records, is peak mid-'70s Elvin: a eclectic grab-bag where post-bop meets funky fusion, Latin grooves, and a nod to his Coltrane past. Clocking in at about 43 minutes across seven tracks, it's like Elvin invited a party of percussionists over and said, "Let's see how many rhythms we can stack before someone complains." Produced by Ed Bland and recorded in New York, it features a revolving door of talent – no fixed band, just Elvin as the gravitational center.
The core is Elvin on drums (duh), Dave Williams on solid bass, and the ever-smooth Roland Prince on guitar – that Antiguan jazz wizard adding crisp, melodic lines with a Caribbean lilt (fresh off gigs with Don Pullen and his own Color Visions). Reeds are a sax smorgasbord: Steve Grossman (tenor/soprano/flute, bringing fiery post-Trane energy), Frank Foster (tenor/soprano on several, with big-band swagger), Azar Lawrence (tenor/soprano, Coltrane-esque wails), and Joe Farrell (tenor/soprano on closers). Piano: Kenny Barron (electric and acoustic sparkle on the opener) and Gene Perla (on others, doubling from his usual bass role). Then the percussion avalanche: Candido Camero (congas on two), Guillermo Franco (on two more), and Frank Ippolito (sprinkled across most). It's like Elvin couldn't decide on one conga player, so he hired three – because why have a groove when you can have a percussion orchestra?
Tracks include the upbeat "Someone's Rocking My Jazzboat" (Foster), a tender "Naima" (Coltrane tribute), Grossman's intense "Haresah," Prince's quirky "Anti-Calypso," the breezy "Stefanie," short-and-sweet "My Lover," and Elvin's own swinging title closer "Agenda."
Pure analog '70s warmth – engineered by David Baker, mixed with John Kilgore. The sound is punchy and live-feeling, capturing Elvin's signature roar: thunderous toms, swirling cymbals, those famous Elvin triplets dancing independently. Guitar and horns cut through cleanly, bass locks tight, but the percussion layers add delicious density (sometimes bordering on chaos – in a good way). It's post-bop with fusion edges: electric piano hints, funky rhythms, Latin inflections. Strengths: Dynamic range that lets Elvin explode or whisper; weaknesses: occasional overcrowding from all those shakers and congas, making it feel like a jam session that forgot to edit.
Ah, New Agenda – the album where Elvin proves he can groove without Trane's cosmic pull, but occasionally overdoes the spice rack. It kicks off swinging with "Someone's Rocking My Jazzboat," Barron's keys and Foster's sax setting a joyful tone over Elvin's skipping pulse. "Naima" is heartfelt beauty, Elvin caressing the ballad like an old friend. "Haresah" lets Grossman and Lawrence stretch out fiercely, while "Anti-Calypso" (Prince's tune) brings island funk that's downright danceable – imagine calypso's evil twin. The percussion-heavy tracks pulse with global flair, and the closer "Agenda" is pure Elvin propulsion.
Humorously, this is Elvin in "accessible mode": still polyrhythmic mayhem, but with melodies you can hum and grooves that won't scare the neighbors (much). It's eclectic, energetic, and endlessly listenable – a party where post-bop meets world music without pretension. Not his most revolutionary (that crown stays with Coltrane-era stuff), but delightfully human. I'd rate it 4 out of 5 conga lines: essential for drum nerds, fun for everyone else.
Reception Upon Release: Mixed, to put it mildly. DownBeat in 1975 called it "strangely uninspired even tepid," griping about weak reeds and lack of fire – purists annoyed that Elvin was exploring beyond avant-garde purity amid the fusion era. It didn't set charts ablaze but found fans among those digging his evolving Jazz Machine sound.
Today, New Agenda is a beloved cult classic – reissued on CD, prized by crate-diggers for showcasing Elvin's versatility in the '70s wilderness. It bridges his Impulse/Blue Note intensity with later global experiments, highlighting unsung heroes like Roland Prince. In the grand Elvin canon, it's not A Love Supreme, but a reminder that the master could swing, funk, and innovate into his later years. Drum students still transcribe his rides here, and it endures as proof that even thunder gods like to chill sometimes. Grab a copy, crank the percussion, and let Elvin rock your jazzboat – just watch out for the waves.
Don Pullen's Tomorrow's Promises (1977): When Avant-Garde Jazz Tries on a Funky Disco Shirt
Don Pullen – the man who could make a piano sound like it was simultaneously attending church, throwing a tantrum, and leading a revolution – was one of jazz's most fearless explorers. Born on Christmas Day 1941 in Roanoke, Virginia, young Don grew up in a musical family, tinkering on the keys early and playing organ in church choirs (the kind where "amen" comes with serious gospel fire). Influenced by his cousin, professional pianist Clyde "Fats" Wright, and later blown away by Art Tatum's elegance and the free-form chaos of Ornette Coleman and Eric Dolphy, Pullen ditched medical studies for the wild world of jazz.
By the 1960s, he was deep in the avant-garde scene: duets with drummer Milford Graves that sounded like controlled explosions, gigs on organ backing R&B acts to pay bills, and stints with Giuseppi Logan. He studied with Muhal Richard Abrams in Chicago, soaked up free jazz in New York, and even played with Nina Simone. But his big break came in 1973 when he joined Charles Mingus's band – recommending his buddy George Adams on sax along the way. Pullen's percussive, cluster-bomb piano style (elbows, fists, the works) fit Mingus like a glove, appearing on classics like Changes One and Changes Two. Post-Mingus, he formed the explosive George Adams/Don Pullen Quartet in 1979, blending post-bop, gospel grooves, and outright freedom until his tragic death from lymphoma in 1995 at age 53. Pullen wasn't just a player; he was a bridge between gospel soul, blues grit, and avant-garde fury – often all in one solo.
Now, Tomorrow's Promises – his 1977 Atlantic Records debut as leader – is the album where Pullen briefly flirts with accessibility, like a free-jazz wild child trying to sneak into a disco without scaring the normals. Recorded in 1976-77 at Atlantic Studios in New York (with a few sessions spilling over), produced by the avant-electronic wizard İlhan Mimaroğlu, this is Pullen dipping toes into jazz-funk waters while keeping one foot firmly in chaos. It's a major-label shot after years in the underground, clocking in at about 44 minutes across six tracks. The opener "Big Alice" became a near-standard (a funky, upbeat groover), and the whole thing feels like Pullen saying, "Okay, world, here's something you can dance to... mostly."
This isn't a tight band affair; it's a revolving door of heavy hitters, making it feel like a jazz-funk all-star jam with avant twists. Core player: George Adams on tenor/soprano sax, flute, and bass clarinet – Pullen's Mingus-era soulmate, bringing raw emotion and squealing intensity. Guitars by Roland Prince (that smooth Antiguan jazz cat from Elvin Jones's band) and Sterling Magee, adding crisp rhythms and funky edges. Trumpets: Randy Brecker on the opener for that bright punch, and the fiery Hannibal Marvin Peterson (aka Hannibál Lokumbe) on several tracks. Bass duties split between John Flippin (electric) and Alex Blake; drums/percussion from Bobby Battle, Tyronne Walker, and conga master Ray Mantilla. Special guests: Polish violinist Michal Urbaniak slicing through "Big Alice," Mimaroğlu himself on eerie electronics, and vocalist Rita DaCosta closing with a warm, soulful plea on "Let's Be Friends." Pullen handles piano, electric piano, and Clavinet – yes, that funky Hohner keyboard beloved by Stevie Wonder.
Analog warmth from Atlantic's heyday, with a clean yet punchy mix that captures the era's fusion vibe without overpolishing. Pullen's acoustic piano roars with his signature clusters – dense, hammering chords that explode like fireworks – while his electric keys and Clavinet add wah-wah funk and synth-like textures (courtesy of Mimaroğlu's electronic tinkering). The rhythm section grooves hard: tight bass lines lock with percussion for danceable polyrhythms, especially on African-influenced "Kadji" (that 6/8 swing). Horns are brassy and bold, Adams's tenor howling freely at times. Production-wise, it's eclectic – from full-band blowouts to intimate duets – but cohesive enough. Weak spots? Some tracks feel a tad dated in their '70s funk sheen (think bell-bottoms for your ears), and the variety can make it schizophrenic. Strengths: Dynamic range that swings from tender ballads to free excursions, proving Pullen could straddle worlds without selling out.
Oh, Tomorrow's Promises – the album that's equal parts party starter and philosophical musing. Kicking off with the infectious "Big Alice" (10+ minutes of upbeat jazz-funk joy, complete with violin fireworks and trumpet solos), it lures you in like a groovy pied piper. "Autumn Song" slows to nostalgic beauty, "Poodie Pie" rocks out with easy-listening riffs (co-written with Magee and Morgan Burton), and "Kadji" pulses with African rhythms before Pullen unleashes a free-jazz piano rampage. The standout duet "Last Year's Lies and Tomorrow's Promises" is Pullen and Adams trading free/tonal ideas like old friends arguing philosophy over coffee. Closer "Let's Be Friends" features DaCosta's velvety vocals – sweet, but a bit schmaltzy, like the album's attempt at a radio hit.
Humorously, this is Pullen in "commercial mode": imagine a guy who normally elbows the piano into submission deciding to play nice... for about 80% of the record. It's not his wildest (that'd come later with the Quartet), but it's delightfully schizophrenic – funk one minute, free the next. Scott Yanow gave it 4.5 stars, calling it a perfect intro to Pullen's world.
In 1977, amid disco fever and fusion frenzy, it was a modest hit for introducing Pullen to broader audiences via Atlantic's muscle. Critics praised the variety and energy; it sold decently for jazz, with "Big Alice" getting airplay and covers. Not a blockbuster, but it opened doors – European tours followed, and it helped cement his rep as a rhythmic avant-gardist with groove.
Today, Tomorrow's Promises is a cult favorite – that "atypical" Pullen record fans love for its accessibility without compromise. It's the gateway drug to his deeper catalog: the fiery Quartet albums, solo masterpieces like Evidence of Things Unseen, or late-career gems with African-Brazilian Connection. Reissued on CD (Koch, 1999), it's prized by crate-diggers for blending '70s funk with free spirit. Pullen's influence lingers in players who mix gospel fire with abstraction (think Vijay Iyer or Craig Taborn). If Mingus was his wild youth, this album was the charming coming-out party. Hunt it down – it'll make you dance, think, and occasionally laugh at how one man could pack so much into 44 minutes.
Ah, Motherland – that glorious 1978 highlife gem where Ghana meets the gritty streets of New York City jazz clubs. While Adasa was proudly rooted in Ghanaian rhythms and diaspora vibes, the album's secret sauce (or should I say, palm oil?) comes from a hefty dose of American talent, most notably the Antiguan-born, New York-based guitarist Roland Prince. If the band's highlife grooves feel a bit more polished and fusion-tinged than your average Accra street band, blame (or thank) Prince and his jazz cohorts for smuggling in some Stateside sophistication.
Let's start with the man himself: Roland Prince (1946–2016), a virtuoso guitarist hailing from Antigua who made his name in the bustling 1970s New York jazz scene. Prince wasn't just any session player – he was a go-to axeman for heavyweights like drummer Elvin Jones (of John Coltrane fame), recording on albums like New Agenda (1975) and Summit Meeting (1976). He also gigged with the likes of Roy Haynes, James Moody, and Don Pullen, bringing a crisp, melodic style that blended post-bop precision with Caribbean flair. On his own leader debut Color Visions (1977), Prince showcased interlocking guitar lines that could make you weep or dance – often both.
On Motherland, Prince is credited with lead guitar and rhythm guitar, essentially the sonic architect holding the whole thing together. Highlife traditionally thrives on those signature twin-guitar parts – one picking intricate melodies, the other chugging rhythms like a perpetual motion machine. Prince nails this, adding a jazz-inflected edge: his leads soar with bluesy bends and harmonic sophistication that elevate tracks like "Jungle Boat" from solid groove to outright hypnotic. Imagine highlife's joyful repetition getting a shot of espresso from Manhattan – that's Prince weaving in subtle improvisations without ever overshadowing the African core. Humorously, one wonders if he showed up to the sessions thinking, "Finally, a gig where I can dance and solo!" His playing gives the album a transatlantic polish, making it appeal to U.S. audiences who might otherwise scratch their heads at pure highlife.
But Prince wasn't flying solo in Americanizing the sound. The credits reveal more jazz royalty: Ron Burton on piano and organ, a understated giant who played with legends like Rahsaan Roland Kirk and Sarah Vaughan. Burton's keys add lush chords and funky organ fills that scream 1970s soul-jazz – think of him as the guy sneaking Hammond B3 vibes into Ghanaian chants. His contributions thicken the harmony on slower burners like "Odo Bra (Lover Comeback)," turning heartfelt pleas into something you'd hear drifting out of a Harlem club.
The Ghanaian core remains strong – vocals by Joss Aikins (charismatic and communal), saxophone and flute by Kwasi Boahen (nicknamed "Red," providing those brassy highlife hooks) – but the American players bridge the gap. Recorded likely in the U.S. (given the Kolimama label's American base), Motherland exemplifies the diaspora crossover: Ghanaian musicians exporting their sound overseas, hooking up with expat jazz pros for a hybrid that's warmer than pure afrobeat aggression but funkier than straight jazz.
From a production standpoint, Motherland is a diamond in the rough – or rather, a polished gem recorded on a budget that probably wouldn't cover a modern indie band's coffee tab. Released in the analog era, the sound is warm and raw, with that vinyl crackle adding character (or artifacts, depending on your copy's condition). The instrumentation shines: crisp, interlocking guitars courtesy of highlife's signature twin-lead style, punchy bass lines that drive the funk, and a horn section that's brassy without being overbearing. Percussion is king here – congas, talking drums, and shakers create layered polyrhythms that are technically masterful yet effortlessly danceable. Vocals are communal and spirited, often layered in harmonies that evoke church choirs meets street festivals.
Compared to contemporaries, Adasa leans more toward pure highlife than the heavier afrobeat politicking of Fela or the rock-infused experiments of Osibisa. The recording quality is solid for an independent release aimed at the diaspora market – no slick studio polish, but that's the charm. It's live-feeling, as if the band set up in a room and just played their hearts out. Weaknesses? Some tracks blend together if you're not paying attention (highlife's repetitive grooves can do that), and the mix favors rhythm over crystal-clear separation. But technically, it's a masterclass in economical arrangement: every instrument has its moment without overcrowding the soundscape. In today's terms, it'd be like if a lo-fi bedroom producer discovered vintage African wax prints and decided to make them funky again.
Review: Look, if Motherland were a dish, it'd be jollof rice with extra spice – comforting, flavorful, and impossible to eat just one serving. In 1978, while disco was dominating dance floors and punk was snarling in basements, Adasa quietly dropped this joyful antidote: music that celebrates life, love, and homeland without a hint of pretension. It's not revolutionary like Zombie, nor psychedelic like Osibisa's flights, but it's authentically delightful. The humor? Well, imagine trying to explain "Struggle For Survival" to your disco-obsessed friends while secretly knowing it's the real party starter.
Bringing in Prince and Burton was a stroke of genius – or desperate necessity for a band aiming at the U.S. market? Either way, it works brilliantly. The album avoids sounding like a touristy fusion mess; instead, it's authentic highlife with jazz wings, flying higher because of it. Prince's leads give tracks an extra sparkle, making Motherland not just a nostalgia trip but a timeless party starter. If Adasa had stuck purely local, we might have a great Ghanaian record; with these American ringers, it's a hidden world-jazz classic. Hunt it down, and thank Roland for the extra groove – the man deserved a statue, or at least a lifetime supply of fufu.
Rating it today, I'd give Motherland a solid 4.5 out of 5 grooving palm trees. It's essential for anyone dipping into African music archives – a reminder that not all classics come with fame attached. Adasa may have faded into the motherland's vast musical landscape, but this album endures as a hidden treasure. Hunt down a copy (or a digital rip), crank it up, and let it transport you. Just don't blame me if you suddenly start dancing like no one's watching – because in Adasa's world, everyone should be.
Tenor Saxophone, Soprano Saxophone, Flute – Sam Rivers
Vibraphone [Vibes], Percussion – Warren Smith
Diving into the Eighth Wonder: A Trombone Odyssey with Dick Griffin
If the ancient Seven Wonders of the World left you wondering why they stopped at seven, Dick Griffin's 1974 album The Eighth Wonder might just slide in as the missing masterpiece – pun intended, because this trombone-led gem from Strata-East Records is as overlooked as a brass player in a saxophone convention. Released in an era when jazz was stretching its boundaries like a yogi on a spiritual quest, this album blends soulful grooves, avant-garde bursts, and enough multiphonic magic to make you question if Griffin has extra lungs hidden somewhere. Let's unpack this hidden treasure with a full bio, musician breakdowns, technical nerdery, its ripple (or lack thereof) upon release, its spot in the Strata-East hall of fame, and its enduring legacy – all sprinkled with humor, because jazz without a chuckle is like a trombone without a slide: functional, but stiff.
The Man Behind the Horn
James "Dick" Richard Griffin, born on January 28, 1940, in Jackson, Mississippi, didn't just pick up the trombone – he wrestled it into submission and turned it into a voice for innovation. Growing up in the segregated South, Griffin's early life was a mix of bluesy neighborhood vibes and civil rights stirrings; he even crossed paths with Medgar Evers, adding a layer of social consciousness to his artistry that would echo in his music. His first musical spark came from a neighbor strumming blues guitar tales of the day, but at age 11, he dove into piano, switching to trombone in high school marching band. By his teens, he was gigging in clubs with future drum legend Freddie Waits, and even sang in a doo-wop group that almost hit the road with Sam Cooke – talk about a sliding door moment!
Griffin honed his skills at Jackson State University (graduating in 1963) and Indiana University (Master's in Music Education and Trombone). But the real education came in Chicago, where he jammed with Sun Ra's Arkestra in the mid-1960s, absorbing the cosmic chaos that would define his style. Moving to New York in 1967, he debuted on record with Rahsaan Roland Kirk's The Inflated Tear, becoming a key transcriber for the blind multi-instrumentalist and recording on classics like Prepare Thyself to Deal With a Miracle and Volunteered Slavery. Griffin's resume reads like a jazz hall of fame guest list: Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Ella Fitzgerald, Charles Mingus (who mentored his composing), Art Blakey, Dizzy Gillespie, Marvin Gaye, Michael Jackson, and even symphony stints with the Harlem Philharmonic.
Not content with just blowing minds on brass, Griffin developed "circularphonics" – a technique blending circular breathing and multiphonics to play multiple notes at once, mimicking Kirk's multi-instrument wizardry on a single trombone. He's also a visual artist, with abstract paintings exhibited worldwide, influenced by the same experiences that fuel his music: "When you hear me play, what I put out there is what I’ve experienced; and when I paint, I put the same thing on canvas – in a different way." As an educator, he taught at Wesleyan and SUNY-Old Westbury, and he's snagged grants from the National Endowment for the Arts and awards like the IAJE Outstanding Performance nod. His discography includes later gems like Now Is The Time (1979) and Homage to Sun Ra (2014), but The Eighth Wonder remains his debut leadership statement. Today, at 85+, he's still leading ensembles like his Trombone Trio and Rahsaan Roland Kirk Tribute, proving that age is just a number – or in trombone terms, just another position on the slide.
Humor aside, Griffin's life is a testament to versatility: from Mississippi clubs to Broadway pits (The Wiz, Lena), TV spots (Ed Sullivan Show), and global tours. He's the guy who turned the trombone from a background slurrer into a frontline innovator, all while painting the town – literally.
The Ensemble: Backgrounds of the Musicians (A Dream Team of Jazz Rebels)
Griffin didn't assemble a band; he curated a jazz Avengers squad for The Eighth Wonder, each player bringing heavyweight creds that elevate the album from solid to sublime. Leading the charge is Griffin himself on trombone, composing, arranging, and producing – because why not wear all the hats when you're the eighth wonder?
Cecil McBee (Bass): A bass titan born in 1935 in Tulsa, Oklahoma, McBee's thunderous yet lyrical lines anchor everything from Pharoah Sanders' spiritual epics (Karma) to Alice Coltrane's cosmic voyages. He's a free jazz staple, having played with Archie Shepp and Jackie McLean, and his work here provides the gravitational pull that keeps the avant-garde from floating away.
Leopoldo Fleming (Congas, Bells, Percussion): Puerto Rican percussion maestro (born 1935), Fleming's rhythmic flair spiced up Nina Simone's bands and Harry Belafonte's tours. His Latin-infused beats add that "Jakubu’s Dance" groove, turning the album into a global party – think congas meeting Mississippi blues without missing a beat.
Freddie Waits (Drums): Griffin's high school buddy from Jackson (1937-1989), Waits was a powerhouse who drummed for Max Roach, Sonny Rollins, and McCoy Tyner. Father to modern drummer Nasheet Waits, his polyrhythmic drive here is like a heartbeat on steroids, propelling tracks like "Flying Back Home" into frenzy.
Ron Burton (Piano): A Kirk alum (like Griffin), Burton (1936-2013) brought soulful comping from sessions with Roland Hanna and his own spiritual jazz outings. His frenetic patterns on this album add harmonic depth, making the piano feel like a co-conspirator in the chaos.
Sam Rivers (Tenor/Soprano Saxophone, Flute): The elder statesman (1923-2011) from Oklahoma, Rivers was a free jazz pioneer with his own Studio Rivbea loft scene, collaborating with Dizzy Gillespie, Miles Davis, and Cecil Taylor. His stellar solos – especially the showstopping extended one on the closer – steal scenes, blending lyricism with avant-garde fire.
Warren Smith (Percussion, Balafon on "Flying Back Home"): A versatile percussionist (born 1934), Smith's credits include Gil Evans, Aretha Franklin, and avant-garde experiments. His balafon (African xylophone) adds ethereal vibes, turning the track into a polyrhythmic ritual.
This crew wasn't just hired guns; they were collaborators in Griffin's vision, blending post-bop, free jazz, and soul into a cohesive unit. Imagine if the Justice League played instruments – that's the level of synergy.
Technical Insight: Breaking Down the Sonic Sorcery
Recorded in 1974 at Sound Ideas Studio in New York with engineer George Klabin, The Eighth Wonder is a technical tour de force, clocking in at about 40 minutes across six tracks that range from boozy blues to avant-garde explosions. Griffin's "circularphonics" shines brightest: on the title track, he kicks off with an unaccompanied trombone double-buzz, playing in two keys simultaneously – it's like hearing a duet from one mouth, stable and harmonious, evoking a boozier Bob Dylan vibe but with jazz swagger. The production captures this multiphonic magic crisply, without muddiness, highlighting the trombone's aggressive tone that sometimes relies on repetition for emphasis but never bores.
Musically, it's a post-bop stretcher: "It Could Be" balances dark modalism with free-form flute counterpoint from Rivers, creating tension like a rubber band about to snap. "Jakubu’s Dance" trudges like Bitches Brew with Latin licks and entrancing lyricism, while "Flying Back Home" erupts in furious call-and-response between Griffin and Rivers, shifting African polyrhythms irradiated by Smith's balafon – it's an avant-garde freakout over Burton's frenetic piano. "Come Be With Me" features Rivers' feathery, passionate soprano solo, full of romanticism and virtuoso flair. The album mixes spiritual soulfulness, melodic lightness, and bursts of the avant-garde, with excellent sound quality that makes collectors drool. Technically, it's innovative for its era, pushing trombone boundaries in a sax-dominated scene – Griffin turns the horn into a multiphonic monster, blending harmony and breath control that's as technically demanding as it is ear-opening.
Humorously, if this album were a recipe, it'd be equal parts Coltrane's ascension, Kirk's multiplicity, and a dash of Mississippi mud – stirred, not shaken.
Impact Upon Release: A Whisper in the Jazz Storm
Upon its 1974 drop on Strata-East (catalog SES-19747), The Eighth Wonder didn't exactly set the charts ablaze – it was more like a underground tremor felt by the initiated. Strata-East's limited distribution meant it flew under mainstream radar, with modest sales in the thousands, appealing to spiritual jazz fans and collectors rather than Billboard climbers. Contemporary reviews were sparse, but those who heard it praised its innovation; one called it an "amazing post-bop stretcher" with Rivers' stellar contributions. It influenced niche circles, like loft jazz scenes, but lacked the promotional muscle of majors. Impact-wise, it solidified Griffin's rep as a sideman stepping up, but in a crowded '70s jazz landscape (think Weather Report, Return to Forever), it was like bringing a trombone to a fusion gunfight – respected, but not revolutionary in sales. Still, it earned cult status among vinyl hunters, with originals fetching premium prices for their rarity and sound.
Place in the Strata-East Pantheon: A Solid Brick in the Artist-Owned Wall
Strata-East, founded in 1971 by Charles Tolliver and Stanley Cowell, was a revolutionary artist-owned label born from frustration with corporate exploitation. Inspired by Detroit's Strata Corporation, it emphasized musician control: artists retained ownership, with the label taking a small cut – a bold flip on the industry script. The pantheon includes heavy hitters like Tolliver's Music Inc., Cowell's solos, Gil Scott-Heron's Winter in America, Billy Harper's Capra Black, Mtume's funk-jazz, and Pharoah Sanders-adjacent vibes from folks like Carlos Garnett and Andy Bey. Active for a decade, it released about 50 titles, focusing on Black consciousness and spiritual jazz.
The Eighth Wonder fits snugly as an under-the-radar gem: not as iconic as Music Inc. (which sold 300,000+), but emblematic of the label's ethos – artist-led, innovative, and free from commercial chains. It's part of the spiritual/avant-garde wing, alongside Harper and Jenkins, showcasing Strata-East's commitment to diverse voices. In the pantheon, it's like the quirky cousin: not the headliner, but the one everyone wishes got more stage time.
Legacy: From Overlooked to Overdue Acclaim
Fifty years on, The Eighth Wonder endures as an "overlooked triumph," a passionate slice of post-Coltrane spiritual jazz that's smart, innovative, and begging for rediscovery. Reissued digitally and on compilations like The Eighth Wonder & More (1995), it's accessible on Bandcamp and streaming, fetching kudos from modern critics for its blend of soul, funk, and avant-garde. Legacy-wise, it cements Griffin's pioneer status, influencing trombonists in free jazz circles and highlighting Strata-East's model, which inspired later indies. Collectors rave about its intrigue, and user scores hover around 70/100, but it's still niche – like a wonder that's eighth because the first seven hogged the spotlight.
In the end, Griffin's album proves that true wonders don't need pyramids; they just need a trombone and a dream. If it leaves you wondering why it's not more famous, well, that's the jazz life – full of slides and surprises.
The Pianist Who Could Do It All (With Style and a Side of Sass)
First, let's meet the man behind the keys. Lawrence Elliott Willis (1942–2019) was a Harlem-born jazz pianist who started life aspiring to be an opera singer—yes, really. Picture a teenage Larry belting arias instead of boogie-woogie. He studied voice at the High School of Music and Art, then music theory at the Manhattan School of Music, but jazz snuck in like an uninvited (yet welcome) guest. By 19, alto sax legend Jackie McLean scooped him up after hearing him play, and Willis made his recording debut on McLean's fiery 1965 Blue Note album Right Now!. From there, his career was a whirlwind: sideman stints with heavyweights like Hugh Masekela, Cannonball Adderley, Dizzy Gillespie, Woody Shaw, Stan Getz, and even a seven-year rock detour as keyboardist for Blood, Sweat & Tears (because why not trade bebop for brass-rock anthems?).
Willis was the ultimate musical chameleon—free jazz, fusion, Afro-Cuban, hard bop, you name it. He composed standards, arranged for orchestras, and later in life earned Grammy nods with Jerry Gonzalez's Fort Apache Band. He passed in 2019 at 76 from an aneurysm, leaving behind hundreds of sessions and a legacy as one of jazz's most versatile (and underrated) pianists. Humorously, his piano teacher once warned him: "The piano is the most complicated machine man ever invented—88 to 10 odds against you every time." Willis clearly beat the odds, turning those keys into gold.
Inner Crisis (1973/1974): The Album That Grooves Without Selling Its Soul
Released on Groove Merchant in 1974 (recorded in 1973), Inner Crisis is Willis's second leader date and a shining gem of mid-1970s electric jazz-funk. At a time when many jazzers were either going full fusion (think over-the-top synths and rock drums) or clinging to acoustic purity, Willis threaded the needle: soulful grooves, tight compositions, and real jazz improvisation, all without descending into cheesiness. AllMusic's Thom Jurek calls it "one of the very finest examples of electric jazz-funk from the mid-'70s," praising how Willis prioritizes ensemble playing over ego-driven solos. It's accessible yet deep—catchy enough to nod along, sophisticated enough to reward repeated listens. Critics and fans (on sites like Rate Your Music and Reddit) hail it as a lost classic, with strong ratings and comments like "head and shoulders above the rest of Groove Merchant."
The lineup is stacked, split into two configurations for variety (like Willis couldn't decide on one killer band and said, "Why not both?"):
Core trio on all tracks: Larry Willis (Fender Rhodes electric piano, acoustic piano), Harold Vick (tenor/soprano sax), Roland Prince (guitar).
Group A (tracks 1, 4? variations noted): Dave Bargeron (trombone), Eddie Gómez (bass), Warren Benbow (drums).
Group B: Roderick Gaskin (bass), Al Foster (drums).
Out on the Coast (4:30) – Uptempo funk opener with driving rhythms.
153rd Street Theme (6:43) – Loping sax lines over deep bass grooves.
Inner Crisis (6:25) – The shimmering modal title track.
Bahamian Street Dance (4:32) – Caribbean-infused groover.
For a Friend (6:58) – Tender acoustic piano ballad.
Journey's End (7:11) – Blissful, lyrical closer.
Where the Magic (and the Groove) Happens
Technically, Inner Crisis is a masterclass in balancing 1970s electric jazz elements without the pitfalls. Willis leans heavily on the Fender Rhodes for that warm, bell-like tone—iconic in jazz-funk for its percussive attack and sustain. No cheesy synths here; it's pure Rhodes soul, evoking Herbie Hancock's Head Hunters era but more restrained and ensemble-focused. Willis plays as a team player: his comping supports the horns and guitar, while his solos are lyrical, blues-infused, and rhythmically locked-in. On the ballad "For a Friend," he switches to acoustic piano for pure emotional clarity—proving he didn't need electricity to shine.
Harmonically, the tunes draw from modal jazz (nodding to Miles Davis's In a Silent Way in the title track's shimmering expansiveness) with soul/blues cadences in the long head melodies. Rhythmically, it's tight funk: bass lines (Gómez's walking agility vs. Gaskin's solid pocket) and drums (Foster's crisp swing-funk, Benbow's energy) drive infectious grooves that flirt with disco pulse but stay rooted in jazz swing. Harold Vick's sax work is a highlight—underrecorded in his career, he delivers soaring, expressive solos with soprano adding ethereal bites. Roland Prince's guitar adds wah-wah funk and clean lines, while Bargeron's trombone brings brassy depth.
The album avoids "sterile fusion tropes" by emphasizing composition and group interplay: heads are memorable and extended, solos build organically, and the funk feels organic, not forced. It's jazz-funk that dances without tripping over its own feet—soulful, improvisational, and endlessly groovy. If this album had an inner crisis, it was probably deciding whether to make you dance or contemplate life; luckily, it does both flawlessly.
In short, Inner Crisis is a underrated banger that deserves more spins. Dust off your turntable (or stream it)—Larry Willis might just resolve your own inner crisis with a killer riff. Highly recommended for fans of 70s jazz-funk that actually swings
Acoustic Bass, Electric Bass [Fender] – Ted Crumwell
Baritone Saxophone – Haywood Henry, Paul Williams
Clarinet, Voice – Angie Hester
Drums – Al Lindo, Cal Eddy, Frank "Downbeat" Brown, Idris Muhammad
Guitar – Al Fontaine, Keith Loving, Roland Prince
Tenor Saxophone, Baritone Saxophone – Bill Bivins
Trombone – Arthur Hamilton
Trumpet – Al Pazant, Don Leight, Ed Williams, Richie Williams
Voice – Patricia Rosalia
Piano, Acoustic Guitar, Organ, Vibraphone, Voice – Lincoln Chase
Lincoln R. Chase (June 29, 1926 – October 6, 1980) was a New York City-born songwriter, pianist, and occasional performer whose pen was mightier than his microphone – though he certainly tried the latter with gusto. The only child of West Indian immigrants (his father from Cuba), Chase studied at the American Academy of Music and kicked off his career signing with Decca Records in 1951. His early singles flopped across labels like RCA, Dawn, Liberty, and Columbia, but as a songwriter? Goldmine. He penned R&B classics like "Such a Night" (a hit for The Drifters, Johnnie Ray, and even Elvis), "Jim Dandy" (LaVern Baker's #1 R&B smash in 1956, later covered by Black Oak Arkansas), and coined the phrase "nitty gritty" with Shirley Ellis's 1963 hit.
In 1959, he met and married singer Shirley Ellis, managing her career and co-writing her playful '60s novelties: "The Nitty Gritty," "The Name Game" (where he sneakily name-drops himself: "Lincoln, Lincoln, bo-Bincoln..."), and "The Clapping Song" – all chart-toppers that turned playground rhymes into pop gold. His first album, The Explosive Lincoln Chase (1957), went nowhere commercially, but by 1973, he was ready for a funky comeback. Tragically, Chase passed away in Atlanta at just 54, leaving a legacy of infectious hooks that outshone his own recordings. If songwriting paid royalties in immortality, he'd be set – but hey, at least we can still clap along.
Sixteen years after his orchestral debut bomb, Lincoln Chase emerged from the songwriting shadows with Lincoln Chase 'n You (Paramount Records, PAS-6074), a self-produced, self-written, self-arranged oddball gem that's equal parts funky soul, spoken-word poetry, and psychedelic commentary. If his earlier hits were playful and concise, this album is Chase unleashing his inner eccentric – think a "black Frank Zappa but groovier," as one description nails it, or Melvin Van Peebles meets Eugene McDaniels with a dash of Gil Scott-Heron's bite. It's trippy, verbose, and unapologetically weird, blending jazz-funk grooves with marathon monologues on life, love, and society. Commercially? Crickets. Cult status among crate-diggers? Absolutely – this is the kind of record that makes you wonder if Chase finally said, "Screw it, I'm doing me."
Chase handles vocals (spoken and sung), piano, acoustic guitar, organ, and vibes, backed by a killer band: Idris Muhammad on drums (that funky precision is unmistakable), Al Pazant on trumpet, Keith Loving on guitar, and others adding horns and rhythm. All original compositions, clocking in around 40 minutes of dense, narrative-driven tracks.
This isn't your standard soul album – it's more like extended funky poems over grooves. Chase's delivery is theatrical: half-preacher, half-raconteur, with long-winded lyrics that veer into social commentary ("The Woods Are Full" rails against the rat race with vivid storytelling). The music is solidly '73 funk: tight breaks, wah-wah guitars, punchy horns, and Muhammad's impeccable drumming keeping things danceable amid the verbosity.
"The Woods Are Full": A highlight – Chase's spoken-word takedown of urban hustle over a slinky funk backdrop. It's like a gritty fable with killer drum breaks.
Other gems include twisted soul oddities that mix humor, philosophy, and groove – think extended raps before rap was a thing, but with vibraphone twinkles and organ swells for that jazz edge.
The vibe is intimate and personal (hence the title – it's Lincoln Chase and you, buddy), but the lengthy texts can feel like "een hele hoop geouwehoer" (Dutch for "a whole lot of blabber," as one cheeky reviewer put it). Humorous moments shine through Chase's witty wordplay, echoing his novelty-song roots.
Musically, this is prime early-'70s funk-soul fusion with jazz underpinnings. Idris Muhammad's drumming is the anchor: crisp, pocket-deep grooves with subtle fills and breaks that scream sample fodder (no wonder diggers love it). Chase's arrangements layer horns (Pazant's trumpet adds brassy stabs) over modal vamps, with his own piano/organ providing harmonic color – often minor-key moods for that introspective feel. Guitar work (Loving) brings wah-infused rhythm and leads, evoking Blaxploitation soundtracks. Production is raw and warm: analog tape saturation, natural room reverb on drums, and a live-band energy that avoids over-polish. Vocally, Chase isn't a powerhouse singer but a charismatic talker-singer; his vibes and organ add ethereal textures, nodding to his classical training.
Weaknesses? The spoken-word marathons can test patience – it's avant-garde soul that demands attention, not background play. Not for everyone, but that's the charm.
Overall, Lincoln Chase 'n You is a bold, funky curiosity from a hitmaker gone rogue – underrated, eccentric, and groovy as hell. If you dig offbeat '70s soul like Van Peebles' Brer Soul or McDaniels' Headless Heroes, hunt this down (original vinyl is rare; check YouTube rips). 8/10 for the brave – extra points for making "nitty gritty" cool and name-checking himself eternally. Just don't play it on a short attention span day, or you'll be lost in the woods!
Organ, Clavinet, Piano – Jack DeJohnette (tracks: A1, A3, A4, B2, B3, B5)
Percussion, Congas – Jumma Santos
Saxophone, Flute – Harold Vick
Vibraphone – Bob Moses (tracks: A4)
Back in the fertile fields of jazz-funk fusion, Compost returned in 1973 with their sophomore effort, Life Is Round, proving that good things do indeed grow from well-turned soil. After the quirky, energetic debut Take Off Your Body, this album feels like the band let their musical compost heap mature a bit longer – richer, funkier, and with a touch more polish, but still delightfully organic and unpredictable. Released on Columbia Records (KC 32031), it's often hailed as their stronger outing: a "near brilliant piece of jazz-rock (and funk)" that's both artistic and accessible, without the awkward vocal detours that sometimes derailed the first record.
The core lineup remains the same supergroup cooperative:
Jack DeJohnette (keyboards, melodica, occasional drums) – the Miles Davis alum bringing electric wizardry.
Bob Moses (drums, vocals on the title track).
Harold Vick (tenor sax, flute) – soulful and soaring.
Jack Gregg (bass).
Jumma Santos (congas, percussion) – the rhythmic heartbeat.
New guests spice things up: guitarists Roland Prince and Ed Finney add rock-edged bite and texture, while vocalists Jeanne Lee (avant-garde jazz icon) and Lou Courtney (soul singer) appear on select tracks, bringing more professional polish to the singing department.
Life Is Round clocks in at about 47 minutes of feverish, funky fusion bliss – spiritual yet groovy, with angular edges that nod to European breakbeat styles while staying rooted in American jazz-soul. The addition of guitars gives it a harder rock-funk punch compared to the debut's clavinet-heavy vibe, making it feel like a bridge between Miles's On the Corner grit and Herbie Hancock's emerging Headhunters smoothness. Vocals are sparse and tasteful this time – no off-key drummer antics dominating; instead, Jeanne Lee's ethereal scat on the title track and Lou Courtney's soulful turn on "Moonsong" add depth without overwhelming the instrumentals.
"Buzzard Feathers" (Harold Vick composition): A moody, soaring highlight with Vick's tenor at its most expressive – spiritual jazz-funk gold that builds from brooding flute to intense sax wails.
"Compost Festival" (DeJohnette): Uptempo polyrhythmic joy, layering percussion and keys into a celebratory jam.
"The Ripper": Short, sharp, and funky – pure angular groove with guitar riffs that rip (pun intended).
"Moonsong": Soulful ballad vibe with Courtney's vocals and warm bass lines.
"Life Is Round": The closer, with Lee's vocals floating over a gentle, philosophical groove – a fitting, circular end to the album (because, you know, life is round... profound, or just a handy title?)
The overall mood is more cohesive and mature: less hippie free-form, more focused funk with spiritual undertones. It's crate-digger heaven – breaks and grooves that have aged like fine... well, compost-turned-wine.
Rhythmically, this is where Compost shines brightest. The dual percussion (Moses's kit + Santos's congas) creates intricate polyrhythms that lock into deep funk pockets without feeling overly complex – think Afro-Latin influences meeting rock steadiness. Guitars from Prince and Finney introduce distorted wah-wah and clean comping, adding harmonic layers over modal vamps (often one- or two-chord bases for extended solos). DeJohnette's keyboards (electric piano, melodica) provide colorful textures, while Vick's sax/flute alternates between lyrical melodies and free-jazz edges.
Production-wise (again helmed by Martin Rushent), it's warm and live-feeling: punchy bass, prominent percussion in the mix, and a raw analog grit that captures the band's energy. No overproduced slickness here – drums have natural room reverb, guitars bite without compression overload, and the overall sound has that '70s Columbia warmth. Harmonically simple but rhythmically dense, it's accessible fusion that rewards close listening: those layered conga patterns and bass grooves are hypnotic, prefiguring later spiritual jazz-funk like Strata-East releases.
Drawbacks? It's still niche – no big hits, and the band disbanded after this (Columbia dropped them post-contract). Some tracks lean a tad meandering in improv sections, but that's fusion charm.
In the end, Life Is Round is the matured compost: nutrient-rich, groovy, and underrated. If the debut was a wild garden party, this is the bountiful harvest – funky, spiritual, and fun. Perfect for fans of early '70s fusion who want soul without the cheese. 9/10 – highly recommended. Just don't expect it to make your actual compost pile groove... though with these rhythms, who knows? Dig it up on vinyl or the Wounded Bird CD reissue!
