Buck Hill

Washington Post obit.

At one point, jazz was sharply defined by the local communities in the major cities. Billy Hart is from Washington D.C.: I’ve heard Billy talk about Shirley Horn, Butch Warren, Joe Chambers, Andrew White, and others so much I feel like I know them myself.

Billy’s own most most important mentor might have been saxophonist Buck Hill, who gave Billy his first Charlie Parker 78s.

On the surface the two Buck Hill albums recorded in 1981 at North Sea with Reuben Brown, Wilbur Little, and Hart are nothing special: veterans going through their paces. But if you really know how to listen to straight-ahead jazz, these discs show a specifically Washington D.C. way of handling the common practice repertoire.

Reuben Brown isn’t well known but he was a big talent who had a year-long trio gig with Butch Warren and Billy Hart in about 1960. Wilbur Little was also a member of the D.C. scene around that time.

These are all well-educated musicians, but there’s also an element of jazz as folk music.  When teenagers of that generation got interested in jazz there was no manual. If the local gatekeepers thought a youngster had potential, they were indoctrinated into the mysteries mostly through the oral tradition.

In this circle the queen was Shirley Horn, who eventually gave Hill his biggest exposure on a few of her later major label releases. I hear something similar in Brown and Horn: Herbie Hancock also got some of the same information because Miles Davis had Horn double bill with Davis at the Vanguard. The intro Brown plays on “Easy to Love” is not quite “normal.” It’s some D.C. stuff. Horn probably invented some of those voicings, and Herbie grabbed at least one of them too.

As for the tenor solo, what can you say? This is it, this is the mid-century Afro-American tenor saxophone tradition stretching from walking the bar to Interstellar Space. It’s not Hill’s best playing but you only need to hear a phrase to know that that truth is being spoken. Now that Hill’s gone, that once vital branch of American music, old-school tenor saxophone, has that much less of a connection to modernity.

Arthur Blythe, the Generous Avant-Gardist

Farewell to the wonderful Arthur Blythe. “Black Music: Ancient to the Future” was a slogan coined by the Art Ensemble of Chicago but embodied by many provocative musicians of that era. With a huge lyrical sound and blues for days, the connection of Blythe to 40s-era R&B saxophonists like Earl Bostic was obvious. That was the “ancient” part, but Blythe was also a consummate modernist concerned with “future.” In 1991 I saw Blythe at the Village Vanguard with Kelvyn Bell, Bob Stewart, and Bobby Battle. It was so weird and fresh: definitely ahead of its time.

Blythe’s reputation was secured by a series of valuable and high-profile discs made for Columbia from 1977 to 1986. While it’s an important legacy and absolutely part of the canon, I admit that the band aesthetic can be a little too chaotic for my own taste. For example, In the Tradition is considered a classic but whenever I go back to it I come to the same conclusion: I wish I could have heard Blythe, Stanley Cowell, Fred Hopkins, and Steve McCall live at the Tin Palace. Undoubtedly the right set would have made me a lifelong believer.

Regrettably the next wave of stars to get a push from major labels, the so-called Young Lions, tended not to be so aware of the “future” side of the continuum. The way (for example) Arthur Blythe receded and (for example) Wynton Marsalis ascended has still not been worked through in our history. To this day many of us are reactionary against one side or the other.

As a teenager the Blythe disc I listened to the most was the now-obscure 1986 album Mudfoot by the Leaders with Chico Freeman, Lester Bowie, Kirk Lightsey, Cecil McBee, and Don Moye. Frankly this rhythm section is a little more transparent than on most of Blythe’s own records. A comparison of Blythe’s own tune “Miss Nancy” on Mudfoot with the earlier Blythe quartet version on Illusions is a clear illustration. And, damn, does Blythe take a great solo on this song with the Leaders. It’s all there: the honk, the surreal, post-Coltrane pentatonics, even nailing the hard parallel changes when needed. Yeah!

The Remorseful Day


Colin Dexter obit in the Guardian by Dennis Barker.

Val McDermid’s tribute.

My mother introduced me to most of my early crime fiction favorites including Inspector Morse. Colin Dexter created a wonderful world, a perfect riff on the tradition of the British “cozy.” The erudite voice of the author is consistently charismatic; as male domestic comedy, the team of Morse and Sergeant Lewis rival Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin; unlike most successful franchises Dexter didn’t continue past a natural conclusion (after a dozen books, Morse’s drinking and smoking took its final toll). The only false note in the development of the beloved characters was not problematic, only amusing: Dexter gave Morse a Jaguar and changed him to look like John Thaw (not to mention taking a few years and pounds off Lewis) after the phenomenal success of the television show.

I avidly read the whole series as a teenager into early adulthood but these days I regrettably see the flaws. The near-lurid interest in the sex lives of dead teenage girls may have been edgy at the time but now seems like an inappropriate cliché. Perhaps even more distracting is how the plots go quite a bit beyond byzantine into ludicrous. How many false solutions can the murder of a college don really have?

Still, I will always have a soft spot for these stories, mainly because the author has such marvelous command of language. Unlike most mysteries, one can finish a Dexter book with the feeling that you just got a bit smarter. A classical education was the source of Morse’s taste in music and poetry. Persnickety but practical lessons in spelling and grammar were presented with entertaining flair, but not all of the teaching was highbrow. When I was a drinker, I liked to emulate Morse by sauntering through the doors of a pub in England and ordering a “large Bell’s” (something that you simply can’t do in America).

Dexter was a celebrated creator of fiendishly difficult crossword puzzles, and in most of the books Morse timed himself solving the latest newspaper cryptic. A peak of the series, The Way Through the Woods, is driven almost entirely by a crossword problem. The author was also a devoted student of history, an attribute displayed to the fullest in the virtuosic The Wench is Dead.

The best crime fiction establishes location. It’s impossible to imagine Hammett, Chandler, and Ross Macdonald without California. Lawrence Block is the bard of New York, Elmore Leonard is the poet of Detroit. Agatha Christie couldn’t have existed without a manor just outside the limits of a small English town.

I’ve barely been to Oxford but feel like I know it well thanks to Morse and Dexter. I admit three copies of The Wench is Dead is excessive — especially since I can’t find on my shelves even one copy of the moody and haunting Service of All the Dead — but since I seem to be in the habit of buying yet another edition to read on a train or plane it was the obvious nominee to supply some local scenery. Here’s the perfect bit, from Chapter 34:

Morse left his flat in mid-morning and posted his single letter. He met no one he knew as he turned right along the Banbury Road, and then right again into Squitchey Lane; where, taking the second turning on his left, just past the evangelical chapel (now converted into a little group of residences) he walked down Middle Way. It was a dark, dankish morning, and a scattering of rooks (mistaking, perhaps, the hour) squawked away in the trees to his right. Past Bishop Kirk Middle School he went on, and straight along past the attractive terraced houses on either side with their mullioned bay-windows – and, on his left, there it was: Dudley Court, a block of flats built in cinnamon-coloured brick on the site of the old Summertown Parish Cemetery. A rectangle of lawn, some fifty by twenty-five yards was set out behind a low containing wall, only about eighteen inches high, over which Morse stepped into the grassy plot planted with yew-trees and red-berried bushes. Immediately to his left, the area was bounded by the rear premises of a Social Club; and along this wall, beneath the straggly branches of winter jasmine, and covered with damp beech-leaves, he could make out the stumps of four or five old headstones, broken off at their roots like so many jagged teeth just protruding from their gums. Clearly, any deeper excavation to remove these stones in their entirety had been thwarted by the proximity of the wall; but all the rest had been removed, perhaps several years ago now – and duly recorded no doubt in some dusty box of papers on the shelves of the local Diocesan Offices. Well, at least Morse could face one simple fact: no burial evidence would be forthcoming from these fair lawns…

He walked past Dudley Court itself where a Christmas tree, bedecked with red, green, and yellow bulbs, was already switched on; past the North Oxford Conservative Association premises, in which he had never (and would never) set foot; past the Spiritualist Church, in which he had never (as yet) set foot; past the low-roofed Women’s Institute HQ, in which he had once spoken about the virtues of the Neighbourhood Watch Scheme; and finally, turning left, he came into South Parade, just opposite the Post Office – into which he ventured once a year and that to pay the Lancia’s road-tax. But as he walked by the old familiar land-marks, his mind was far away, and the decision firmly taken. If he was to be cheated of finding one of his suspects, he would go and look for the other!

Tanya Kalmanovitch and Mat Maneri: Magic Mountain

Among my peers, Mat Maneri gets a lot of a respect. Each phrase from his microtonal viola seems both lived in and fresh.

I hadn’t really been aware of Tanya Kalmanovitch before but I am bowled over this recent collection of duos, Magic Mountain. Two microtonal violists! Good god. Apparently the artists themselves don’t always know who is playing what on this exceptionally surreal and beautiful performance.

There are plenty of free improv duo CDs out there that are fun to listen to, but they seldom offer the kind of melodic purity displayed on Magic Mountain. Really this is nothing but soulful ear candy.

Disc includes three sets of liner notes (from Kalmanovitch, Maneri, and Michael Sliwkowski) offering additional food for thought. A significant release, available for preview and purchase at at Bandcamp.

A Quick Listen to Noel Da Costa

Aware of my interest in modernist composition, Ron Carter told me to check out his late friend Noel Da Costa (or DaCosta, not sure of spelling).  As far as I know, the only CD issue of Da Costa is CRI SD 514. Just reviewed it on Amazon:

For those interested in the intersection of jazz and European modernism, Da Costa is an intriguing figure. The trombone preludes are kind of like if Roswell Rudd met Stefan Wolpe (great performance by Per Brevig and Wanda Maximilien) and the cello pieces are sophisticated and delicate. However the highlight is “Jes’ Grew” for solo violin, which comfortably quotes Jelly Roll Morton and the blues alongside convincing atonal gestures. According to the NY Times obit, Max Pollikoff apparently premiered works by 250 composers. It’s hard to imagine to many of them being more fun to play than “Jes’ Grew,” which should absolutely be programmed by contemporary violinists.



Albert “Tootie” Heath will turn 82 on May 31. He and David Williams appear together on record only on Warne Marsh’s Back Home from 1986, but they know each other well. Should be a special event.

Periodic reminder that my newsletter is Floyd Camembert Reports. A lot is coming up, and if you want all the Iversonian spam, that’s the place to get it.

The Good Works of Duke Performances

Friday night in New York: Kannapolis: A Moving Portrait with music by Jenny Scheinman and video by Finn Taylor based on the work of H. Lee Waters. It’s at the Met; the website has an intriguing blurb:

Live music performance Kannapolis: A Moving Portrait is a kind of time machine that will transport you into the lives of ordinary people living in the South during the Great Depression. Based on the work of nearly forgotten photographer H. Lee Waters, Kannapolis weaves some of the hundreds of short, silent films he shot of daily life in small towns across Virginia, Tennessee, and the Carolinas (including Kannapolis, NC); into a compelling tapestry of a moment in time. Composer/singer/violinist Jenny Scheinman and filmmaker Finn Taylor have shaped Waters’s shorts into a truly “moving” portrait. The original films’ subjects got to see themselves on the silver screen when Waters presented his short films at the local movie house. Today’s audiences will experience a shivery echo of that long-ago thrill.

I know Scheinman’s excellent artistry from Bill Frisell and her own records and really wish I could attend.

Kannapolis was commissioned by Duke Performances at Duke University, which has possibly done more than anybody in recent years to give jazz and improvising musicians a chance at a bigger canvas. TBP’s own Rite of Spring and Science Fiction projects were the product of Duke Performances. Last year I nearly made a special trip to check out Gerald Clayton’s Piedmont Blues, which got rave reviews.