This week In Jazz Legends 03/52

1 . Gerry Mulligan . Out Back Of The Barn

Gerry Mulligan’s “Out Back of the Barn” sits comfortably within the cool jazz idiom, exuding a breezy charm indicative of its era.

Released in 1959, this composition makes its home on the album *Gerry Mulligan Meets Ben Webster*, an album that thrives on casual elegance and understated virtuosity.

Mulligan’s hallmark baritone saxophone tone anchors the piece, coupling warmth and agility in a way that feels both effortless and deliberate.

Ben Webster, equally a master of his craft, complements Mulligan with his tenor saxophone lines, injecting the track with a swinging yet contemplative energy.

What stands out here isn’t just technical mastery but the conversational interplay between the musicians, a hallmark of jazz’s collaborative ethos.

The arrangement maintains just enough structure to prevent chaos while leaving ample space for spontaneous phrasing, punctuated by a rhythm section that embodies subdued precision.

This isn’t music aiming to dazzle through excess; it’s about finding resonance in restraint and groove in simplicity.

“Out Back of the Barn” doesn’t clamor for attention or chart dominance but instead thrives in its own quiet confidence, making it a subtly enduring part of Mulligan’s broad catalog.

Lifted from : We Remember Gerry Mulligan. ‘Baritone And Gerry’

2 . Herbie Hancock . Air Dancing (w/ Buster Williams . Al Foster)

Herbie Hancock’s “Air Dancing” is a groove-laden jazz gem, full of twisting melodic lines and rhythmical interplay that feels as intuitive as it is intricate.

Performed live with bassist Buster Williams and drummer Al Foster at the 1987 Munich Summer Piano Festival, the track brings a dynamic intimacy that cuts through the crispness of the recording.

This version strips away studio polish, leaning into the trio’s seasoned synchronicity and knack for bending acoustic traditions toward something both cerebral and playful.

Williams’ bass work feels less like an accompaniment and more like another voice, his phrases roaming freely without ever losing sight of the piece’s center.

Foster, meanwhile, layers the rhythm with sharp subtlety, allowing the groove to breathe while tossing in unexpected accents that keep the ear guessing.

Hancock himself dials back the electric futurism he’s famously embraced elsewhere, instead using the piano’s warmth and resonance to shape angular motifs that float, clash, and swirl.

The result is an interplay of airy textures tied together by moments of grounding clarity, a soundscape that balances on the edge of the structured and the spontaneous.

This live rendition also reflects Hancock’s commitment to acoustic jazz during the early 1980s, as represented on his album “Quartet,” where “Air Dancing” made its studio debut with this same trio.

The contrast between the album version and the live format is striking—what feels more reserved in the studio blossoms into a conversational vigor when taken to the stage.

It’s the kind of performance where technique underpins creativity rather than overshadowing it, with the trio’s collective history lending the track a kinetic fluidity that feels lived-in rather than rehearsed.

Lifted from : Happy Birthday Al Foster. ‘You Can Call Him Al’

3 . Miles Davis & Friends . Jean-Pierre

Miles Davis’s “Jean-Pierre” feels less like a song and more like a brisk, electric snapshot of a man clawing his way back into the limelight.

Recorded during live shows in 1981, these performances were Davis’s first after a lengthy hiatus, marking his return with both triumph and unresolved tension.

The track’s groove leans on a playful yet restrained funk foundation, with Marcus Miller holding the low end and Al Foster stretching time on drums.

In its sprawling ten-minute version, Mike Stern’s guitar commands attention, pulling the listener into a languid yet fiery solo that almost feels like the album’s spine.

This isn’t a triumphant roar of a comeback but a weary growl informed by Davis’s fragile health and relentless persistence.

Performed at Boston’s Kix Club and New York’s Avery Fisher Hall, the piece carries the weight of its cultural moment, balancing excitement and nostalgia.

The stripped-down four-minute edit, meanwhile, almost robs the tune of its quirks and purpose, trimming too close to its bones.

Where some tracks scream precision, “Jean-Pierre” opts for an organic, slightly meandering energy that mirrors Davis’s state of flux during this period.

The performances on “We Want Miles” don’t resolve his narrative but complicate it—more a snapshot of recovery than total victory.

If you’re searching for Davis at his most exploratory or intricate, this won’t be your destination, but it’s a compelling stop on the timeline of fusion’s evolution.

Lifted from : Happy Birthday Steve Grossman. ‘New Year’

4 . Ornette Coleman . Turnaround

“Turnaround” by Ornette Coleman stands as an exploratory chapter in the evolving lexicon of jazz, first introduced in 1959 through the album “Tomorrow Is the Question!”

The track bends the parameters of the blues genre, eschewing standard repetition for a nuanced and unpredictable structure.

This single composition has inspired a sprawling lineage of reinterpretations, finding a life beyond Coleman’s original work in renditions from artists like Pat Metheny, Charlie Haden, and Michel Petrucciani.

In 2011, Dave Liebman reimagines the song by veering into funk-driven territories, injecting electric guitar textures with a modern energy that respects but does not shadow its source material.

Unlike compositions bound to commercial landmarks, “Turnaround” claims its status through the creative currency of its interpreters, each sidestepping mere homage to engage in a dialogue with Coleman’s blueprint.

The magnetic pull of this piece lies in its adaptability, offering layers for jazz contemporaries to dismantle and reconstruct while staying tethered to the genre’s restless ethos.

Lifted from : Ornette Coleman begins the recording of ‘Tomorrow Is the Question!’ with Don Cherry, Percy Heath, Shelly Manne and Red Mitchell (1959)

5 . Jean Luc Ponty . Final Truth

Jean-Luc Ponty’s “Final Truth” feels like an intersection of high-minded jazz fusion and a calculated embrace of the electronic age, presented through the lens of virtuosity and experimentation.

The track’s placement in his 1982 album “Mystical Adventures” suggests a time when fusion artists leaned into technological advancements, and Ponty’s distinctive electric violin became a vessel for this hybrid vision.

Recorded at Cherokee Studios in Los Angeles, the album captures the quirks of that era’s polished production ethos, with musicians like Chris Rhyne and Randy Jackson carving out intricate, interlocking grooves across synthesizer landscapes.

“Final Truth – Part I,” stretching nearly five minutes, introduces itself with a forward momentum that feels both mechanical and lyrical, while “Part II,” clocking in at just over two minutes, acts as its reflective coda, stripping back some of the density yet maintaining thematic continuity.

The 1987 reinterpretation of “Final Truth” on “The Gift of Time” reimagines the piece within Ponty’s maturing artistic framework, where the textures feel more deliberate and acoustics blend sharper with digital tones.

Yet, for all its technical prowess, “Final Truth” walks a peculiar line between introspection and artifice, simultaneously showcasing its era’s fascination with synthetic soundscapes and its aspirations of timelessness.

It is less a definitive statement and more a snapshot of a restless, evolving artist, navigating the tension between tradition and innovation in the world of jazz fusion.

Lifted from : Atlantic publish Jean-Luc Ponty’s album . ‘Mystical Adventures’ (1982)

6 . Billy Cobham . Brick Chicken

Billy Cobham’s “Brick Chicken” serves up a percussive feast, straddling the realms of jazz fusion, funk, and rock with a confidence that borders on the chaotic.

Originally appearing on his 1975 album *A Funky Thide of Sings*, the track showcases Cobham’s signature drumming that is both relentless and surgical, pinning down grooves that teeter on the edge of precision and propulsion.

The title alone sets a playful, slightly absurd tone—something Cobham has never been shy about infusing into his work.

Fast forward to 1999, “Brick Chicken” finds new life in *Stranger’s Hand*, where Cobham collaborates with Oteil Burbridge, Howard Levy, and Steve Smith, proving his knack for finding musical co-conspirators as meticulous as himself.

Performances like the Spectrum 40 Band’s live rendition at The Mint capture the track’s sweaty, full-throttle energy, blending intricate patterns with an almost reckless abandon that speaks to the jam band crowd without losing its technical edge.

What’s fascinating is how this piece manages to keep one foot planted in the exacting world of jazz while the other dances unapologetically through funk’s grittier, messier underbelly.

It’s not just a collision of genres but a negotiation, one that Cobham and company navigate effortlessly and without pretense.

The result is a pulsating instrumental rollercoaster that feels at home both in a smoky jazz den and a late-night festival set, speaking volumes about Cobham’s enduring versatility.

Lifted from : Billy Cobham celebrates 40 years of Spectrum (2013)

7 . Stanley Clarke . Sorceress

“Sorceress” emerges as a funky jazz fusion piece from Return to Forever’s 1976 album *Romantic Warrior*, challenging the boundaries between rock, funk, and jazz.

The song opens with an assertive groove, thanks to Lenny White’s composition, positioning itself as a forceful entry into the fusion ethos.

Stanley Clarke’s bass, with its double-stopped technique, delivers a raw, relentless undercurrent that demands attention without overpowering the ensemble.

Chick Corea’s mastery of synthesizers introduces an otherworldly texture while his acoustic piano solo punctuates the track with a striking, almost classical reprieve from its electric intensity.

The album the track belongs to enjoys a reputation for its deliberate interplay of precision and chaos, blending eruptive solos with the impeccable synergy of a well-oiled collective.

Yet, for all its cohesion, “Sorceress” resists the predictable, shifting gears frequently and with flair, keeping listeners on their toes.

This version, often conflated with Stanley Clarke’s better-known *School Days*, ironically highlights how the bassist became synonymous with pushing jazz fusion into uncharted funk territories.

Both the song and album demonstrate a predilection for risk, eschewing redundancy in favor of bold tonal shifts that complement the complexity of their era’s musical innovations.

Whether fueling debates about fusion’s excess or being lauded for boundary-breaking ambition, “Sorceress” holds its ground as a restless, energetic artifact of ’70s jazz chaos.

Lifted from : Stanley Clarke visits San Diego (2009)

8 . Jason Moran . Fire Waltz

Jason Moran’s rendition of “Fire Waltz” from his 2002 album “Modernistic” approaches Mal Waldron’s composition with a playful yet calculated intensity, transforming the original work into something unmistakably his own.

The piece unfolds with a dynamic interplay of sharp rhythmic shifts and harmonic quirks, highlighting Moran’s talent for breathing new life into jazz standards without erasing their original essence.

Instead of leaning on nostalgia, Moran refracts the tune through his distinct lens, teasing out elements that feel equal parts cerebral and instinctive.

What sets Moran apart is his ability to walk a tightrope between honoring jazz traditions and prying them open for reinterpretation, evident here as he merges introspective phrasing with aggressively modern flourishes.

The waltzing tempo, just slightly warped under Moran’s touch, carries an almost disjointed charm, as though the song trips forward yet never loses its footing.

His piano work — a conversation of its own — takes center stage, moving from spartan minimalism to cascading bursts of sound, each note serving an unpredictable purpose.

While Waldron’s blueprint looms in the background, Moran’s reimagining feels as much indebted to Thelonious Monk’s crooked humor as it does to the avant-garde grit of more contemporary stylings.

Rather than treating “Fire Waltz” as a passive jazz homage, Moran challenges its boundaries, weaving in layers of abstraction and wit that declare this piece not sacred but elastic.

It’s as if the original work sits at the table but Moran is steering the conversation—respectfully disruptive, yet unassumingly confident.

The recording doesn’t just reinterpret a beloved composition but reframes it, illustrating how an established artist can reshape the old without succumbing to tired reverence.

Lifted from : Happy Birthday Jason Moran. ‘Still Rising’

9 . Eliane Elias . Waltz For Debby

Eliane Elias’s take on “Waltz for Debby” is an intimate conversation between jazz tradition and her own Brazilian sensibilities.

The track, reimagined multiple times in her career, prominently shines on the album “Something for You: Eliane Elias Sings & Plays Bill Evans,” a 2008 homage to the late jazz pioneer.

The selection beams with nostalgia, yet Elias injects it with fresh energy, underscored by Marc Johnson’s understated basslines and Joey Baron’s gently assertive drumming.

Evans originally penned this wistful waltz as a piano meditation in 1956 before it grew into lyrical territory with Gene Lees’s poignant words, and here, Elias straddles both the instrumental depth and vocal nuances seamlessly.

Her earlier rendition on the 1990 album “A Long Story” is more stylized, speaking to her then-evolving artistry, but this later version feels rooted, balancing reverence for Evans with her gravitational pull toward samba-tinged phrasing.

“Waltz for Debby” has seen countless interpretations—some edging toward melodrama, others veering into hollow imitation—yet Elias approaches it without excess, while preserving the bittersweet essence Evans so delicately captured.

It’s a track that simultaneously respects its past and flirts with new possibilities, encapsulating why Elias remains a vital voice in jazz’s evolving narrative.

Lifted from : Blue Note publish Eliane Elias’ eighteenth album . ‘Something for You’ featuring music by Bill Evans (2008)

10 . Lionel Loueke . Jumps The Blues

Loueke’s “Jumps The Blues” might be his sly nod to genre conventions while refusing to play by their rules.

It’s a track where jazz sensibilities converse with African polyrhythms, creating something that’s simultaneously grounded yet unpredictable.

The guitar work is tactile, almost percussive, with Loueke mimicking the tonal qualities of African instruments.

His voice floats and weaves through, adding an earthy texture rather than aiming for any grand melodic statement.

What makes the song worth your time is its economy—no grandstanding, no overindulgence, just measured innovation.

It’s jazz, but it doesn’t sprawl; it’s blues, but it doesn’t wallow.

The song feels like it’s inviting listeners into an intimate dialogue rather than staging a performance.

It’s less about fireworks and more about the intricate rhythm of kindling a spark and letting it smolder.

“Mwaliko” as a whole is Loueke’s way of threading diverse collaborators through his own distinct world, but this track stands as a succinct mantra of his ethos: tradition is a tool, not a tether.

Lifted from : Lionel Loueke brings his Trio to Haiti (2014)

11 . Charlie Hunter . St. Louis Blues

Charlie Hunter’s rendition of “St. Louis Blues” starts with a premise as ambitious as it is unconventional: to fold one of W.C. Handy’s most enduring compositions into his own peculiar idiom. The result isn’t just a reinterpretation; it’s a tug-of-war between nostalgia and Hunter’s technical wizardry.

The track sits on Hunter’s 2010 album *Public Domain*, a project gleefully repurposing American standards. Armed with his absurdly complex seven and eight-string hybrid guitars, Hunter doesn’t just play the song—he deconstructs it. The original’s blues and ragtime grit are filtered through his rhythmic sensibilities, splitting the difference between tribute and reinvention. The habanera rhythm of the 16-bar bridge keeps its distinctive swagger, but Hunter’s percussive thumb and nimble fretting take the texture somewhere unexpected.

Jazz critiques have lauded him for good reason. Publications like *Downbeat* and *JazzTimes* wax poetic about his rhythmic counterpoint, and listening here, it’s clear why. Yet there’s always a danger with virtuosity: too much cleverness risks dulling emotional impact. Does Hunter escape that trap here? Mostly. The swing remains intact; the groove never feels mechanical. It dances just on the line between fascination and indulgence.

The album’s title, *Public Domain*, suggests an aim to democratize the past. But where the original “St. Louis Blues” was music of the streets, performed by jug bands and itinerant musicians, Hunter’s version subtly shifts it into a more private sphere—technical, performative, even cerebral. Maybe it loses a little bit of the grit that made the song iconic, but in its place is an intricate conversation between tradition and innovation.

This is Hunter at his most unadorned, wielding his genre-fluid instincts as both weapon and compass. It’s not here to swell arenas or soundtrack a summer barbecue—it’s music for a certain kind of listener, one willing to lean in and let the playful contradictions unfold.

Lifted from : On radio today, Charlie Hunter At KDHX (2011)

12 . Nels Cline & Fred Frith . Improvisation

Nels Cline and Fred Frith’s improvisational sessions defy conventional guitar tropes with an electrifying mix of raw spontaneity and experimental finesse.

Cline, whose discography spans over 600 recordings and collaborations ranging from Wilco to avant-garde saxophonist Julius Hemphill, thrives on pushing the guitar past its comfort zones.

Frith, an influential force in underground scenes with bands like Henry Cow and Massacre, similarly approaches the guitar as a playground for disruption, treating it less as a melodic instrument and more as a sound-producing machine.

Frith’s penchant for prepared guitars—employing chains, metal sticks, and any artifact that comes to hand—imbues performances with unpredictable textures.

Cline, heavily influenced by Frith’s formative works like *Guitar Solos* (1974), brings an equally restless energy, his playing oscillating between cacophony and eerie stillness.

Their live album *Oakland… duets* encapsulates this creative friction, balancing moments of unsettling quietude with bursts of sonic fury.

The 2014 NYC set further underscores the pair’s ability to communicate without premeditation, creating intricate and evocative musical dialogues on the fly.

Both artists eschew formal structures, emphasizing the dialogue between chaos and control, making their collaborative improvisations singular within the experimental canon.

Lifted from : Nels Cline meets Fred Frith in NYC (2014)