This week In Jazz Legends 05/52

1 . Bill Evans . Nardis

“Nardis,” a piece clothed in mystery and sophistication, resides prominently within Bill Evans’ vast repertoire, despite being penned by Miles Davis.

The allure of “Nardis” lies in its complex structure, often performed in E minor with a signature progression (Em7, Fmaj7, B7, Cmaj7, Am7, Fmaj7) that tugs at the listener’s subconscious.

Through a string of live renditions and recordings, it became Evans’ noir-soaked playground, appearing across pivotal albums like “Explorations,” “The Solo Sessions,” and “The Paris Concert: Edition Two.”

Evans turns each interpretation into a meditative odyssey, stretching the track’s potential as he embraces space and silence, letting notes drift like smoke exhaled from a dim-lit lounge.

Performed often as a set-ender, “Nardis” evolved into something bordering ritual, achieving an almost cinematic gravity during his final Keystone Korner recordings in the weeks before his death.

The track even brushes against pop culture, finding a footprint in the world of hip hop when Madlib sampled its intricate phrasing on “Raid” for “Madvillainy.”

“Nardis” is less a song and more a canvas, where Evans painted fragmented dreams—unresolved, brooding, and endlessly compelling.

Lifted from : Bill Evans Trio visits Iowa (1979)

2 . Carmen McRae . Round Midnight

Carmen McRae’s version of “Round Midnight” lives in a space of smoky jazz clubs and moonlit contemplation, as if the song itself were a dimly lit alleyway where Thelonious Monk’s compositions meet McRae’s compelling storytelling.

Featured in her 1988 album *Carmen Sings Monk*, this take on the legendary ballad doesn’t just interpret a classic—it converses with it, giving the tune a vocal clarity that offsets Monk’s ellipses and abstractions without dulling their mystery.

With lyrics penned by Bernie Hanighen—an addition that came six years after Monk’s original 1943 composition—the song avoids unnecessary sentimentality, instead channeling that late-night existential ache into McRae’s voice, which glides between wistful and resolute.

The live performance from Montreal in 1988 underscores her command, as Eric Gunnison’s piano offers a subtle interplay with Scott Collie’s unwavering basslines and Clifford Jordan’s tenor saxphoning in melancholic sighs.

Miles Davis’s 1955 Newport moment may have immortalized “Round Midnight” as a spotlight-stealer, but McRae’s rendition takes it inward, making it less about the grand gesture and more about quiet mastery.

Lifted from : Carmen McRae records the album ‘Carmen Sings Monk’ (1988)

3 . The Modern Jazz Quartet . Softly as in a Morning Sunrise

The Modern Jazz Quartet’s “Softly, as in a Morning Sunrise” takes a Broadway show tune and reshapes it into a cornerstone of postwar jazz elegance.

This 1955 recording, with Milt Jackson’s nimble vibraphone and John Lewis’s subtle piano lead, transforms Romberg’s 1928 composition into something simultaneously delicate and urgent.

The quartet’s approach feels like a chess match of precision and restraint, with Percy Heath’s bass and Connie Kay’s drums offering a framework that’s breezy yet intentional—Kay, notably, making his first recorded appearance here.

It’s hard not to be struck by the eerie mood created by their interplay; the quartet’s arrangements strip the tune of Broadway pomp, trading in nostalgia for an introspective, minor-key edginess that verges on abstract.

Comparing this to their earlier 1952 rendition reveals fascinating contrasts—where the early attempt clocks in as a more straightforward swing, the ’55 version stretches out, doubling the length and giving the piece room to breathe.

Not all versions of this tune evolve equally; Artie Shaw’s 1938 big-band take feels staunchly swing-era, while Rollins, Coltrane, and even Abbey Lincoln later use the song as a vehicle for their own stylistic statements, gravitating toward a freer, looser interpretation.

The Modern Jazz Quartet’s treatment, however, stands apart, not least for its ability to fuse chamber music aesthetics with bop-era sensibilities—a synthesis that reads as intellectual without losing its warmth.

While the track itself isn’t housed on their 1988 Duke Ellington tribute *For Ellington*, this recording reminds you why the group’s legacy endures: they had a knack for turning even throwaway Broadway tunes into small epiphanies of texture and tone.

Lifted from : Modern Jazz Quartet record ‘For Ellington’ a tribute album for East West (1988)

4 . Ella Fitzgerald & Sammy Davis Jr. . ‘S Wonderful .

Ella Fitzgerald and Sammy Davis Jr.’s performance of “‘S Wonderful” on *The Ed Sullivan Show* is an intersection of finesse and charm, marked as much by its pedigree as by its historical weight.

Written by George and Ira Gershwin for the 1927 Broadway musical *Funny Face*, the song had already been elevated to jazz standard status, stapled into countless repertoires, including Fitzgerald’s own celebrated Gershwin songbook.

This televised encounter on February 2, 1964, marked the first collaboration between the vocal titan and the multitalented entertainer, and the result paired Fitzgerald’s technical mastery with Davis’ effervescent verve.

Ed Sullivan’s declaration that history was in the making may border on hyperbole, but there’s no denying how magnetic the moment proved to be.

The arrangement itself brims with swing-era buoyancy, bolstered by Roy Hilton’s trumpet and a well-oiled backing band that lifted, rather than crowded, the two vocalists.

Fitzgerald’s unparalleled phrasing and Davis’ instinctive theatricality created a tension: smooth sophistication colliding with showmanship, neither overpowering the other and walking that tightrope with finesse.

Though some might argue Davis indulges in excess flourishes at moments, Fitzgerald anchors the performance with her signature elegance, reminding the audience that she’s the centerpiece while allowing Davis his playful detours.

This isn’t merely a duet; it’s a showcase of chemistry, proof that disparate styles can coexist without one swallowing the other.

The cultural resonance of the performance extended beyond aesthetics—it captured an era of broadcast entertainment striving to humanize icons by presenting them as casual collaborators, adding warmth to their already-transcendent talents.

Eclipsing its novelty as a one-night televised event, this interpretation of “‘S Wonderful” underscores Fitzgerald’s ability to elevate any partner and Davis’ uncanny knack for matching her bravura note for note, quip for quip.

The result is a musical embrace that respects its classic origins while reveling in the spontaneity of live television’s high-wire act.

Lifted from : On TV today, Ella Fitzgerld . Sammy Davis Jr (1964)

5 . J.J. Johnson & Kai Winding . It’s Alright With Me

J.J. Johnson and Kai Winding take Cole Porter’s “It’s All Right with Me” out for a spin, steering it through the polished avenues of 1950s jazz with a dual-trombone configuration that manages to be both lush and razor-sharp.

Recorded in January 1955 under Creed Taylor’s discerning eye for Bethlehem Records, this track encapsulates the sophistication of postwar jazz with its melodically intricate reimagination of Porter’s torch standard.

The interplay between Johnson and Winding’s trombones is a refined conversation, shimmering with both cohesion and contrast, as Dick Katz’s piano offers a fluid harmonic framework while Milt Hinton and Wendell Marshall take care of the bass duties with precision.

Al Harewood on drums rounds out the rhythm section, crafting a groove that refuses to overpower the brass-driven main event but never lets the energy sag.

Error-free and meticulously arranged, the performance exemplifies the kind of textural boldness that gives jazz its staying power, yet there’s a certain irony: its emotional accessibility disguises the arrangement’s actual complexity.

If there’s a complaint to be made, it’s that “It’s All Right with Me” might lack the nightclub grit to lure listeners who crave a more raw edge, but that’s hardly a flaw within the atmospheric blur of the entire “K + J.J.” album.

AllMusic’s 4½-star rating doesn’t feel out of place, as this recording reflects a moment when jazz still believed in its own modernity without needing to make concessions to commercial trends or nostalgia.

Whether considered a deep cut or a gateway track into the broader jazz canon, it’s a piece you admire as much for its restraint as its technical prowess—in other words, it’s not showy, but it sure knows how to stay in the room long after the applause dies down.

Lifted from : We Remember J. J. Johnson. ‘Bonified’

6 . Tony Bennett . The Shadow Of Your Smile

Tony Bennett’s take on “The Shadow of Your Smile” is more than a cover; it’s a cinematic waltz that transcends the bounds of its 1965 origins.

Originally penned by Johnny Mandel and Paul Francis Webster for the Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor film *The Sandpiper*, the track carries the weight of its Hollywood roots while inviting Bennett’s signature phrasing to the forefront.

Recorded in September of that same year and emerging on his 1966 compilation *The Movie Song Album*, the song drips with mid-20th-century nostalgia, cushioned by lush orchestrations that practically demand a cigarette, a martini, and a dimly lit nightclub.

It’s no surprise this ballad swept the Academy Award for Best Original Song and clinched a Grammy for Song of the Year—its haunting melody and poetic lyrics linger like perfume in an empty room.

Bennett’s ability to distill longing into every note is particularly palpable here, drawing you into a world where romance is both devastating and eternal.

The album peaked respectably at No. 18 on the Billboard Top LPs chart, sticking around for 29 weeks—a respectable feat for a collection tied so tightly to cinema.

Decades later, Bennett revisited the song in 2006 with Colombian rocker Juanes, swapping moody elegance for an update that felt more curious than groundbreaking.

Still, the original recording remains the definitive version, a bittersweet echo of a bygone era where songs of heartbreak could still shimmer with grace.

Lifted from : Columbia publish Tony Bennett’s album . ‘The Movie Song Album’ (1966)

7 . Wayne Shorter . Footprints

“Footprints” may be Wayne Shorter’s most cerebral chess game masquerading as a jazz tune, and that’s saying something for a guy who made complexity his playground.

First appearing on Shorter’s 1966 album *Adam’s Apple* before earning wider recognition thanks to its inclusion on Miles Davis’s *Miles Smiles*, this track functions as both an intellectual exercise and a deep groove.

Don’t let the straightforward 12-bar C minor blues structure fool you—it’s like calling a Picasso painting “lines and shapes.” Tony Williams’s drum work, swinging between 12/8 and 4/4 with surgical precision, destabilizes any preconceived notions of rhythmic predictability.

Meanwhile, Herbie Hancock adds a layer of harmonic mischief, illustrating why his accompaniments often feel like a sly commentary on the rules of Western tonality rather than adherence to them.

Shorter himself approaches “Footprints” like a sly co-conspirator, pulling melodic threads so elastic, you’re never quite sure if the fabric will hold or snap into something unrecognizably avant-garde.

The real sleight of hand comes in how this tune reframes its African rhythmic undercurrents, merging them with a sparse melodic topography that feels more philosophical than performative.

Miles Davis and his quintet don’t just “play” this piece on *Miles Smiles*—they warily stalk and tease it, navigating its shifts like hunters tracking prey they respect too much to snag outright.

It’s no wonder subsequent covers, from Kenny Barron to younger generation jazz upstarts, inevitably face comparison; imitating “Footprints” is akin to tracing over déjà vu while forgetting the original dream.

Whether you hear it as coded commentary on cultural diasporas, a rhythmic Rubik’s cube, or simply a genre-defining moment, Shorter’s work elegantly sidesteps the trap of being “just another standard.”

Lifted from : Wayne Shorter records ‘Adam’s Apple’ an album for Blue Note (1966)

8 . Sonny Rollins & Jim Hall . The Bridge

Sonny Rollins’ “The Bridge” isn’t just the centerpiece of his 1962 album; it’s a statement, practically a myth cloaked in tenor saxophone.

Rollins honed his craft in relative solitude atop the Williamsburg Bridge, and the track reflects that discipline—measured, deliberate, and a touch introspective.

Joined by Jim Hall’s understated guitar work, Bob Cranshaw’s steady basslines, and Ben Riley’s crisp drumming, the quartet exudes a paradoxical tight yet free-flowing energy.

There’s a sense of structure that never veers into rigidity, as if the boundaries are felt but rarely acknowledged.

It’s music that manages to be both meticulous and airy, like a conversation that balances what’s spoken with deliberate pauses.

Meanwhile, the album also showcases a surprising gem: “God Bless the Child.”

Borrowing Billie Holiday’s timeless ballad, Rollins transforms the piece into his own reflective odyssey, replacing Billie’s haunting vocals with his melancholic yet assertive tenor saxophone.

Hall’s guitar interplay here feels like whispered commentary—restrained, yet always contributing to the dialogue.

What’s striking about this track is how deliberate it feels without being over-processed.

There’s warmth, but not sentimentality; technical precision, but not rigidity.

Drummer Harry “H.T.” Saunders steps in for this track, adding subtle flourishes without demanding attention.

If “The Bridge” represents discipline born on a steel span overlooking the East River, “God Bless the Child” moves inward, exploring resilience in quiet spaces.

Not an album of bombast, but of resolve, its subtler details reveal more with every listen.

Lifted from : Sonny Rollins begins the recording of the album ‘The Bridge’ (1962)

9 . Anita O’Day . Stella By Starlight

Anita O’Day’s rendition of “Stella By Starlight” isn’t just a cover; it’s a confident razor-sharp conversation between voice and piano, courtesy of the Oscar Peterson Quartet.

This 1957 performance reclaims what began as a moody tune in the 1944 film *The Uninvited* and layers it with quicksilver phrasing and rhythmic daring, elevating it far beyond its cinematic roots.

O’Day maneuvers through Victor Young’s lush composition with a near-effortless grasp of its harmonic complexities, while Ned Washington’s lyrics, added later in 1946, walk that delicate line between romantic and bewildering poetry.

The quartet doesn’t play backup—they’re accomplices, with Peterson’s piano stitches binding O’Day’s voice to the melody in a way few vocalists have managed since.

This recording, housed in the album *Anita Sings The Most*, feels both intimate and expansive: intimate in its vocal precision, expansive in its jazz freedoms.

Its inclusion in more than 800 covers attests not to its durability, but its elasticity, bending to the whims of Miles Davis or Frank Sinatra while still finding room for a voice like O’Day’s—razor-edged yet surprisingly tender.

If there’s a weak spot, it’s simply that the recording feels almost too mastered, too clean, like the sharp, polished edges of a diamond that longs to be kept just a little rough.

“Stella By Starlight” enjoys a cultural ubiquity rare for a jazz standard, cropping up in projects from *Forever Female* to Jerry Lewis’ *The Nutty Professor*, but O’Day’s version feels less like an addition and more like a provocation—how far *can* you take a melody before it bursts?

Lifted from : Anita O’Day records with Oscar Peterson ‘Anita Sings the Most’ an album for Verve (1957)

10 . Weather Report . Badia, Boogie Woogie Waltz

“Badia” finds Weather Report traversing a terrain that feels part folktale, part cosmopolitan meditation, courtesy of Joe Zawinul’s penchant for bending genre boundaries like a jazz-funk contortionist.

The track has Zawinul juggling melodica, West African xylophone, and some cryptic vocal snippets that sound like they’re beaming in from another dimension, all while staging an intimate conversation between rhythm and melody.

The inspiration—a Cairo nightclub dancer—might explain its sultry undertones, though the finished product feels far less literal, pivoting into something more atmospheric.

This one isn’t here to tell a story; it hums, stirs, and exudes mood with textures layered thoughtfully over Alphonso Johnson’s electric bass and Alyrio Lima’s sharp, almost hypnotic percussion.

By contrast, “Boogie Woogie Waltz” stands as an audacious, sprawling declaration of funk-flavored intent, clocking in at 13 minutes of structured chaos that’s less a waltz and more a dizzying polyrhythmic labyrinth.

Released two years before “Badia” on *Sweetnighter*, it places Joe Zawinul firmly in the driver’s seat, steering an unapologetic shift from improvisational noodlings to a full embrace of groove as the bedrock of expression.

Drums, handled by Eric Gravatt and Herschel Dwellingham, borrow from urban grit, while Miroslav Vitous’ bass pulses beneath layers of exploratory jams and breakdowns that suggest dancers pushed to the outer limits of their endurance.

It’s both demanding and generous, spiraling outward with an urgency that hooks one moment and unravels in another.

The duality of these tracks—”Badia” floating like a whispered vignette while “Boogie Woogie Waltz” stomps unapologetically—makes their live pairing on *8:30* feel not just intentional but inevitable.

Taken together, they’re less a cohesive statement and more a balancing act: intimacy and excess, restraint and audacity, all under the sprawling Weather Report umbrella.

Lifted from : Weather Report record their fourth album . ‘Sweetnighter’for Columbia (1973)

11 . Donald Byrd . Black Byrd

Donald Byrd’s “Black Byrd” isn’t just a track; it’s a 7-minute-plus odyssey flirting shamelessly with the boundaries between jazz, funk, and R&B.

Composed by Larry Mizell and adorned with his brother Fonce’s production finesse, the song feels like a calculated gamble to blur lines without losing its footing—sort of like a jazz virtuoso learning to love a good groove.

Byrd’s trumpet walks the tightrope between serene and electrified, anchored by Chuck Rainey’s basslines and David T. Walker’s guitar licks, which simmer patiently, occasionally threatening to steal the show but never quite doing so.

The irony is thick here; this isn’t an avant-garde experiment for a smoky club but a polished, radio-friendly piece that snagged Billboard chart positions—No. 19 on R&B and No. 88 on Hot 100.

Its careful accessibility, though, doesn’t imply compromise; rather, it’s a masterclass in musicianship meeting commercial sensibility halfway without crumbling under its own ambition.

The track also moonlights as origin story, lending its name—and perhaps some of its swagger—to Byrd’s protégés, The Blackbyrds.

But let’s not mistake success for performance art—it’s as much a feat of branding as it is of musicality, a track born under Blue Note’s desire for a hit album.

If this was Byrd trying to prove jazz could strut through a funk corridor without losing its cool, he succeeded, though purists likely clutched their pearls along the way.

Lifted from : We Remember Donald Byrd

12 . Herbie Hancock . Rockit

Herbie Hancock’s “Rockit” blurs the lines between funk, hip-hop, and early electronica, emerging as a blueprint for genre-bending creativity in 1983.

With Bill Laswell anchoring the production and Grandmixer DXT pushing scratching to the foreground, the track throws conventional composition out the window, turning turntables into instruments in their own right.

The robotic groove pulses with a mechanized heartbeat that’s equal parts groove and glitch, giving the song an industrial edge that nods to the encroaching digital age of music.

The video, with its animatronic dystopia dreamed up by Jim Whiting and directed by Kevin Godley and Lol Creme, is the kind of fever dream MTV couldn’t stop looping; it’s all jerky mannequins and twitchy limbs, perfectly matching the track’s stop-start quirkiness.

Despite its lack of vocal hooks, the surreal energy and aesthetic boldness earned it accolades like Grammy and MTV awards, further solidifying its status as a musical oddity that refuses to fade into the background.

“Rockit” is self-aware, futuristic, and chaotic, but never disorganized—its frenetic energy somehow holds together, serving as a precursor to how electronic experimentation would define pop culture decades later.

Lifted from :