This week In Jazz Legends (Special Pianists) 07/52

1 . Omar Sosa – @ Moody Jazz Cafè

Omar Sosa’s performance at the Moody Jazz Café on February 18, 2014, was less concert and more sonic assembly—a fusion of tradition, experimentation, and sheer ingenuity.

Armed with a piano, Fender Rhodes, keyboards, and effects, Sosa shifted seamlessly between Afro-Cuban rhythms and modern jazz harmonies, layering electronic textures with the precision of a sound engineer and the daring of a child tampering with the family stereo.

This solo setting didn’t trap him in introspection or minimalism; instead, it served as a laboratory where rich, multifaceted tones were constructed. Each piece felt less like a song and more like a mosaic, where improvisation didn’t disrupt the flow but shaped it. The traditional Afro-Cuban influences were there—looming, pulsating—but filtered through a contemporary prism of electronic effects that often flirted with the avant-garde, occasionally nudging the performance toward dissonance yet reeling back before alienation set in.

There’s a distinct irony in Sosa bringing a Fender Rhodes—a staple of electric soul and jazz-funk—into what could be mistaken for a historically rich acoustic tradition. It worked, in its idiosyncratic way, though these touches sometimes overstayed their welcome, veering dangerously close to atmospherics over melody.

Foggia, Italy, might seem an odd location for such an intricate cultural intersection, yet the intimacy of the Moody Jazz Café accentuated the contrast between classical forms and electronic modernity. Sosa’s true strength lay in not forcing a resolution between the two but letting art hover in productive tension.

Lifted from : Omar Sosa enchants his Italian fans (2014)

2 . Brad Mehldau – Riverman

Brad Mehldau’s take on Nick Drake’s “River Man,” captured on his 1998 album “The Art Of The Trio, Vol. 3: Songs,” walks a fine line between homage and overhaul. Recorded at Right Track in New York City under Matt Pierson’s production, the piece offers an introspective yet unsettling reimagination of Drake’s somber classic. At 4:47, it’s a tightly coiled exploration rather than a sprawling reinvention.

Mehldau’s arrangement leans on his knack for unusual time signatures and a textured, contemporary classical aesthetic, which renders the familiar melody hauntingly disjointed. His piano work unravels the song’s melancholic mood with precision, though its emotional detachment might leave purists yearning for the unguarded vulnerability Drake imbued in the original.

The album itself fared well critically, scoring 4½ stars on AllMusic and charting respectably—hitting number 67 in France—yet Mehldau’s calculated approach may alienate listeners seeking a more visceral connection. Its high ranking in the top 3% on BestEverAlbums.com underlines its technical achievement, but “River Man” feels like it’s suspended in a kind of analytic limbo, its heart slightly obscured by the heady arrangement.

Live, the song becomes a malleable artifact. Mehldau’s frequent performances of “River Man” in both solo and trio formats underscore its fluid adaptability, yet also invite scrutiny of its core. While his ability to structurally dismantle and rebuild the piece is captivating, it could be argued that the relentless analysis sacrifices some of the delicate emotional quiver at the heart of Drake’s original.

Lifted from : Brad Mehldau records ‘Live in Tokyo,’ an album for Nonesuch (2003)

3 . Hank Jones – In A Sentimental Mood

The Nice Jazz Festival of July 7, 1977, delivered one of those fleeting moments where history and artistry collide, as Hank Jones took on Duke Ellington’s “In a Sentimental Mood.”

In the presence of a powerhouse lineup—Jones on piano, Vic Dickenson’s trombone crooning like some weary bard, and a rhythm section featuring Bill Pemberton’s steady pulse on double bass and Oliver Jackson’s whispering drums—the piece was given new dimensions. Frontline icons Benny Carter, Doc Cheatham, and Budd Johnson added a layer of reverence befitting Ellington’s 1935 composition, which has long since transcended its original pop-chart climb to number fourteen.

Jones’s signature approach—serenely melodic, resolutely understated—avoids the sentimental trap of the song’s title, opting instead for harmonic curiosity reminiscent of Gershwin’s “Someone to Watch Over Me.” This subtle interplay elevates the descending bass lines and gently enveloping modulations, yet the performance never strays into romantic excess. Here, Dickenson shines most, his frequent renditions of this song revealing a personal connection, which anchors the performance emotionally.

Still, the ensemble’s restraint can feel like a double-edged sword; while offering space for each voice, it at times skirts the edge of tepidness. When contrasted with bolder renditions by Coltrane or Ella Fitzgerald, this interpretation, though respectful, feels almost too polite.

Broadcast on French television, it registers more as an homage—a historical snapshot—than an innovative retake. Worth appreciating for its refinement, but one wonders if it borders on playing safe.

Lifted from : Hank Jones takes the Great Jazz Trio to Tokyo (2009)

4 . Monty Alexander – September song, Only the lonely, Young at Heart

“September Song,” interpreted by Monty Alexander, stands in that evocative space between tradition and reinvention. Originally composed by Kurt Weill and Maxwell Anderson in the 1938 musical “Knickerbocker Holiday,” it carries a poignant timelessness that Alexander reshapes without diminishing its essence. His renditions often pair his jazz sensibilities with unexpected elements, such as the inclusion of steel drummer Othello Molineaux, which lends an ethereal texture to the piece. The incorporation of island rhythms complements the inherent melancholy of the song, adding a lilting warmth that underlines, rather than distracts from, its essence.

“Only the Lonely,” penned by Sammy Cahn and Jimmy Van Heusen and famously vocalized by Frank Sinatra in 1958, benefits from Alexander’s knack for emotional fluidity. Though Sinatra’s version defines plaintive grandeur, Alexander approaches the song with less overt drama, opting instead for a restrained, more introspective delivery. It’s not a reinvention but a reframing, emphasizing the tender details while pulling back from sentimentality—an exercise in taste rather than spectacle.

For “Young at Heart,” originally immortalized by Sinatra in 1953, Alexander inflects his interpretation with swing and island flourishes. The result feels fresh without veering into quirkiness. On live recordings like those from the album “Love You Madly: Live at Bubba’s,” his performance crackles with vitality, though the high-energy approach occasionally risks undercutting the song’s delicate balance of optimism and nostalgia. Taken together, these tracks showcase Alexander’s ability to honor the past while gently nudging it into the present.

Lifted from : Monty Alexander & Friends celebrate Sinatra (2016)

5 . Herbie Hancock & Chick Corea – Maiden Voyage

“Maiden Voyage” gains an intriguing new dimension when reimagined by Herbie Hancock and Chick Corea during their 1978 acoustic piano duets tour.

Originally part of Hancock’s 1965 Blue Note album of the same name, the piece was lauded for its clever modal shifts and atmospheric, oceanic quality. Here, stripped of the full band and reconstructed as a piano duet, its inherent dreaminess becomes an open canvas for two jazz minds to negotiate space, tension, and release.

Musically, Hancock’s signature melody—a spare, minimalist line—remains intact, though the moody interaction between D and F roots feels even more unpredictable in this setting. Shifting the root to E-flat for the B-section, as in the original, allows both pianists to push chords higher up the register, creating moments of shimmering dissonance without abandoning the tune’s meditative focus. It’s less a melodramatic reinvention than a calm exploration of the song’s harmonic boundaries.

The interplay is both a strength and a limitation. Hancock and Corea display near-telepathic chemistry, yet the duet format can feel, at times, overly cerebral. Without a rhythm section or the original’s tenor saxophone flourishes adding emotional urgency, some of the tension dissipates, leaving passages that verge on overly polite abstraction, albeit beautifully played.

The historical context is significant. This performance belonged to a series immortalized on “An Evening with Herbie Hancock & Chick Corea: In Concert” and its follow-up, “CoreaHancock.” These recordings showcased their improvisational dexterity but also highlighted a tendency toward introspection over propulsion. For a tune connected to oceanic imagery, this rendition occasionally feels less like a “Maiden Voyage” and more like drifting—elegant, yes, but adrift nonetheless.

Lifted from : Herbie Hancock meets Chick Corea in Frankfurt (1978)

6 . Chick Corea – Sorceress (w/ Return To Forever)

Lenny White’s “Sorceress,” as performed by Return to Forever on their 1976 album “Romantic Warrior,” is a study in contrasts, balancing intricate musicality with sheer rhythmic force.

Stanley Clarke’s bass work anchors the track, its double-stopped groove a funky undertow that refuses to recede. It’s a foundation sturdy enough for Al Di Meola’s guitar, which slashes through in quick bursts like lightning against a turbulent sky. Chick Corea’s keyboards, meanwhile, offer texture that veers dangerously close to overpowering but manages to stay just on the right side of indulgence.

Part of the piece’s allure lies in its unpredictability. “Sorceress” doesn’t settle—it shifts and twists, a sonic maze of jazz fusion, rock energy, and funk swagger. Yet for all its technical brilliance, its cerebral nature risks alienation. This is music that demands attention and patience, rewarding only those who meet its complexity head-on.

Its place on “Romantic Warrior,” one of Return to Forever’s most commercially successful albums, underscores its importance. The album reached #3 on the Billboard Jazz Albums chart and #35 on the Billboard 200, eventually attaining Gold status—a rare feat for a jazz fusion record. These numbers point to a wider audience intrigued, or at least intrigued enough, to navigate its dense terrain.

Live renderings, such as the one documented during the 2008 Montreux Jazz Festival and later immortalized on the “Returns: Live at Montreux 2008” release, reinforce its vitality. Stripped from the controlled environment of the studio, “Sorceress” breathes differently, its improvisational core more pronounced, its edges rougher.

Yet, the success and skill of “Sorceress” cannot obscure its flaws. The very characteristics that define it—a relentless complexity, a refusal to settle into any form of predictability—also risk rendering it emotionally distant. It’s masterful, yes, but not exactly inviting.

In the end, “Sorceress” exemplifies Return to Forever at a pivotal moment, propelled by the chemistry of Corea, White, Clarke, and Di Meola. It appeals to those who seek challenge in their music but may leave others stranded in its labyrinth of virtuosity.

Lifted from : Return to Forever record their sixth album : ‘Romantic Warrior’ for Columbia (1976)

7 . Randy Weston – @ Dakota Jazz Club (w/ African Rhythm Trio)

Randy Weston’s set at the Dakota Jazz Club with his African Rhythm Trio underscores his lifelong dedication to intertwining African musical heritage with jazz, a synergy evident in compositions like “Little Niles.” Named after his son, this song, first recorded in 1959, is a crisp expression of rhythmic complexity, its syncopation reminiscent of Duke Ellington’s more intimate moments, while still rooted in Weston’s African sensibilities.

“Blue Moses,” a standout from his 2006 album “ZEP TEPI,” anchors its sound in percussive, earthy motifs that feel both expansive and meditative. Its duality captures Weston’s piano technique—stately yet loose, a nod to Thelonious Monk’s angularity streamlined through a spiritual lens.

The perennial “Hi-Fly,” inspired by Weston’s looming 6’8” frame, adds levity to the mix. Here, the African Rhythm Trio doesn’t just accompany; they harness the tune’s vertical imagery into something grounded, rhythmic, and tactile—jazz that doesn’t float but strides.

Though the repertoire didn’t explicitly include “Uhuru Afrika,” the spirit of that landmark 1960 album looms large. The revolutionary undertones of Langston Hughes’ poem from that project feel folded into every pause and crescendo—a subtle defiance hard to overlook in this setting.

If “African Sunrise,” which pays homage to the continent’s inherent musical pulse, was performed, it would only cement Weston’s role as a bridge—less “ambassador” and more architect—of African-American musical lineage. This isn’t just a concert; it’s a gentle reaffirmation of connected histories, histories as intricate as the syncopations threading these compositions together.

Lifted from : Randy Weston takes his African Rhythm Trio to Minneapolis (2008)

8 . Dave Brubeck – Castilian Blues

“Castilian Blues,” a standout track from the Dave Brubeck Quartet’s 1962 album “Countdown—Time in Outer Space,” offers yet another example of Brubeck’s preoccupation with unconventional time signatures.

The piece, recorded on May 3, 1961, showcases a 5/4 rhythmic structure—a hallmark of the Quartet’s explorative streak following the success of the seminal album “Time Out.”

As with much of Brubeck’s work, the collaborative interplay is front and center. Paul Desmond’s alto saxophone, while always elegant, takes on a slightly bolder tone here, weaving its way through the rhythmic maze laid out by Eugene Wright’s steadfast bass and Joe Morello’s deft percussion.

Morello’s drumming, in particular, feels like a private performance within the larger piece, snapping and rolling as though intent on proving the flexibility of this time signature.

The album itself performed admirably on the Billboard charts, peaking at No. 24 and holding court for 21 weeks, yet “Castilian Blues” feels less like a crowd-pleaser and more like an insider’s nod to the band’s commitment to craft.

The St. Petersburg Times praised the album as “modern jazz at its finest,” and this track undeniably supports that claim, though it stops short of being truly transcendent.

The Spanish-tinged title offers a subtle nod to a cultural influence that doesn’t exactly dominate the track but hangs over it like a faint shadow, adding an extra layer of texture.

For those who admire precision and innovation over emotional immediacy, “Castilian Blues” is a rewarding listen, though it might leave others searching for the spark that made “Take Five” or “Blue Rondo à la Turk” resonate beyond their technical achievements.

Lifted from : The Dave Brubeck Quartet records ‘Countdown—Time in Outer Space’ for Columbia (1962)

9 . Thelonious Monk – Don’t Blame Me

Thelonious Monk’s live 1966 rendition of “Don’t Blame Me,” recorded in Denmark, transforms a well-trodden jazz standard from the 1932 revue “Clowns in Clover” into an intricate mosaic of emotion and tension.

Dorothy Fields and Jimmy McHugh’s composition, once a darling of mid-century crooners like Nat King Cole and Frank Sinatra, is cast here in a completely different light. Monk’s solo piano delivers a somber, dissonant take, reframing the song’s traditional sentimentalism into something darker and harder to pin down. His warped harmonies and halting phrasing shape a performance less concerned with accessibility and more interested in pushing the boundaries of what a standard can convey.

The version on Monk’s 1963 album “Criss Cross” embraces similar idiosyncrasies, albeit in a controlled studio setting. There, “Don’t Blame Me” doubles down on his penchant for reinterpretation, unfolding as a solo showcase of defiant quirkiness. The melody is still present—just barely—but stretches and stumbles through Monk’s angular playing, refusing to stay comfortable or predictable.

Both renditions underscore the destabilizing way Monk approaches even the most familiar material. Where Guy Lombardo’s 1932 recording charted on the strength of its smoothness, Monk opts for deliberate jagged edges. There’s craft here—dense and meticulous—but it’s not designed to charm. For listeners accustomed to the cozy glow of mid-century standards, Monk’s takes might feel unforgiving, even alien. Yet it’s precisely that refusal to play it safe that makes these versions worth revisiting.

Lifted from : We remember Thelonious Monk

10 . Earl Hines – The One I Love Belongs To Someone Else

Earl Hines’ rendition of “The One I Love Belongs to Someone Else,” tucked into the brief 1:03 runtime on his 1987 album “Hine’s Tunes,” feels more like a passing whisper than a full-blown soliloquy of jazz piano.

Composed by Isham Jones and Gus Kahn, the piece has been a staple of jazz standards, yet Hines approaches it with the casual brevity of a painter sketching a familiar landscape with assured strokes. The album, a compendium of jazz standards, provides a platform for Hines’ distinct “trumpet-style” innovation on piano—though here, his unique touch feels squeezed into too small a space to stretch and breathe fully.

Hines, often heralded for his evolutionary contributions to jazz piano, offers a melodic rendition that finds its charm in his interpretative flair, even as the track’s short duration barely allows the listener to settle into its groove. This is a far cry from the expansive explorations heard in his earlier work, embodying the late-career trend of Hines revisiting standards with a blend of nostalgia and expertise.

Amid the track’s transitory feel, what stands out is Hines’ ability to color the song with unexpected phrasing, injecting new life into a tune immortalized by countless performers. Compared to more fleshed-out interpretations by contemporaries like Nellie Lutcher, his version leans into the ephemeral, like a conversation cut short just as it begins to get interesting.

While “Hine’s Tunes” serves as a testament to Hines’ enduring artistry, this rendition, clocking in at just over a minute, risks reducing the emotional weight of the original composition to a footnote. A jazz legend like Hines deserves all the room in the world to maneuver, but here, his wings feel clipped, albeit elegantly so. B-

Lifted from : On TV today , Earl Hines at ‘Jazz Casual’ (1963)

11 . George Shearing – I’ll Be Around

George Shearing’s take on Alec Wilder’s 1942 standard “I’ll Be Around” lands somewhere between homage and serendipitous deviation, thanks to a peculiar twist of history.

Wilder’s melody, sparked by a flash of inspiration during a taxi ride, found its way into Shearing’s repertoire via a flawed transmission. The Mills Brothers’ recording of the song featured an erroneous melody—an anomaly that, rather than being corrected, became part of the interpretive lineage from which Shearing himself drew. That his version builds on this misstep feels less like an oversight and more like an entry into the art of musical mutation, transforming an error into a distinct interpretive stance.

Shearing’s trademarks are all here: the locked-hands piano technique, his deft arrangements, and an effortless interplay between instruments. While there’s no record of key collaborators or the precise album anchoring this recording, its likely inclusion in Shearing’s sprawling discography of over 78 albums underscores its role as a functional piece within his jazz portfolio, rather than a defining moment of innovation. This isn’t “new ground” Shearing, but rather “standards Shearing,” retooling popular songs to fit his quintet’s lounge-ready aesthetic.

There is a certain irony in Shearing’s version carrying the faint trace of a collective misunderstanding—proof that history in music, much like in life, is often a fuzzy compromise. Does it dazzle? Perhaps not. But it certainly communicates Shearing’s editorial hand, shaped by circumstance as much as choice.

Lifted from : We remember George Shearing. ‘The Lullaby of Shearing Land’

12 . Eubie Blake – Troublesome Ivories

“Troublesome Ivories” is less a piece of music and more a challenge—Eubie Blake’s unapologetic test of pianistic stamina and dexterity created in 1910.

The title itself is a wry nod to the ivory keys that even the most assured players might find troublesome under Blake’s exacting demands. By his own admission, Blake composed it “to cut everybody with,” a cutting declaration from a man already navigating the ragtime scene with impressive flair as early as 1901, bouncing between buck dancing and melodeon performances in minstrel shows.

This isn’t a collaborative foray like his later works with Noble Sissle, including “Shuffle Along,” but rather a solo assertion of technique and compositional ingenuity. Blake’s ragtime here carries the DNA of classical rigor spliced with African-American musical depth, though this is less a warm blend and more a cold dare for any willing pianist. The tricky rhythms and intricate passages don’t extend an olive branch but push performers into a relentless intellectual sparring match with the keys.

Recordings, particularly the 1960 YouTube-ready performance, showcase the piece’s enduring intrigue. Yet, despite its technical brilliance, the work risks being defined more by its difficulty than its emotive depth—a hallmark of bravado over connectivity. “Troublesome Ivories” cements Blake’s legend, but as ragtime dares go, it’s the pianist, and not the audience, who bears the burden of appreciation.

Lifted from : We remember Eubie Blake. ‘Rich With Rags’