from the LP NuYorican Soul, Talkin’ Loud Records, 1997
No discussion of American house music would be complete without focusing the microscope on NYC, and in particular, the masterminds known as Kenny ‘Dope’ Gonzales & ‘Little’ Louie Vega, rulers of the ‘90s beats scene under many monikers (most notably as Masters At Work), including this eclectic side project which focused on live instrumentation as opposed to knob twiddling, dubbed NuYorican Soul. From the insistent piano atop those loose breaks, to the epically sweeping string section, to the chorus-of-angels vocal delivery care of renowned disco diva Jocelyn Brown and some bad-ass backup singers, this track absolutely showers the listener with a torrent of sunny uplifting energy, and it garnered an awful lot of attention upon it s release (not to mention, a slew of remixes in every conceivable genre of electronica); this was actually a cover of an old Rotary Connection number from the early ‘70s, far more psychedelic in tone than what we have here & well worth tracking down also.
from the LP Light Of Worlds, De-Lite Records, 1974
It’s snowing outside, so this seemed like an appropriate diversion. This spacey instrumental jam has been sampled by a grip of hip-hoppers over the years (most markedly as the base loop for Will Smith’s “Summertime”), but it can easily stand on its own feet as a breezy reflection of the summer just passed, all the good times and fun in the sun, already looking forward to next year’s adventures & detours. Although they were previously a bare-bones, gritty hard funk crew, Kool & the Gang seemed to mellow increasingly with each passing year into the ‘70s, finding more success (but perhaps losing cred) as they softened their sound. So, all you analogue synthesizer sluts out there, you’d better put on a second pair of drawers because founding member Khalis Bayyan is gonna make you wet right here, just know that.
from the LP Born Again, Cotillion Records, 1971
Even though many of us associate the advent of talk-boxes with Peter Frampton’s use of one on his inconceivably famous …Comes Alive set, their invention actually came several decades earlier, and they’d been used extensively across several genres of music before he made the things de rigueur; in fact, as this funky track skillfully demonstrates for us, Frampton wasn’t even the first to use a talk box in tandem with a wah-wah pedal. This slick-ass number from Young-Holt Unlimited deftly showcases both of the gadgets’ abilities and their appeal, adding a layer of jelly-kneed sleaze to the proceedings which couldn’t be generated by anything else, not even if they’d added dirty lyrics in their place. These cats were primarily an instrumental crew, something which certainly limited their appeal to wider audiences, but the confidant interplay makes up for any loss of storyline, in my opinion anyways.
from the LP Aquarian Dream, Buddah Records, 1976
The tsunami that was disco wound up influencing a number of other musical genres, and the strange bedfellows its popularity sometimes made out of people formerly attuned to just one kind of music or another wound up producing all sorts of lovely mixtures in sound; case in point: the Norman Connors produced Aquarian Dream. This is essentially just a bunch of smoove & funky jazz licks wrapped inside a symphonic disco burrito, neither influence bowing to the other, a contrast which really cooks up some fierce energy: succinct brass, a regiment of violins, bouncing bass, sharp vocals, cowbell, and that relentless shuffle-beat (with help from a shakere) which drives the whole damn bus. In the words of Prince, “…grab your foot spray, ‘cause it’s gonna get funky…”!!!
from the LP One, CTI Records, 1974
Sampled in over 30 different hip-hop tracks, this sublime number from jazz keyboardist Bob James well deserves the attention that it’s received over the years, unfolding in perfect fluidity like the spirals found within the shell from which this song gets its name. A progenitor of the “smooth jazz” scene, James actually loved the avant-garde as well and was always known for using tape loops & electronic experimentation before things like that became popular or acceptable. This shit is the jam people, subtly creepy & eerie feeling but deeply ensconced in the groove---to be honest, it almost evokes images of Scooby Doo & the gang investigating some haunted house, ghosts flying about while they bail to the phatty van, day-glo bell bottoms leading the way.
from the LP Arthur Verocai, Continental Records, 1972
It’s always an exhilarating experience when you hear a song you’ve never heard before that really rocks your world, and thus, there’s absolutely nothing better for a music obsessive like myself than discovering an entire LP of solid tunes by a previously unknown musician or band, a situation which typically only presents itself a few times a year anymore. This particular album, by Brazilian producer, multi-instrumentalist & composer Arthur Verocai, is so mind-blowingly stellar that it could have been the only great LP I heard all year, and that would have still been enough to sate my appetite--- yes, it’s that good. No two songs are alike, and yet there is a loosely experimental vein that runs through them all (not “experimental” like Throbbing Gristle mind you, but more like investigational and firmly open-minded), weaving bits & pieces of soul, funk, bossa, salsa, jazz, folk, & psych rock into a heady quilt of sweetly melancholic chord progressions and hazy enchanted melodies. Thanks to Bee for the heads up on this one.
from the 7” single, Big Yellow Records, 1968
PBS is the shit people, for real---and no, this isn’t an opinion bred from having no cable, as I have more channels than I know what to do with at this point, it’s about the programming man: where the fuck else are you going to find Sesame Street, Antique Roadshow, and the Grateful Dead movie sitting back to back? Nowhere, that’s where. This song served as the soundtrack to a show of the same name that aired on Boston’s PBS affiliate in the late ‘60s, clearly geared (as was Sesame Street initially) at an inner-city youth audience; although lyrics like, “…shoutin’ loud , feelin’ proud , ‘cause black is beautiful you know… black power’s what we’re talkin’ ‘bout…” may lead one to presume that Stark Reality was an all-black band, they were actually split down the middle: bassist Phil Morrison and drummer Vinnie Johnson were, but jazz guitarist John Abercrombie (yes, that John Abercrombie, who later ruled supreme in the fusion forward ‘70s) and vibes player Monty Stark, who also served as the band leader, were as white as they come. Frankly, apart from a few notable exceptions in the classic rock world, jazz seems to be the only modern medium where black & white musicians play together frequently, a blending of influences that all genres could benefit from, in my opinion.
from the LP No Mystery, Polydor Records, 1975
Pretty much every player from the Bitches Brew sessions, or those who jammed with Miles during that era, wound up playing in (and often fronting their own) unruly fusion units well into the ‘70s, and keys maestro Chick Corea was no exception; it must of seemed like the apocalypse to jazz purists, watching all their former hard-bop heroes expand the palette into territory that was previously taboo to any self-respecting jazznik---I would’ve liked to have seen the looks on their faces! Chick put together his band Return to Forever in early ’72 and initially focused on a mellower Latin vibe, one which bears no resemblance to the jazz-rock behemoth you are listening to right now; this was largely a product of guitarist Al DiMeola’s entrance into the band, but everyone here is a star in their own right (Lenny White on drums / percussion & the insanely talented Stanley Clarke on bass), not least of all Chick himself. He lays down some of the spaciest synthesizer runs this side of Saturn, demolishing time signatures and sounding something like the noises I would imagine coming from R2D2’s family reunion, but never straying so far that you fall out of the pocket. A true fusion super-group if there ever was one, superior to Weather Report & perhaps even the Eleventh House in my opinion (I know I’ll take shit for that), thus it’s no surprise that this LP took home the Grammy for best jazz performance that year.
from the LP Hotter Than July, Motown Records, 1980
My love for Stevie’s music is unending, and although my personal taste trends more towards his chunky jazz-funk records from the early – mid ‘70s, pretty much anything this man has ever touched will get left alone if it comes on the radio in my home/car; his voice is like the best incense, getting deep into your mind & body, awakening the nerves from the top of your scalp to the soles of your feet. He had originally written this song for Motown back in the mid ‘60s, and it was even recorded (albeit, shelved and not released until recently) by Tammi Terrell at that time, but this version is far superior, soulful disco-funk at its very best. Those aren’t just some random studio hangers-on singing during the chorus either, as Stevie got melodic backing here from members of the O’Jays, the Gap Band, & none other than Michal Jackson; the Cleptomaniacs did a stellar house remix of this track which got heavy play in 2000. He gives us one of the best examples of that inimitable “Stevie stank” right around 2:42, delivered in such hardcore fashion one almost can’t decipher it (my guess is, “…gotta tell ya girl…”)!
from the LP On the Corner, Columbia Records, 1972
What do you get when you cross a jazz icon’s re-emerging taste for hard drugs with a desire for his music to reach the ghetto, add an entirely skewed sense of fusion, then flood the above mixture with a buttery batter of Sly & the Family Stone cut with Funkadelic? You get On the Corner, Miles Davis’ earthiest and perhaps most indelicate concoction, a heady bisque that was possibly more a product of the times & the extra players (perchance) than ol’ Miles himself. For real, this shit is far out but entirely danceable... well, maybe not actually danceable, but you know what I mean: relative to Miles’ other jams. Having assembled a veritable legion of players behind him (no less than 12 people on this cut, or as Miles put it, “…I got everybody in the band but the devil on tambourine…”), the music develops accordingly, sinking into a cavernous groove from the very first measure onwards; quite frankly, there is scarcely a vestige of proper “jazz” to be found herein, but pure funk this is surely not either, its closest relative (which may have served as an influence here) was probably Funkadelic’s track “Wars of Armageddon”. The torrent of polyrhythmic vibrations swirl around the listener from all angles (two drummers, congas, djembes, tablas), that rubbery bassline showing you the way forward, and all the while Miles squeaks away in the background, seemingly disparate pieces to a puzzle which coalesce into a funky union---in my humble opinion, it’s those trusty sleigh bells that hold everything together!
from the LP City Life, Fantasy Records, 1975
Let’s face it, having sex in the outdoors is, well, GREAT (squares, go home); thus, the key to a successful tryst au natural really comes down to careful discretion in picking the location, and be that in the mountains or at the beach, the forest or the pasture, the paramount concern during planning need be privacy from other humans---well, unless you are seeking to get caught, in which case, good luck with that (I’m not judging exhibitionism here, ‘different strokes…’ and all that, but there are appropriate places to be watched by individuals whom you can be sure actually want to see you naked). The first time I fooled around at the beach was exhilarating, hearing the waves crashing and birds squaking above---in all honesty, it took me a little bit to loosen up, but it was magnificent. This oft-sampled, lusty little number from Donald Byrd’s backing crew the Blackbyrds extols the raptures to be had, “…doing it in the park, doing it after dark, oh yeah…”; Rock Creek Park is a real place, more than twice the size of Central Park and located inside our nation’s capital. I would be remiss if I didn’t share the following advice, having contributed the above story: if you plan on fucking at the beach, either bring your own lounge chair or steal one from a condo beachfront, because trust me, a towel or two is NOT enough to keep things pleasureable (re: sand)---we also found that some people keep there catamarans locked up on the beach, and those are astonishingly functional as well, although ethically murkier I suppose, being responsible adults now…
from the 7” single, Tapecar Records, 1971
Cutting smoothly between fierce jazz-funk, breezy bossa nova & full tilt samba-soul, this Brazilian burner by singer Rosa Maria keeps me coming back for more every time---I think the tambourine during the chorus seals the deal. This song is tight without feeling the least bit stuffy, familiar but somehow twisted & new, as refreshing as drinking a fucking caipirinha on the strip at Ipanema beach in Rio! Considering the size of their population, one has to imagine that crusty record stores across that vast nation must hold an infinite array of ‘70s fusion treats like this, so it’s no wonder that Brazil has continued to be a crate-diggers destination for decades. The title of this song loosely translates to “let’s not leave”, and I gotta tell you, if I was at some joint right now with a full live band jamming on shit like this, I wouldn’t leave until the sun came up.
from the LP Mystic Voyage, Polydor Records, 1975
For some reason or another, the first few measures of this track (which are just begging to be sampled) remind me of the Peanuts gang, like one of those little interludes where Charlie Brown, Linus & Snoopy are walking along somewhere; admittedly, that vibe doesn’t last, as it segues into a sultry strut more befitting of Fritz the Cat, streetwalkers & back-talkers. With the possible exception of Johnny Lytle, there has never been a vibraphone player as proficient & adventurous (not to mention hard-working) as Mr. Roy Ayers, and though he could certainly turn on the fire when he wanted to, the thing I appreciate most about Ayers’ output is the level of command & moderation he employed in his style---in a decade known for indulgence, Ayers compositions always feel refined, albeit breezy as a motherfucker, but never sloppy or overly free-form.
from the LP Sun Goddess, Columbia Records, 1974
Okay, yes, this could undoubtedly just as well be titled “Scenes from an Afternoon Delight”, but it’s most definitely some high class shit, not the soundtrack to some run down amateur hour at the 3-for-1 porn theater. In fact, the more I listen to it, the more I’m tempted to create a re-edit that brings in some orgasmic moaning on top of this all, flang it out more, if that’s even possible. Thing is, Mr. Lewis was already a well accomplished jazz pianist & composer by the time of this LP---shit, he was nearly 40! That history in the business tempered his experimentalism just enough to make the whole affair seamless, funky enough for space cadets but still plenty grounded for jazzniks. He controls all the synths & pianos heard here, crafting the slinkiest stew this side of Siam, and much respect to Maurice Jennings on the drums & percussion. Earthy & natural baby, right on.
from Sesame Street, 1970s
I can’t believe that it’s actually been an entire year since we first began our mystic trip together here! I have to say, (mostly) anonymously sharing my thoughts and music with an invisible world has been even more fulfilling than I’d expected; your feedback has also been tremendous, hilarious, strange, & at times downright inspiring. Thank you to everyone for supporting my efforts here, the other bloggers that link to me here, and most of all, to Terry for dealing with my insanely obsessive music addiction daily---I love you babe! This song & corresponding set of animated shorts always hypnotized me as a child watching them on Sesame Street: the free-jazz-funk jamming is just so wild, and all the colors and shapes in the video had me transfixed... just a young druggie in the making I suppose. At any rate, enjoy, and here’s to another 12 months of excellent music backed with average-to-boring narration!!!
from the LP Pizzazz, Elektra Records, 1979
Every time I read about some jazz musician pissing off the purists by embracing new and engaging styles of music beyond the boundaries of “jazz” it warms my soul---I mean, for real, how lame do you have to be to think that a genuine artist gives a flying fuck?! Noted pianist Patrice Rushen received more than her fair share of rage from the bop sticklers, but I’d guess that if someone actually measured the levels of orthodox-based hatred as compared to record sales, one would find a positive correlation between success and subsequent scorn; that is, Ms. Rushen rocked the dancefloor yo. This uptempo burner will never fail to put a spring in your step, firing on all engines at once: come horns, come violins, bump that bass, stab that piano! Extra points for the dank extended interlude when she rips it up on the electric keys, and also for the stellar cover photo; you rock those cowrie shells in your braids girl!!
from the LP Live at the Lighthouse, Blue Note Records, 1972
A common jam amongst progressive jazz heads back in the early ‘70s, this version of “Windjammer” smokes harder than anything else out there, turbulent and frenzied like whitecaps on the ocean before a storm, coaxed along by the euphoric whistles, hoots & hollers from a lively (re: drunk) crowd in Hermosa Beach, CA; thanks to the stellar recording, they were even able to clearly capture a lone jazznik yelling, “go! go! go!” through much of this hurricane of a groove, as if he were standing right across the stage from you. Grant Green’s jazz guitar licks were second to none, but he never monopolized on his bandleader status, always giving all the players (who, in this case, were relative unknowns: Greg Williams on drums, Shelton Laster on organ, and Claude Bartee handling all sax duties) ample opportunity to show off their chops---the successful pursuit of a deep groove, dig?
from the LP Man-Child, Columbia Records, 1975
Well, just finished off the last of my grading for this semester, and although that is indisputably reason for celebration, something about the process of assigning people letters for achievement (or lack there of) always makes me feel like a sellout; I can so clearly recall my tumultuous years in high school, saying aloud more than once, “…if I was the teacher, I’d just give everyone A’s and let the kids get high in the classroom…” or some such infantile blabber, so passionate about the “us vs. them” distinction inherent to teachers and rebellious youths. For some reason though, rather than concentrating on all the palpable flaws that one can find with my juvenile proposition, as soon as I enter those final grades into the appropriate boxes all I can focus on is a mental apparition of me at 15, one eyebrow raised, eyelids heavy with disillusionment, shaking my head in disapproval. So who gives a fuck, right?! Why should anyone give two shits about what some naïve, idealistic, angsty younger version of themselves thinks about the way you conduct your life today? I mean, we’re bloody functional members of society now, we learned a lot of our lessons the hard way---and anyways, some puffed up teenager just couldn’t understand… okay, I just threw up a little bit in my mouth writing that last bit there, but I think that sums it up quite properly. In some quasi-Jungian way, when I send off my students’ grades at the end of every semester, I am, in that moment, everything I hated as a young boy: judge, authority, evil grader of lives; yet, even though we all know living well in the modern world requires a lot of philosophical compromise, in these moments that logical fact provides no solace. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining; I have never been more fulfilled with another job in my entire life, it’s true; however, I’d be a rotten liar if I didn’t admit that some small part of me still seeks to break the rules, dose the water supply, as it were. Herbie Hancock never stopped shaking things up, to the ire of lame jazz purists, but to the endless glee of heads the world over; Paul Jackson’s funky bass drives this number along, but it’s Herbie’s crazy synthesizers and keys that always elevate things into another dimension. So, am I a “traitor” for giving students the grades they earned instead of just passing everybody right on through? Of course not, but I doubt I’ll ever get fully used to it, just the same.
from the LP NuYorican Soul, Talkin’ Loud Records, 1997
