Archival recordings are tricky to think about critically, in no small part because the contents of any artists archives are always interesting and desirable to fans, and that fan enthusiasm makes criticism irrelevant for most of the people who would even consider buying them. And reader, I am one of those fans—as one example, Miles Davis’ album In a Silent Way is substantially superior to The Complete In a Silent Way Sessions, but I’m a Miles fanatic and so will sift through the rehearsal tracks, alternate takes, unreleased material, any and all of that to obtain even a crumb of insight into the great master’s thinking. My fellow fanatic, I see you.
There’s been a good handful of notable archival (re)issues this summer, all of which will appeal to fans, and all of which should be considered critically because the stature of the artists—and the consumer’s budget—demand it. The most prominent of these are Evenings at the Village Gate (Impulse!), a previously unreleased live set from John Coltrane’s quintet with Eric Dolphy, and Changes, a seven-CD box that collects the albums Charles Mingus made on Atlantic during the 1970s, his final recording period before his 1979 death from amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. The lesser-known (or at least lesser-promoted) albums are Mosaic Records’ latest limited-edition set, The Complete Sonny Clark Blue Note Sessions, and Jazz in Silhouette—Expanded Version, by Sun Ra and his Arkestra (Cosmic Myth).
What will probably surprise both fans and casual listeners is that the first two releases are less than essential—though any and all fans will be pleased—while the latter two are not just superb but will expand most listeners knowledge and understanding of these artists, which is the highest praise that I can give to archival recordings.
Evenings at the Village Gate comes from the same era, and has the same ensemble, as Coltrane’s Village Vanguard live recordings (ideally The Complete 1961 Village Vanguard Recordings on Impulse!, an essential jazz document), but this set comes from August of 1961, while the Vanguard music was recorded the first week of November that same year. This was a vital transitional year for Coltrane who was moving deeply into dense, drone-like playing over pedal tones; Dolphy’s tangential, extended harmonic concept was the kind of complement that reinforced each artists’ greatness.
The tape was made by engineer Rich Alderson, who apparently recorded it as a test of the club’s new sound system, and then ended up in the archives of the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts, before its recent rediscovery. As an accidental album it has that exciting edge of hearing the musicians playing live, without thinking about making a recording (the Vanguard sessions were planned), and it also has an awkward—though clear—mix, with Elvin Jones’ drums directly in front and Dolphy and Coltrane at various distant points in the background.
The playing is as fine as one would expect, although Coltrane defers to Dolphy, who really dominates here. Coltrane doesn’t shrink away and is strong, he just gives Dolphy the majority of space and time. What makes this a little bit more than a supplement to the Vanguard recordings are two details, one being they play the standard “When Lights Are Low,” which is unexpected and sounds like they’re using it to take a little breather, and the 22+ minutes of “Africa,” the only non-studio recording of the piece. Coltrane fans will want all this—they should—but the more casual listeners won’t need to add it.
That’s even truer for Changes, which is a must for fans (raising my hand) of one of the greatest American composers and musicians, but not something anyone else will want, or perhaps even enjoy. This was Mingus’ second stint with Atlantic, where he made such fantastic albums as Pithecanthropus Erectus, Blues and Roots, and Oh Yeah! in the ‘50s and ‘60s. For these, Mingus had a new core band; right-hand man drummer Dannie Richmond was there, with younger musicians pianist Don Pullen, tenor saxophonist George Adams, and trumpeter Jack Walrath.
That was a good band! Pullen and Adams were volcanic improvisers who went on to be important artists, but there’s nothing that could recreate Mingus’ mid-‘60s group, with Dolphy, trumpeter Johnny Coles, tenor player Clifford Jordan, and pianist Jaki Byard. That was one of the four or five greatest groups in the history of the music, with an extraordinary range of musical personality and with the leader himself willing and able to change direction in a nanosecond. These Atlantic albums just don’t have that same inventiveness or outrageousness, and Mingus’ himself is mellow, seeming content.
And that’s how a lot of this music sounds, content, satisfied with where it is and, except for when Pullen starts bashing the keys or Adams screams through the horn, glad to stay that way. That’s not a bad thing, but it’s not compelling. There are two exceptions, good and bad: the good is Cumbia and Jazz Fusion, originally meant as a film score but an intriguing record on its own, with surprises in the details; the bad is Three or Four Shades of Blues which has Mingus revisiting great material like “Goodbye Porkpie Hat” at Atlantic’s bequest. The label shoved guitarist Larry Coryell (and others) into the session, and it is one of the worst mismatches in music history, with Coryell’s Mahavishnu-John-McLaughlin-like shredding shitting all over the brilliance and subtleties of Mingus’ composing.
The new edition of Jazz in Silhouette is an easy recommendation. This was and remains one of the cornerstone Sun Ra albums, and with this and the collected Singles (comprehensively reissued by Strut) one would have a complete introduction to what Ra was all about. Jazz in Silhouette has originals and standards like “‘Round Midnight” and “I Could Have Danced All Night,” and in style embraces straight big band charts, mystical cosmology, and avant-garde excursions with equal weight and a warm, transparent charm. To Ra, music was just music, nothing was weird (that was for squares), and everything expresses both swing and a glowing humanity. Recorded in 1959, this sounds as current as anything newly released, and the expanded edition has improved sound, puts the tracks in original sequence, and includes a whole second CD of alternate and bonus material. One of the great jazz albums is now even better.
Last but not least is the Clark collection. He was a mainstay house pianist for Blue Note during the hard bop era and made nine albums for the label, only five of which were released during his short lifetime (he died in 1963 at age 31 of a heroin overdose). He’s often remembered for the great, slinky, funky themes he composed, like “Cool Struttin’” and “News for Lulu,” the last a major inspiration to John Zorn.
Heard piecemeal on his own albums or as a sideman, he always sounds solid but not outstanding. Listen through this set and his playing comes through—he was hard swinging, bluesy, and also elegant and subtle, so he really shines through extended exposure. The Blue Note albums are bookended by Dial “S” for Sonny (1957) and Leapin’ and Lopin (1962); the former is solid but formulaic, the latter has good material but the frontline of trumpeter Tommy Turrentine and tenor saxophonist Charlie Rouse doesn’t mesh. But in between is a run of terrific albums that are exemplars of the Blue Note sound. There’s a set of tunes recorded for 45 rpm singles with bassist Jymie Merrit and drummer Wes Landers, and they are exquisite; “Gee Baby Ain’t I Good to You” and “I’m Just a Lucky So-And-So” are gorgeously plainspoken and bluesy.
The Blues in the Night trio date, with Paul Chambers on bass, is also terrific, and Sonny Clark Trio (Philly Joe Jones is the drummer) is another great piano trio album. Cool Struttin’ has long been a favorite for non-jazz listeners because of the classic album cover, the music is even better, strong and elegant, and the My Conception album, with trumpeter Donald Byrd and tenor man Hank Mobley, is simply one of the finest hard bop albums ever produced. For giving the listener the chance to hear how smart, deep, and hip Clark was, this set is a major testament and a demonstration of how important and enjoyable an archival release can be.
