A Collection Of New Vinyl For The Audiophile – December 2019

I damn near skipped Record Store Day’s Black Friday 2019 event. The list was not compelling. That was reflected in the length of the line that I encountered when I arrived at my local independent retailer this morning. Usually, I’d have been there around 6 am. Today, I wandered up as the doors were opening at 11 am, and I still could have gotten any title in the store. Unfortunately, Amoeba didn’t receive the Johnny Griffin/Eddie “Lockjaw” Davis disc I was after nor the Charlie Parker long-player on my abbreviated list. Those, however, were RSD “First Releases,” meaning they’ll see a broader release in the coming months, possibly on standard black vinyl or without limited edition numbering. Fine by me. I was mostly just curious about those anyway. The one AAA title on the list that I knew for sure I wanted was Chet Baker Sings It Could Happen to You. That one is spinning on my turntable as I type. Thankfully.

I’m not overly familiar with Chet Baker’s catalog, and certainly not with his vocal sides. I have an excellent sounding reissue of the Playboys record he made with Art Pepper, and that was it for me and Ol’ Chet until now. I jumped on It Could Happen To You because Kevin Gray oversaw the mono reissue and because the single-disc was pressed at RTI. I (correctly) guessed that these factors would serve as a mote over which the often shoddy production quality of RSD releases could not cross. This is a well-made record from start to finish. I was initially disappointed when I dropped the needle for a first listen because the instruments seemed too distant. Then, Baker sang. And there is nothing but immediacy, intimacy, and warmth to relax in from there. His sparse trumpet solos are equally close, and his scat singing gives some insight into the way those solos may have been constructed. The setlist is comprised of standards like Johnny Mercer’s “I’m Old Fashioned” and the Gershwins’ “How Long Has This Been Going On.” Rodgers and Hart have three titles in the mix. You get the picture.

The only records in my collection that even vaguely approach this style are by Nat “King” Cole. That is to say that both artists swing, they’re relentlessly tasteful, and their songs are presented in a laid back way that makes you want to sip martinis and offer a light to women wearing long black gloves and smoking cigarettes in those long black plastic holders. Baker makes especially good use of his microphone to impart nuance and emotion with only a fraction of effort. I mean, the notes seem to float from the guy’s face as freely as a kid blowing bubbles in the park on a Sunday. I’m not sure if he was able to cut the mustard in a live setting over a full band’s accompaniment. It seems like dude’s voice could break and crumble to the pavement at any second, which is part of the draw for me. It creates a new kind of tension that draws you in and holds you in place for the album’s entirety. Like you’re waiting for a soft disaster that never arrives. If you’re looking for a quiet record for a romantic night at home while you’re cooking dinner and sipping fine wine, this one should do the trick. I love it.

I remember one of my first college roommates going to see Joshua Redman way back around 1994. Redman’s debut album came out just a year or so before that, so my guy was on the early train. Not so for the author. It took me until November 15 of this year to climb aboard. That was the night I caught the quartet live in San Francisco. And I have both feet in the leading car at this point. The quartet moved as one skilled entity over about 75 minutes to create one of the most engaging live shows I’ve had the pleasure of witnessing during this decade. And I’ve seen a bunch of them. These guys are special. They can mind-meld, and they enjoy themselves in so doing. They released Come What May a few months back, and it was their first recording together in twenty years. I hope we don’t have to wait too long for the next one. I’d see these guys play every night if I could.

If you’d blindfolded me at the Redman show, then told me that a different band was responsible for each of the first few songs, I might have believed you. They moved so effortlessly between styles that it almost seemed like a Jazz appreciation course. Gregory Hutchinson kind of eased me into things with a straight Rock beat that made me feel quite comfortable and like less of an imposter amongst the local Jazz heavies that night. You can hear it again on the album closer “Vast.” Aaron Goldberg signals the start of something significant with his piano arpeggios before Redman himself sort of slinks into the frame like your precocious uncle that can barely be bothered to stand for the family holiday photo. I mean, these guys are working, but they make it seem like they could do it lying down. “DGAF” is another rocker that stood out on stage and jumped out of the vinyl depths like a pole vaulter going for broke on her final approach. The one thing that I noticed on stage at the Jazz Center which is absent on Come What May, is Redman’s ability to coax so many sounds from the same horn. He’s pretty consistent throughout the record from a tonal perspective, but he’s playing’s still unpredictable. He varies his tempos and attacks from odd angles, but his sax is unmistakable… a sax. He made it sound like a guitar onstage. Like the intro to Marley’s “Could You Be Loved” for a second. “I’ll Go Mine” is another high watermark on an album full of them. This record will pull you out past the breakers where things seem serene until you feel one of Goldberg’s solos slip past your feet. Then, the waves start to build until you’ve lost sight of the shore and can’t tell which way you’re facing. All of that uncertainty and excitement inevitably resolves back into a recognizable theme before the song’s conclusion, and you’re left to wonder how you made your way back onto the beach without further incident. 

Nonesuch did an admirable job with this release. The pressing is great, and the sonics are way above average. The players never entirely transcend the fourth wall to get into the room with you, but they’re knocking on the door. It sounds like someone took their time to make sure the sonics stood up next to the performances. It’s a winning combo.

Kamasi Washington is a different kind of dude. I saw him and his band open for Herbie Hancock at the Greek Theater in Berkeley a few months back, & I might as well have been seeing Rush. Or another technically proficient band with a charismatic leader and a gazillion adoring fans. I’d say there were at least as many Washington as Hancock fans there that night. No one left disappointed, but I did leave wondering what Washington would do with a more pared-down lineup. Not that he got lost in the mix. Not that guy. His is a powerful sound. Muscular and massive. Like the band itself. I think there were nine players on stage with him. Multiple pianists and drummers. And a vocalist. And his dad. There was redundancy, but no boredom. There was simply a lot to take in. And that’s true of his most recent long-player too. It’s called Heaven and Earth. And please believe me when I call it a “long-player.” There are eight sides advertised in the package. But there are really ten.

Let’s get right to that last point because vinyl collectors are in it for the artifact, and this one requires a degree of archaeology to enjoy fully. Get this: Washington hid the fifth record in his album’s gatefold packaging. I used a razor to cut mine free and was beyond thankful that I did so without damaging myself, the record, or the sleeve (beyond creating a discreet opening from which the vinyl could escape). Now, that’s not exactly reinventing the wheel, but there is a magnitude of creativity and craft there — something a little different to reward the more intrepid amongst us. And the album itself pays a fair amount of fearlessness from the listener too. Hell, the sheer vastness of the work makes the prospect of forming a cogent opinion daunting. I’ve delayed writing my thoughts on the album for a while due to intimidation. A song-by-song, or even a side-by-side, breakdown seems dubious. There’s almost three hours worth of material. In general, Washington has told us that the Earth records represent what’s happening in the world while Heaven represents what’s happening in his mind. Or maybe the way he wishes the world was — something like that. I’m paraphrasing. The info is out there. Ask your phone screen, perhaps. I wouldn’t be able to categorize any of the compositions as Earthly or Heavenly by sound. There are at least a couple of covers. One is called “Fists of Fury” from a kung-fu movie. One is “Hub-Tones.” The studio reigns the band in a bit so that the drums aren’t as overpowering as they were at the Greek that night. (I described one of Washington’s drummers as “The Russell Westbrook of Percussion.” The guy was driving hard in the lane all night. I got tired.) But if the band compromises on dynamics, it takes up the slack with expansiveness. There’s so much to explore here that you lose the thread at times, which is fine. It’s an immersive experience, surely.  One that requires in-depth study. And note-taking, perhaps.

Unfortunately, these pressings are nothing special. They’re noisy in spots, and never at a good time. The production is fine, but not enlightening. That happens when you slip into Washington’s jet stream, and marvel at the force of his output and his sax. He’s the most recognizable early to mid-career saxophonist happening now. That’ll only become more evident with time.

More and more these days, I find myself reaching for Jazz records instead of my Rockers. There are a few reasons for this. Here’s the first: I’m getting older. I’ve gotta do a fair amount of game day preparation to gear up for a full-blown Rock Show now adequately. Jazz shows are seated. I can catch one at the SF Jazz Center at 7:30 pm, be home by 9:15 pm, and not feel like I’ve been in a knife fight at work the next day. I find myself more in need of restoration than stimulation these days. Jazz helps. Also, Jazz recordings, both new and reissues, are often sonically superior to their more Pop oriented counterparts. I appreciate the craftsmanship. All that to say that I caught Christian McBride’s Big Band at the Jazz Center in late September. I was moved to the point that I immediately ordered his double album Bringin’ It when I got home. Early. So I could work the following day.

Man, this stuff is great. I’d never caught a Big Band show before, but I will again. Bringin’ It gets right to it with the album opener called… “Gettin’ To It.” It’s a refreshing update of a familiar sound as you can immediately hear the James Brown influence in the guitar’s funkified chords and the horn section’s sassy calls and responses. The drummer keeps things tight and together while Freddie Hendrix takes a freedom flight on his trumpet that sounds like cracklin’ cornbread and black-eyed peas. Onstage, this band is a joy to watch while they clown each other and implore one another to go farther and farther out. All of that energy can be heard in the studio recording too. It’s a perfectly balanced sound with a wide enough soundstage to accommodate all the players without getting too tight or crowded. McBride’s double bass cuts through the brass without even trying. His patterns serve as an anchor when things get hot and as for punctuation during the more conversational passages. Everyone gets a chance to shine at one point or another, even the guitarist, but the horns are the star of the show. Especially those trumpets. The immortal Johnny Mercer is represented here by his “I Thought About You,” which gives trumpeter Brandon Lee ample space to explore in a down-tempo, laid back setting with lots of tasty melodies and emotional improvisation. It’s the sonic equivalent of pouring oneself a drink and loosening one’s collar after a long day at the office. Somewhere between the Bashin’ songs and the Relaxin’ grooves, there’s an entire universe to explore with dynamic volume swells, rain-on-the-pavement cymbal work, and even some vocals courtesy of McBride’s better half, Melissa Walker. She’s great, but I find the vocals distracting. I’m more at home listening to the band mine a million miles of sonic territory and trying to predict where they might go next. And when the next eruption might occur. 

There’s something here for us all, gang. If you’re in it for the playing, McBride’s band has you covered. If you’re in it for the sonics, you’ll want to know that Kevin Gray handled the vinyl mastering. The pressings are almost flawless, but I don’t know who to thank. Download code included so you can spread the gospel — Time’s a-wasting.

Alright, enough of all that Jazz. Kinda. A Tribe Called Quest is one of the most innovative and consistently great Hip-Hop groups of all time. I remember stumbling onto their first record before most of my peers because I happened to catch them on MTV late at night when sensible people were sleeping. That album is fun. Their next two are Classics. We’re here to circle back for their second studio release, The Low-End Theory. Not only have Tribe’s records stood up to the time test, but they’ve been available on vinyl all along. Because there’s a greater depth to the experience, and the low end, this way. I have a hard time imagining streaming Tribe music. Or any music. But indeed Tribe’s stuff. It sounds too good to leave all that additional information on the cutting room floor. For those of us who feel whimsical about Hip-Hop’s late ‘80s – early ‘90s impression on our youth, the Tribe is like a lighthouse on a cliff. They’ll usher you safely to shore.

Jazz samples. Lord, it seems I can’t get enough of it. I’d pay good money to know where Q-Tip dug these samples up. Someone should make a compilation album of samples used by the Tribe on Theory. It would probably be great. It would certainly be informative. His gravelly baritone sort of sits atop his music like a king on a thrown while Phife’s rhymes cut through the dense musical forest with a nasal attack that causes the listener to pause and focus. Then, there’s Buster Rhymes. He’s not a member of the Tribe, but he’s all over The Low End, and he ain’t hard to spot. This album gave him a raft of widespread visibility, and he took it from there. The Tribe’s marriage of Jazzy samples with the more traditional Hip-Hop beats seems as evident as tying the fat laces on your shell toe Adidas today. But, I’d not heard the like in 1991. I was already off the radio by this point, and on the verge of falling down the Jam Band rabbit hole for a few years, but The Low-End Theory cut through all that noise and made itself a part of my scene for good. This one and Midnight Marauders could get you by for Hip-Hop on a desert island if things got tight. But I’d still miss their less regarded The Love Movement and even We Got It From Here from 2016. (I never got off on Beats, Rhymes, and Life, but you might.) If you’re someone who dismisses Hip-Hop out of hand, I will challenge you to at least give this record a cursory listen. If you hate rapping, you won’t love it. But you might at least appreciate the sounds. It’s like a sonic hair conditioner. It’ll calm your frizz down and help you feel a little springier, a little groovier, and shinier. Or maybe I’m nuts. 

Q-Tip’s production on The Low-End Theory is unimpeachable. I’d have loved to have been near the action when he was developing this sound because it was something new. Undoubtedly, he had influences within his chosen genre and a million others outside of it. Part of the genius of Hip-Hop is its ability to amalgamate a variety of textures and sounds into a cohesive, unexpected whole. The Low-End Theory is the reference for that. One of them. A great one. Almost 30 years along the rhythmic path.