discography - charles mingus

Image from "Charles Mingus Discography" by Michel Ruppli, published by Norbert Ruecker in Frankfurt 1982, dis-enhanced by my own annotations.

This is proving to be an essential source book. It has resided on my study shelf for years and I refer to it a lot.

the awakening

In a way, I'm a hideous incarnation of Sleeping Beauty, except I'm far from beautiful. There I was in peaceful hibernation, slumbering away my final few years (9 years 6 months 4 weeks 2 days to go) when I was kissed by a prince and I woke up.
The prince is a poet. He wrote a poem titled "Where the Hell is Shafi Hadi?" a question I've been asking myself for years, and I was interested to discover that I'm not alone in raising pointless queries.
The saxophonist I seek doesn't owe me money (nobody does - James, I exonerate you) and I have nothing to gain by knowing the answer other than the satisfaction of finding an answer to a bugging-me-riddle: how can a genius disappear without trace?
Bloody Prince Sean Murphy. But for stumbling across his poetry I'd still be resting uninspired but content in my unconscious-ignorance. Now I've shifted into consciousness I'm aware of lacunae in my bank of knowledge and I need to address past errors of omission and commission to try to rectify them.
Now, therefore, I'm wide awake; I can't get back to sleep again because my mind is full of pleasurable nothingness being crowded out by trivial things. So I might as well use my remaining time to pick up where I left off a few years ago and start posting again. I know I shan't offend or bore anyone because nobody reads my fucking stuff anyway. But it keeps me occupied as the grey cells deteriorate... and I can't quite remember what I wanted to say next.

shafi hadi revisited - update

A few years ago I blogged about my favourite saxophonist: Shafi Hadi. The first five paragraphs of this post are lifted directly from that original piece with one or two minor amendments and edits. The rest is an update, what I’ve since discovered about this shadowy genius:

One of the great unsung heroes of the alto and tenor saxophones was a man named Curtis Porter. He’s probably better known as Shafi Hadi, perhaps having changed his name on religious grounds during the late 1950s.But even as Shafi Hadi, few will have encountered him because he appears to have enjoyed no more than the metaphorical 15 minutes of fame. By the middle 60s, he seems to have dropped into semi-obscurity.

I first heard him in about 1962 or 1963 when Mingus and his Tijuana Moods album erupted into my hitherto cloistered British-trad-jazz-revival consciousness. Suddenly I was listening to a sax player capable, in my opinion, of trouncing the great Bird himself.

His tone was cut of the best diamond, sharp yet plaintiff, stuffed full of 100 carat emotion and bluesy fire. Solos were considered and intelligent, delivered with exacting precision. Phrasing and intonation were often laconic; he eschewed the fusillades of notes. For him, his jazz was not about increasing the numbers of notes per second by running frenetically up and down the chords, but was more to do with turning short sentences and phrases into pithy sayings of expressive substance. Pauses were as significant as the notes themselves; somehow he stitched silence with sound to produce solos of the utmost beauty.

Little is known about him. He started playing in various R&B bands (before R&B become a corrupted concept) and I know for a while he was associated with Hank Mobley, recording on at least one album with him. His first recording venture with Mingus was “The Clown” in early 1957 (about 6 months after becoming a jazz player at the age of 26) and he was involved with the great bassist on at least seven albums until middle 1959.

During 1958 he collaborated with John Cassavetes on the sound track for the producer’s film “Shadows” in which Mingus was also involved. Cassavetes acted out the roles as Hadi improvised accompanying music. Cassavetes wrote: “It was terrific. He played the story of his life to music.” The actor also records that Hadi was married, was large in stature as well as creativity, and stood physically tall. Nat Hentoff in the liner notes for “The Clown” writes that Hadi had said after the recording: “I think more jazz groups should tell stories like Mingus does, instead of just playing notes and techniques.”

Update:

A rumour went around that he’d died of a heroin overdose in the early 70s, but a Wiki entry suggests he was still around on the music scene in 1975, and in 1977 he was reported to have collaborated with Mary Lou Williamson on her composition “Shafi” although typically the source is vague about the extent of his contribution. A couple of years later he was said to have worked in some way with Sue Mingus (Charles’ widow) to provide original scores of her late husband’s music.

In coda, I can’t help be struck by the similarity in tone and phrasing between Shafi and another brilliant alto sax player, Jackie McClean, especially on Mingus’ “Blues n Roots” album. Mingus was never a composer to look backwards; he always edged forward, so I’m surprised he employed a sideman sounding so much like an earlier one. Perhaps I’m wrong on this; I’m not technically minded with music. I’d be interested to hear expert views, and to know whether anyone has more information on what happened to such a skilled and gifted jazz musician.

Shafi Hadi

What happened to Shafi Hadi?

Hot Air

A few weeks late again, but I’ve just caught up with the new look BBC Jazz Record Requests. The former presenter, the laconic and languid Geoffrey Smith, has been shuffled to a midnight slot. I’d like to listen to his new programme because I know I’ll enjoy it even more than JRR… but midnight? The last time I was up at midnight was because of a weak bladder. So until I can figure a way to record the programme, I’ll give it a miss.

Alyn Shipton is the new presenter of JRR and presumably he’s been brought in to bring about changes. I’ve always enjoyed change but only when it brings an improvement. As far as I can hear, nothing much has changed with the music. So where are the improvements?

In my opinion, Alyn Shipton does a fair enough job. Mr Smith had a certain special flair and panache, though. He could read the script and make it sound as if he was ad-libbing. And what I really liked about him is that he didn’t just understand jazz - he understood the jazz lover as well. At exactly the right time (i.e. after each track) he would tell us who performed on it and when it was recorded, absolutely essential information for all aficionados.

Now if I want to know, for example, the name of the bassist on Eric Dolphy’s ‘GW’I must go on line and look at the BBC Radio 3 JJR website. I resent that because often I don’t have access to the internet when I’m listening to the radio. The entire experience is therefore marred. I’m not alone in this. Others suffer a similar sense of discographical deprivation.

Personally I believe capital punishment should be the penalty for anyone using the phrase "I have an idea for improvements." Ideas for improvement are the root cause of every ill in the world. And whereas the new look JRR hardly ranks alongside civil war or the abolition of the 11+, the sceptic will be forgiven for feeling that nothing good will come of this 'improvement' to my favourite programme on radio. So unfurl the banner - bring back discographies shall be my mantra.

Don't Get Around Much Anymore

After a silence of over a year, I feel the impulse to release the coiled spring within and catapult into verbal motion again. Perhaps this revitalised energy was prompted by a Twitter posting read to me by Mrs Dodman: I was going to look up the meaning of the word procrastination but I left it for another day. The iron cools too quickly; moss grows beneath my feet; my stone rolls once again. Here’s another stitch just in time.

The fact is I’ve recently become a card-bearing OAP, which means I now have a little over 15 years left to live. In a few days’ time a camera will be thrust into that intimate place where sunshine would originate were I able to do no wrong. The results could tell me whether or not I’ve miscalculated my mortal span on this azure globe. I hope whatever condition I have is kindly disposed towards my anatomy, for I’ve just discovered something exciting and new that I’d like to enjoy for many years. It’s called YouTube.

I know the website has been around for a long time but I’ve never really used it other than to watch a demonstration of how to assemble a bed in a Trigano Tribute campervan. Recently, however, I input search words such as “New Orleans Jazz Street” and – POW – what a rich seam of musical gold I’ve struck.

Here are four of my favourites:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n2rMXP_q2hs – an anonymous NOLA street band singing “Blue Spirit Blues.” I don’t like the word out of context, but ‘sexy’ is the only one I can think of to describe this girl’s incredibly rich voice.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BhH3FyRflWM&feature=related – The irrepressible Smoking Time Jazz Club of NOLA performing “When I Get Low I Get High.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ib_NkfuctA – a British representative: Stella Goodey singing “Hard Hearted Hannah” at the heartland of international jazz, Bracklesham Bay. She poached my words (see an earlier blog) so I hope she doesn’t mind my reciprocal link.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EbH3HJvh2N0&feature=related – Back to NOLA with Doreen’s superb clarinet playing on “Just a Closer Walk with Thee.”

What’s interesting is that all these latter-day jazz/blues stars are youngish (not a grey hair between them) yet they perform with an exuberance and empathy we’d expect of people discovering something entirely new – and the music has been around for a century or more.

I’m not qualified to say whether these stars are technically proficient in what they’re doing. In my view Jazz is more about enthusiasm, creativity and ardour than absolute command of the proponent’s chosen medium, instrument or voice. But I can say that these are eminently gifted musicians because they have the power to move and enthral. Or me at any rate and that’s good enough for me.

Bearing in mind the current debate about regulation of the internet, I hope our idiot politicians and pious do-gooders who are making capital out of trying to stifle the originality of the web will take a look at these four clips and realise just how damaging any form of censorship would be. The internet as a power for good far outweighs occasional risks.

dance of the infidels

Now less than a year away from OAPism, I realise that I’ll never be an expert in anything. Take jazz, for instance. My random ramblings here are about what I enjoy or perceive of the subject. Nothing I write should ever be taken as a pretension of expertise or even knowledge. I’m entitled to my opinion and the essence of blogs is that I can express that and the reader can take it or leave it. Perhaps that’s why I peruse numerous blogs but follow just two fairly regularly – one by a Lincolnshire photographer and the other by an American biographer writing a book about Roland Kirk. They both talk sense.


A couple of weeks ago I was in a shop leafing through a low pile of jazz LPs. It contained the usual selection of Magenta Haze and misplaced Klaus Wunderlich, but nothing I wanted. A man pushed an album across to me and said “That was in the wrong pile. It should be with jazz.” The record he referred to was “Dixieland Dance Party” by Eddie Condon, starring such luminescent names as Rex Stewart, Bud Freeman, Cutty Cuthsall and George Wetling (Quote: suggested personnel Unquote).

“I’ve never considered Eddie Condon as Dixieland, though,” the donor added. I leapt in with both feet splayed. “I don’t know. I always think of Condon and Dixieland together, although perhaps he rather leaned towards Chicago.”

What utter bosh I speak sometimes! Where did that comment come from? I’ve always been a Condon fan, ever since I read his book “We Called it Music” about five decades ago. I think I can say that Eddie played wonderful Dixieland jazz, but I’m not sure he was actually Dixieland. It’s a little like saying Jeremy Clarkson is an oaf because he behaves like one from time to time.

We chatted for a few minutes. The man obviously suffers from withdrawal symptoms caused by a dearth of people willing to talk about jazz. It turned out he was a member of Ken Colyer’s club in Great Newport Street, London, as was I in the middle 60s. Whenever I went there the club was virtually empty beyond 1am and yet almost everybody I know claims to have been a member. The place should have been heaving every night. Of course, those were in the days before jazz became an art form.

Those for whom that amorphous entity ‘the arts’ is a way of life forget one simple fact: the word ‘art’ is derived from the same root as artificial, artifice and artisan. When jazz became an art form, it began to leak the quiddity of the music. If you doubt the truth of this, review some of the old Steve Race presented BBC2 jazz nights and take a look at the implacable and statuesque bodies of the audience. And some of the musicians went so far up their own backsides I’m surprised they managed to walk off the stage.

What appealed to me about this album of Eddie Condon is that it contained the word ‘dance.’ It’s purely symbolic because I can’t dance; my four left feet keep colliding with my five right. But the inclusion of the word, especially linked to ‘party’, takes jazz back to where I’m convinced it started – out of a desire to make people dance.

Much of today’s jazz is sweet, melodic and anal. It seems to be only the old Dixielanders going out to enjoy themselves and being bothered to actually entertain the audience. Others seek deep meaning in their art and turn inwards, thus losing the precious link between instrumentalist and listener. Here’s a philosophical question: if a jazz musician plays an instrument but there is no audience to listen to it, does he still make a sound? Perhaps the question should add a corollary: if they hear sound, do they care?

My many records, CDs and downloads include cherished albums by Charles Mingus, Ornette Coleman, Wynton Marsalis, Joe Harriot, Don Rendell, Sonny Rollins, Gerry Mulligan, Art Pepper, Cannonball Adderley, Art Blakey and loads more proponents of jazz from a wide range of genres. So I’m not actually the mouldy fig I probably seem.

But I do wish there were less (should that be fewer?) bollocks talked and written about the subject. And on that note, I’ll heed my own wishes. After all, what do I know?