Butch Warren, R.I.P. (Two Years Later)

butch-warren

I know I sound like a broken record on these occasions but the simple fact of the matter is this: there are artists leaving our planet who can’t –and in some ways, shouldn’t– be replaced.

The musicians who appeared on so many classic sides cut during the mid-’50s to late-’60s (perhaps best but certainly not solely represented by the Blue Note label) are part of a critical, incomparable era in American culture. The real golden era of jazz, in terms of musicianship, influence and import, produced legends we know by one-word-names: Miles, Monk, Mingus, Coltrane, Herbie

And lest I be accused of living in the past, anyone who reads this blog knows I can be counted amongst those who feel jazz –as a music, as a cultural statement, as a way of life– is as vital, encompassing and empowering as it’s ever been. I mean that, and I celebrate where we are, and wherever we’re going. It’ll be somewhere good. It always is.

Still…man, the sheer volume of unbelievable music made during that golden era: it staggers the mind. It’s a bank vault of something more valuable than cash, and the register never rings empty.

It is with sadness, but deep respect and appreciation, that we bid farewell to Butch Warren, crackerjack bassist who made crucial contributions to too many classic albums to count. (Nice obit HERE: like so many musicians, in jazz circles or otherwise, his life was not easy, further complicated by questionable decisions, and he lived longer than he might have, albeit in circumstances and conditions that could be best described as unfair, unjust or plain unacceptable. And yet, his legacy will be the indispensable masterworks he is forever a part of.)

Let’s pick five songs from five albums where he was not merely present (enough of a statement, considering the talent pool), he was a presence. Paired with the immortal Billy Higgins, as he is on three of the five songs below, there is a rhythmic swing and underpinning that can’t –and in some ways, shouldn’t– be described with words. Words are inadequate tools for the task, but the feelings that inform them never are. It is with that feeling of respect, awe and, once more, appreciation, that I bid a fond adieu to Butch, but know that I can –and often will– invite him into my world anytime I choose.

“Watermelon Man” (the original version, with an up-and-coming piano player named Herbie Hancock. And Higgins!)

“Voodoo” with the criminally overlooked and underappreciated Sonny Clark (he and Higgins do WORK on this masterpiece; one of my all-time favorites):

“Vertigo” from the classic album of the same name by Jackie McLean (!!), featuring a very young drummer named Tony Williams, who almost steals the show.

“Recorda Me” with the great Joe Henderson:

“Pentacostal Feelin'” from Free Form with trumpet badass Donald Byrd (and, again, Higgins!):

Share

Butch Warren, R.I.P. (One Year Later)

butch-warren

I know I sound like a broken record on these occasions but the simple fact of the matter is this: there are artists leaving our planet who can’t –and in some ways, shouldn’t– be replaced.

The musicians who appeared on so many classic sides cut during the mid-’50s to late-’60s (perhaps best but certainly not solely represented by the Blue Note label) are part of a critical, incomparable era in American culture. The real golden era of jazz, in terms of musicianship, influence and import, produced legends we know by one-word-names: Miles, Monk, Mingus, Coltrane, Herbie

And lest I be accused of living in the past, anyone who reads this blog knows I can be counted amongst those who feel jazz –as a music, as a cultural statement, as a way of life– is as vital, encompassing and empowering as it’s ever been. I mean that, and I celebrate where we are, and wherever we’re going. It’ll be somewhere good. It always is.

Still…man, the sheer volume of unbelievable music made during that golden era: it staggers the mind. It’s a bank vault of something more valuable than cash, and the register never rings empty.

It is with sadness, but deep respect and appreciation, that we bid farewell to Butch Warren, crackerjack bassist who made crucial contributions to too many classic albums to count. (Nice obit HERE: like so many musicians, in jazz circles or otherwise, his life was not easy, further complicated by questionable decisions, and he lived longer than he might have, albeit in circumstances and conditions that could be best described as unfair, unjust or plain unacceptable. And yet, his legacy will be the indispensable masterworks he is forever a part of.)

Let’s pick five songs from five albums where he was not merely present (enough of a statement, considering the talent pool), he was a presence. Paired with the immortal Billy Higgins, as he is on three of the five songs below, there is a rhythmic swing and underpinning that can’t –and in some ways, shouldn’t– be described with words. Words are inadequate tools for the task, but the feelings that inform them never are. It is with that feeling of respect, awe and, once more, appreciation, that I bid a fond adieu to Butch, but know that I can –and often will– invite him into my world anytime I choose.

“Watermelon Man” (the original version, with an up-and-coming piano player named Herbie Hancock. And Higgins!)

“Voodoo” with the criminally overlooked and underappreciated Sonny Clark (he and Higgins do WORK on this masterpiece; one of my all-time favorites):

“Vertigo” from the classic album of the same name by Jackie McLean (!!), featuring a very young drummer named Tony Williams, who almost steals the show.

“Recorda Me” with the great Joe Henderson:

“Pentacostal Feelin'” from Free Form with trumpet badass Donald Byrd (and, again, Higgins!):

Share

2013: Time To Die

2013: In pace requiescat!

Theme video for this annual series (especially instructive for those not familiar with the title or the photo, above):

3/7/13:

R.I.P. to the amazing Alvin Lee. There are (much) better-known musicians with entire careers of work that don’t hold a candle to this single song.

4/9/13:

Russell Brand, another brit who lived through it, puts on a clinic of perspective and insight HERE.

This might be the best paragraph I’ve read (ever?) deconstructing both the hypocrisy and opportunistic destruction of the Thatcher/Reagan ethos –and what it wrought:

There were sporadic resurrections; to drape a hankie over a model BA plane tailfin because she disliked the unpatriotic logo with which they’d replaced the Union Jack (maybe don’t privatize BA then) or to shuffle about some country pile arm in arm with a dithery Pinochet and tell us all what a fine fellow he was. It always irks when right-wing folk demonstrate in a familial or exclusive setting the values that they deny in a broader social context.

And this, just WOW:

Perhaps, though, Thatcher “the monster” didn’t die this week from a stroke; perhaps that Thatcher died as she sobbed self-pitying tears as she was driven defeated from Downing Street, ousted by her own party. By then, 1990, I was 15, adolescent and instinctively antiestablishment enough to regard her disdainfully. I’d unthinkingly imbibed enough doctrine to know that, troubled as I was, there was little point looking elsewhere for support; I was on my own. We are all on our own. Norman Tebbit, one of Thatcher’s acolytes and fellow “Munsters evacuee,” said when the National Union of Miners eventually succumbed to the military onslaught and starvation over which she presided, “[We] broke not just a strike, but a spell.” The spell he’s referring to is the unseen bond that connects us all and prevents us from being subjugated by tyranny. The spell of community.

4/29/13:

George Jones has left us for that great country song in the sky.

To say he’s another loss we can’t adequately understand and that we’ll never see anything like him again is more than slightly insufficient.

There is an excellent overview of his action-packed, troubled, brilliant life HERE.

Aside from the myriad plaudits, all of which will be heartfelt and irrefutable, this incident seems to best summarize what a truly confounding, unique and impossible to articulate character Jones was:

At one point his wife hid the keys to all his cars, so he drove his lawn mower into Beaumont to a liquor store — an incident he would later commemorate in a song and in music videos. They were divorced not long afterward.      

For now, I’m more than happy to turn the mic over to Doug Wamble, himself a musician of considerable talent and adroit student of history (more on him HERE):

Every fake-ass poser, auto-tuned, stupid-songwriting corporate Nashvegas pretender should be made to sit in a room with eyelids forced open like A Clockwork Orange and watch this on infinite loop until they learn what country music is.

What he said.

What else is there to say?

Rest easy, George.

5/24/13:

When it comes to this great American band’s legacy, the best thing about the Doors is also the worst thing about the Doors: Jim Morrison.

The man to whom more credit for their success, and sound, should be attributed is Ray Manzarek, who passed away this week. Manzarek, an accomplished keyboardist who famously handled bass duties on his Fender Rhodes, also played the role of arranger and older brother. It’s obvious why his songwriting and technical abilities were so significant. It’s his role as middleman—and mediator—for Morrison and the band (including drummer John Densmore and guitarist Robby Krieger) that does not get nearly enough consideration. Without Manzarek’s steadying personality and the patience he preached to all involved (Morrison, the band, the fans), it’s debatable if the Doors would have made more than two albums.

For bringing keyboards to the forefront and utilizing his organ as a lead instrument, Manzarek was a pioneer. He was also the chief architect of the dark, distinctly psychedelic sound the band perfected on their first two albums. Whether it’s the Sunset Boulevard funk of “Soul Kitchen”, the Brechtian whimsy of “Alabama Song (Whiskey Bar)”, or the eyes-half-shut oblivion of “End of the Night” that’s Manzarek moving things forward, and sometimes sideways.

For the rest of the group’s brief but rewarding time together Manzarek remains the focal point, always the anchor, but occasionally the captain. From the sweet piano of “Love Street” to the sour organ of “Not to Touch the Earth”; from the defiant “Shaman’s Blues” to the kaleidoscopic “Soft Parade”; from the bar-room bonhomie of “You Make Me Real” to the cool blues groove of “The Spy”; from the Ray Charles acid jazz of “The Changeling” to the wistful-to-majestic swells of “Hyacinth House” it’s Manzarek supplying the foundation—and the feeling. Aside from Morrison, it’s that image of Ray most fans associate with the band: hunched over his keyboard, head shaking like he was not only reading a book in his lap, but translating it.

5/30/13:

You know Storm Thorgerson.

Even if you’ve never heard his name before, you know him.

More, if you are any kind of fan of late 20th Century rock music (most especially progressive rock music) he has played a role in your world that ranges from influential to indescribable.

You see, he was the guy that introduced –and depicted– our first (and lasting) impressions of so many of our favorite albums.

He has recently passed on, more on him and his accomplishments HERE and HERE (go to that second link, scroll down and marvel at the sheer number of classic albums he designed the covers for).

His website is, obviously, the best resource to see how much enduring work he did, HERE.

It would be ridiculous to try and narrow down my personal favorite album covers; the list would be too long. And that’s just the ones he did for Pink Floyd!

(Seriously, though: while so many prog-rock avatars invited ridicule because of their album covers, Pink Floyd, thanks to Thorgerson, elevated this function to high art. Indeed, during the late ’60s and all through the ’70s what was once an obligatory vanity shot of the band became an opportunity –and a challenge– to create provocative and rewarding associations, connected to and apart from the music.)

6/3/2013:

This one hurts, especially for any of us who came of age (or were alive, period) in the ’70s.

If you were alive in the ’70s, you knew about Jean Stapleton, and you watched All in the Family. (If you didn’t it, you were dead, even if you happened to be living.)

Other than to send my best thoughts, I’ll say that her warbling on the epic show intro (below) is an indelible part of my personal soundtrack. I know I’m not alone.

I could offer some additional thoughts, but there’s no chance I could do Jean –and the immortal role she owned as Edith Bunker– justice better than Neil Genzlinger does in his New York Times tribute, HERE.

Here’s a tasty excerpt:

Unlike some television actors who need time to grow into their roles (time that, in these days of the quick hook, networks often don’t give them), Ms. Stapleton delivered a well-defined Edith right from the start. Is there a more classic Edith laugh line than the one she casually flung in original pilot (there were two abortive pilots before the one that sold the series), in which Archie and Edith are celebrating their anniversary, and Archie schools his son-in-law about the good-old abstinence days?       

“When me and your mother-in-law was going around together keeping company, two whole years it was, there was nothing,” Archie says. “I mean nothing. Not till the wedding night.”       

And Edith interjects, “And even then.”       

But what set Ms. Stapleton’s work in the show apart was her ability to create a character who was not imprisoned by her own daffiness. There have been plenty of female airheads on television: bikinied bimbos, empty-headed housewives, batty old broads. But only a few have been able to make the kinds of transitions from the comic to the dramatic that were asked of Ms. Stapleton in “All in the Family.”       

Another nice tribute HERE.

Let there be no question: for so many of us innocent and impressionable TV-watchers, our worlds were different, and better, for having had Edith Bunker show us that a big heart and a kind soul were the keys to a life well lived.

7/19/13:

Slowly, steadily, inexorably, they are leaving the planet. One at a time. We will never see men like this again. American-made in every sense of the phrase, they came up the way so many bluesmen came up (and so many men who didn’t sing, but know the blues, came up). The combination of hardship, hard work, hard times and being born in the wrong place at the wrong time, under a bad sign. Of course, being born in the wrong place made it the right place for the art to emerge. Their pain, our gain. In many cases, anything but a fair exchange, and all we can do is pay homage and be grateful. Now, more than ever, as these ambassadors leave the stage, it will be more difficult to keep their legacies alive, so attention must be paid.

T-Model Ford kicked Death’s ass for almost a full century, but until we figure out a way to kill or cure death, it comes calling for all of us, eventually.

Summary of his life HERE, and excellent feature on him HERE. (Sample quote: T-Model keeps on going. He’s incredible. But he lives in Greenville which is a fucking cess pit and he’s been robbed there. The 88-year old white woman who was teaching him to read and write was raped and murdered two years ago. We’ve tried to get him out but he refuses to leave.)

It’s impossible, if you are a certain type of person, not to fall in love with a man like T-Model Ford, who proposed a promotional poster with these words of wisdom: I DON’T ALLOW NO MOTHERFUCKING PREACHERS AROUND MY GODDAM HOUSE.

This article changed my life, profoundly. Take my word for it and read every single word, HERE.

This is the article that helped turn me on to Fat Possum Records (how can you not love a label whose motto is “We’re trying our best”? Check them out HERE) and contains one of the all-time best magazine story quotes of all time, courtesy of R.L. Burnside:

I ask him about the man he killed and he gives a variation of his standard response: ‘I didn’t mean to kill nobody. I just meant to shoot the sonofabitch in the head and two times in the chest. Him dying was between him and the Lord.’ (More on Burnside HERE, articles that underscore what a national fucking treasure Matthew Johnson, who runs the Fat Possum label, really is.)

A few (and only a few–you need to read this piece) snippets, which could comprise the best novel not yet written…

7/24/13:

Dennis Farina: Bad Man, Good Actor.

And by bad I mean, of course, badass.

Nevermind that he actually was a Chicago cop for many years before he “broke in” to acting (See what I did there?).

He had the face. The voice. The look. His mustache could kick most anyone’s ass.

And he was remarkably and uniquely talented, able to parlay his innate gifts into characters that could be at once harrowing and hysterical.

Here is a nice appraisal of his life.

Here he is, at his best.

Even though his performance in Midnight Run represents his finest work, and epitomizes all of the aforementioned gifts, this epic scene from Get Shorty might be the best thing he ever did on screen.

10/10/13:

I know I sound like a broken record on these occasions but the simple fact of the matter is this: there are artists leaving our planet who can’t –and in some ways, shouldn’t– be replaced.

The musicians who appeared on so many classic sides cut during the mid-’50s to late-’60s (perhaps best but certainly not solely represented by the Blue Note label) are part of a critical, incomparable era in American culture. The real golden era of jazz, in terms of musicianship, influence and import, produced legends we know by one-word-names: Miles, Monk, Mingus, Coltrane, Herbie

And lest I be accused of living in the past, anyone who reads this blog knows I can be counted amongst those who feel jazz –as a music, as a cultural statement, as a way of life– is as vital, encompassing and empowering as it’s ever been. I mean that, and I celebrate where we are, and wherever we’re going. It’ll be somewhere good. It always is.

Still…man, the sheer volume of unbelievable music made during that golden era: it staggers the mind. It’s a bank vault of something more valuable than cash, and the register never rings empty.

It is with sadness, but deep respect and appreciation, that we bid farewell to Butch Warren, crackerjack bassist who made crucial contributions to too many classic albums to count. (Nice obit HERE: like so many musicians, in jazz circles or otherwise, his life was not easy, further complicated by questionable decisions, and he lived longer than he might have, albeit in circumstances and conditions that could be best described as unfair, unjust or plain unacceptable. And yet, his legacy will be the indispensable masterworks he is forever a part of.)

10/23/13:

Anyone with a passing familiarity with, much less love of, Wes Anderson’s films (more on him HERE), will join me in mourning the loss of Kumar Pallana. Nice tribute HERE.

94 years young. Nice.

Here are some parting words of wisdom from the great man himself:

“I have seen the people who hustle and bustle, and they are already gone, at a young age,” he said. “I’m an old guy. I’ve been doing this a long time. And I don’t hustle and I don’t bustle.”

And here are some of his finer moments.

“Who is that man?”

“I lose my touch…”

Mr. Pagoda:

11/4/13:

EVERYONE WHO JOINS A ROCK BAND WANTS TO BE HEARD.

The good ones want to be unique, while the pretenders tend to imitate what has already been done. The soulless ones regurgitate musical ideas manufactured by others and served up to them on soiled platters. Sadly, this third group tends to enjoy the greatest success.

Reed was the perfect imperfection rock music needed: neither a naturally brilliant guitarist nor a honey-throated singer, and not always the best lyricist; let’s not let his death sanitize the fact that he wrote a lot of ham-fisted stinkers over his long career, although Lou might have been the first –and best– example than anyone could do this. It’s an illusion, of course: many people have tried, and most of them have failed. But Reed got there first, a darker version of Dylan who combined punk, glam and the paradoxical one-two punch of apathy and self-aggrandizement. Precious are each generation’s artists who can cultivate such a subtle flash of brilliance.

One way you know you’ve made not merely an indelible impact—itself enough of an achievement in our fifteen-minutes-of-fame-dumb-world-order, and yes I’m invoking Warhol on purpose— is when the accolades come fast, heavy and quickly. Circa 2013, when hipper-than-thou tributes compete for pathos-per-pound –as they have been with Reed—you are likely to remain relevant. Aside from the musical and cultural import that he carried like a piece of tattered luggage, Reed never stopped mattering because he didn’t half-step to anyone else’s beat. He was the drummer of his own perplexing parade, and he was both confident and cool enough to keep the interlopers, imitators and especially the music critics at bay. Well-played, indeed.

Speaking of cool. It’s easy to attempt when you’re young, since that’s when it matters the most. Reed dodged all appearances of giving a shit for the entirety of his career, and consequently he only became cooler as he aged. Although it happened to become a big hit, it still seems remarkable to consider what Reed pulled off with his signature song “Walk on the Wild Side” (He was a she? The colored girls? Even when she was giving head?). Or the middle finger to everyone in the world, including possibly himself, with the electric drill in the ear assault of Metal Machine Music. Or that he played with musicians ranging from Don Cherry to Metallica and, for lack of a better cliché, did it his way. It didn’t always work, but Reed always did it the way he wanted, and anyone who wasn’t down could hit the bricks. That, in art as well as life, is how cool happens.

More: he carried the cool as neither a burden nor a status to maintain; he was what he was. He did not just live in and sing about New York City, he was in every regard a living seed in that big dirty apple. Most legends don’t live this long or that well when anointed so young. We could all learn a lot from Lou Reed, and our world is a lot less cool, and a great deal colder without the beating of his dark, beautiful heart.

12/5/13:

Some directly, some indirectly inspired by the great man.

(Bonus!)

12/16/13:

Here is Oscar Wilde (a name I don’t invoke lightly, and one of a handful of witty geniuses with whom O’Toole exists comfortably, on the literal and figurative levels), lamenting and/or celebrating the tragi-comedy of life (his, any artist’s): Would you like to know the great drama of my life? It’s that I’ve put my genius into my life; I’ve put only my talent into my works.

O’Toole certainly put his talent and genius into his work, even though it’s an ongoing embarrassment to the ongoing embarrassment that is the Academy Awards that one of our genuine masters never got his little gold statue.

O’Toole also, by all accounts –like his great friends Burton, Reed and Harris– put more than a little effort, industry and genius into his existence. Who could blame him? Being Peter O’Toole, he clearly came to realize early on, was its own burden, its own responsibility, its own obligation. Put another way, when I think about the musicians I most admire (think Hendrix, Coltrane), I have an ongoing fantasy bordering on obsession that I could transport myself in time and watch them, in the studio, creating the songs I know and love. With someone like O’Toole, as much as I would pay, in every sense of the word, to be in a small-ish theater seeing him become Hamlet, or on the set of Lawrence of Arabia (!!!), I can honestly state that above any other wish, nothing would please me more than to be amongst his company, or even a proverbial fly on the wall, during any random pub adventure he instigated in his prime.

At the end of the day, did he squander some, even much of his remarkable talent? Perhaps.

But that depends on how you choose to measure such things, and I say this as one who greatly appreciates, and tries to create, art.

I’d say while it’s our collective loss, as movie watchers, that quite probably Peter did not dedicate himself with the seriousness and care he might (ought to?) have, who are we to judge the decisions he made and the elan with which he sucked the marrow out of life, straight no chaser? His collected works outshine the majority of his peers, before or since, and while he might have made a few more indelible contributions to the canon, who can quarrel with the fact that he did things his way, on his own terms, and managed to be the best at everything he did, because he could? Best actor? Best looking? Wittiest? Without doubt. Uncautious? Impractical? Compulsively sybaritic? Probably. And: who cares? If he was going to do Shakespeare, he was going to do it unlike anyone else (for better or worse); if he was going to lose himself in the cups, by God he was going to do it bigger, badder and yes, better, than anyone. And have fun doing it. And make history, even if it was the type of history he couldn’t recall in later life; you can bet your ass the people who were there never forgot it. That is what it means to be a god.

We only get so many gods per generation. We’ve lost one that we were lucky to have in the first place. They won’t make any like him again because they never made any like him in the first place. Rest in peace you rascal, you raconteur. Sleep easily: your work here is done, and we lesser mortals will puzzle the rest of our days over how you ever managed to do the things you did.

12/26/13:

We have lost one of the great, indeed one of the greatest, ones.

Yusef Lateef, aged 93 years young, was finally stopped by cancer on December 23.

I say “finally” because Lateef was so positive, productive and relentlessly creative, it seemed like he might never slow down, much less die.

How productive was he over how many years? Check this out.

And definitely check out this excellent overview of his life and career, via Peter Keepnews.

There are many ways beyond his impressive biography to celebrate him, but for me, much of what he did and who he was can be summarized by one word signifying one year: 1957. Lateef’s output in 1957, like that of Charles Mingus and John Coltrane –not shabby company– must rank amongst the most astonishing bursts of energy and ecstasy we’ve ever witnessed. Of course, he did not exactly burst onto the scene: he had been working on his music and his vision for over a decade, and once the opportunity arose, he struck quickly and that initial momentum scarcely slackened for the next decade. After that, his recordings were seldom infrequent and never uninspired.

Indeed, Lateef was not merely expanding his instrumental arsenal, he was upgrading his compositional acumen. The result is a series of works that are grounded in jazz, certainly (a word/description he did not endorse), and not infrequently based on blues motifs, but also far-ranging and far-reaching. As many have pointed out, Lateef was creating, if not inventing, World Music long before the concept was known and/or imitated. It’s one thing to introduce such an unlikely instrument as the oboe into jazz songs that could still swing; Lateef was integrating sounds from the Far East into music in novel ways that even the mighty Coltraneemulated, years later. Like Sun Ra, Lateef was hearing things and imagining worlds that still seem exotic and ahead of their time; that they came in a world that was so black and white (mostly White) in the mid-to-late ’50s is staggering, bordering on inconceivable. Like the best music from our best musicians, it is also miraculous. No need for excessive description; just listen to to it.

It has always been, for me, at once exceptional and inspiring to consider Lateef, who was barely scraping by financially as a full-time musician circa ’57, road tripping from Detroit (a city he would celebrate later in his career) to The Big Apple on a random weekend to record yet another masterpiece. The fact that, later in his career and already an acknowledged master, he refused for a time to play live in clubs were alcohol and cigarette smoke were pervasive, augments his street cred. He was not faking it, and his personal life and of course his music are a living soundtrack to a life of honesty and exploration. It was, perhaps more than anything else, Yusef’s insatiable need to discover and learn that make his albums endure, that make him such a worthy role model. To be certain, any musician or artist would be wise to emulate his inimitable discipline and humility; but any human being who wants to connect with others, understand more of the world (and, inevitably, his or herself) can learn a lot from the nine decades and change of evidence Lateef supplied us. He was real, and his soulful vision will keep him amongst us so long as people are capable of paying attention.

Share

Butch Warren, R.I.P.

I know I sound like a broken record on these occasions but the simple fact of the matter is this: there are artists leaving our planet who can’t –and in some ways, shouldn’t– be replaced.

The musicians who appeared on so many classic sides cut during the mid-’50s to late-’60s (perhaps best but certainly not solely represented by the Blue Note label) are part of a critical, incomparable era in American culture. The real golden era of jazz, in terms of musicianship, influence and import, produced legends we know by one-word-names: Miles, Monk, Mingus, Coltrane, Herbie

And lest I be accused of living in the past, anyone who reads this blog knows I can be counted amongst those who feel jazz –as a music, as a cultural statement, as a way of life– is as vital, encompassing and empowering as it’s ever been. I mean that, and I celebrate where we are, and wherever we’re going. It’ll be somewhere good. It always is.

Still…man, the sheer volume of unbelievable music made during that golden era: it staggers the mind. It’s a bank vault of something more valuable than cash, and the register never rings empty.

It is with sadness, but deep respect and appreciation, that we bid farewell to Butch Warren, crackerjack bassist who made crucial contributions to too many classic albums to count. (Nice obit HERE: like so many musicians, in jazz circles or otherwise, his life was not easy, further complicated by questionable decisions, and he lived longer than he might have, albeit in circumstances and conditions that could be best described as unfair, unjust or plain unacceptable. And yet, his legacy will be the indispensable masterworks he is forever a part of.)

Let’s pick five songs from five albums where he was not merely present (enough of a statement, considering the talent pool), he was a presence. Paired with the immortal Billy Higgins, as he is on three of the five songs below, there is a rhythmic swing and underpinning that can’t –and in some ways, shouldn’t– be described with words. Words are inadequate tools for the task, but the feelings that inform them never are. It is with that feeling of respect, awe and, once more, appreciation, that I bid a fond adieu to Butch, but know that I can –and often will– invite him into my world anytime I choose.

“Watermelon Man” (the original version, with an up-and-coming piano player named Herbie Hancock. And Higgins!)

“Voodoo” with the criminally overlooked and underappreciated Sonny Clark (he and Higgins do WORK on this masterpiece; one of my all-time favorites):

“Vertigo” from the classic album of the same name by Jackie McLean (!!), featuring a very young drummer named Tony Williams, who almost steals the show.

“Recorda Me” with the great Joe Henderson:

“Pentacostal Feelin'” from Free Form with trumpet badass Donald Byrd (and, again, Higgins!):

Share