Larry Kart

I had the good fortune to review it for Down Beat when it came out. Another earlier and excellent Eubie LP is "The Marches I Played on My Ragtime Piano" (Twentieth-Century Fox), with a quartet that included Buster Bailey and Kenny Burrell on rhythm guitar. Eubie is in great form, and it's fascinating to hear ragtime versions of marches by Sousa and others.

Of course -- but until it does...

But you yourself, on your own label, are very particular about every aspect of the recording/mastering etc. process, right? And for that, we are grateful. So if you are concerned in that way with the side of the chain of sound reproduction that you can control, why should we not try (this side of delusion or conspicuous consumption) to keep in correspondingly good shape our side of the chain of sound reproduction? If RVG took the trouble to make Paul Chambers sound as much as he could like Paul Chambers, i want to return the favor -- to all three of us.

I've never bought any piece of music reproduction equipment or associated stuff in order to impress anybody, which is not to say that some of those purchases weren't dubious or based on outright delusions, just that they had nothing to do with ... etc. As proof -- I've never mentioned what equipment or associated stuff I have unless I thought someone was legitimately curious, as on this thread.

No doubt I'm late to the party, but has this one been done before? I should add that, as may be obvious, this is an act of bemused protest again the whole album-cover threads thing, which strikes me as ... I don't know what exactly, but the image of people of dropping hot dog wrappers on the grass in a public park comes to mind for some reason.

Stokowski, Symphonie Fantastique, New Philharmonia (Decca)

Just re-read Peter Rabe's "Murder Me For Nickels," a noir classic set in a unnamed medium-sized midwestern city in the late 1950s. Narrator Jack St. Louis is second in command to Walter Lippit, who controls the juke boxes in town. Neither Lippit nor St. Louis is a gangster -- their business is legit -- but gangster-connected folks may want to try to take it over. Humorous at times, the book has a unique, off-the-wall flavor -- in a way it's about the non-sexual but arguably romantic bond between St. Louis and Lippit, which is complicated in part because St. Louis digs Lippit's girlfriend, while she is fond of both of them. St. Louis is a Mitchum-type perhaps, a man who doesn't want to take orders, doesn't want to be tied down, prefers to follow his own nose, spend his money as it comes in, etc. And yet he's drawn to Lippert, is tied to him practically and emotionally (but how much?), and because Lippit's outfit is doing well, St. Louis has more money in his pockets than he can get rid of as he used to, which leads him to start a small record label on the side to suit his own tastes (he likes jazz, has a good ear for it). One nice typical scene comes in Chapter 8, when St. Louis visits a bar where some semi-thugs from one arm of Lippert's outfit have been waiting to see if trouble arrives from the group that may be trying to muscle in. "I went to the bar on Liberty and Alder where Folsom [a somewhat dubious, in St. Louis's view, Lippit associate] had one of the goon squads waiting. I didn't see them at first because the place was so dark. There was a long bar, with one morning drinker and the bartender was doing a crossword puzzle. And there was a grey cat. She sat on top of the jukebox and her eyes were closed. Suddenly she gave a screech like a woman and flew off the machine. Somebody laughed. They were sitting behind the jukebox at a round table, playing cards. But without much interest, One of them was laughing. The bartender came over with the cat on his arm. The cat was clawed into his shoulder and if she were afraid of the height. 'Listen,' said the bartender. 'Who done that?' The cat smelled a bit of burnt fur and the bartender knew very well who had done that. But he was short and thin and the one who was laughing was big and fat. 'Phew,' he said, 'what a stinker,' and threw his cigarette on the floor. It hit me on the shoe and I stepped back a little. Then I stepped on the cigarette and rubbed it out. 'They been bothering you?' I said to the bartender. 'It's just the cat here, Mr. St. Louis. They keep bothering the cat.' 'We're here to see nothing happens to jukeboxes,' said the big one, 'and cats sitting on top of jukeboxes is not allowed. Right, fellers?'.... 'Not allowed,' said the big one. 'Put the cat back up there,' I told the bartender. 'So you're the feller with the name,' he said. 'New Orleans, wasn't it?' I didn't have to answer because he filled the space right after that crack with a long, phlegmy laugh. After a while it even sounded stupid to him and he let it die down. Then he talked as if had never laughed before in his life. 'Folsom's been telling me about you, New Orleans.' 'St. Louis. And now I'm going to tell you about me.' I came just a little closer to make it more personal. 'Folsom is running you and the rest of the apes, but the orders come from me. You sit down and hold still. You wait till you hear from Folsom before practicing your art and in the meantime no extracurricular activities. And leave this cat alone.' He looked at me and then at his buddies and I think he didn't answer anything right away because he wasn't sure of all the words I had used. Then he said, 'You come all he way down here to tell me about that cat?' He hit the ridiculous part of the conversation right on the head and I didn't feel very impressive. Which is no trick anyway. I'm just built about average and he wasn't. I felt I should talk about something else." Etc. I particularly like "After a while it even sounded stupid to him" and "before practicing your art" and St. Louis's apt internal follow-up -- "I think he didn't answer anything right away because he wasn't sure of all the words I had used." And the air of tension -- one senses that this scene could lead to violence or even death or dissipate into semi-nothingness. Further, the tension, even the potential menace, and yet so little in one sense is or should be at stake; they all "work for the same outfit," right?

Yes, fascinating for what it reveals of Laughlin (not enough - he must have been quite a character himself) and his experiences with all the amazing authors he published. Too bad he didn't write an autobiography and too bad someone else didn't write a long, detailed biography, full of footnotes, of Laughlin. There is a Laughlin memoir: http://www.amazon.com/Byways-Memoir-James-Laughlin/dp/B005Q7SD1A/ref=sr_1_19?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372861551&sr=1-19&keywords=james+laughlin Haven't read it but did enjoy "The Way It Wasn't." Among many other things, great pictures of some of the women that the lusty Laughlin pursued and bedded over the years.

Link to "Finally .... Bengt!" Great stuff.

Stanley Clarke (it is to laugh ... or cry?) And for the complete opposite of what we're talking about, Errol Garner

Art Pepper Bill Perkins Sonny Rollins (though some may disagree) Wayne Shorter (though some may disagree) Miles (but of course?) Bill Evans Lee Konitz

Earl May

http://www.discogs.com/Woody-Herman-Herd-The-Road-Band/release/3899187

Make that Harold Gomberg as the oboist I was curious about in Bernstein's Mother Goose Suite. Ralph Gomberg, his brother, was the principal oboist with the Boston Symphony.

Been on a something of a Bernstein kick lately -- his Mozart Requiem, his Beethoven 6th, and an old and cheap Columbia LP of some Ravel -- Mother Goose Suite, Rapsodie Espagnole, and La Valse. Got it to see what NYPO oboist Ralph Gomberg would sound like in the second movement of Mother Goose Suite, but put on La Valse first and was blown away. A bit over the top at times, but what intensity and insight.

Picked up a copy for 50 cents at a local library sale today of Robin Eubanks' 1994 album "Mental Images." The lineup includes Randy Brecker, Dave Holland, Kevin Eubanks, Antonio Hart, Michael Cain, et al. and the feel is Afro-Beatish at times. The leader himself, not my favorite trombonist, is in good form, but what knocked me out was the drumming of Gene Jackson, interacting with African percussionist Kimati Dinizulu. What a groove they get, and it's more than just a groove -- Jackson's playing is really orchestral. Best 50 cents I'll ever spend probably.

Holliger, on the expressionistic side, coupled with an excellent performance of the Berg Chamber Concerto: http://www.amazon.com/Schoenberg-Chamber-Symphony-Berg-Concerto/dp/B000009IMT/ref=sr_1_3?s=music&ie=UTF8&qid=1372625633&sr=1-3&keywords=holliger+schoenberg Orpheus Chamber Orchestra, immaculate but not too much so: (link to that DGG recording won't take for some reason). Robert Craft on Naxos, swift at 20:10, captures a certain "blow top" frenzy at times, especially at the very end, which I like: http://www.amazon.com/Pierrot-Lunaire-Schoenberg/dp/B000MRP1S2/ref=sr_1_2?s=music&ie=UTF8&qid=1372625878&sr=1-2&keywords=craft+schoenberg+pierrot Horenstein's on Vox is very slow (more than 26 minutes), but there are things he gets that I can't forget. http://www.amazon.com/Till-Eulenspiegel-Merry-Pranks-Strauss/dp/B000001K5U/ref=sr_1_5?s=music&ie=UTF8&qid=1372626395&sr=1-5&keywords=Horenstein+schoenberg

And I'll ask Adorno the next time I see him.

I like the idea of Sir Charles. Hyman, maybe, but so much of his work has been emulative -- not that he doesn't have his own thing, but those were the gigs he found himself in or took. Dorough and Frishberg aren't much to my taste -- the former clever hip on a good day but not enough vocal ability, the latter too often too cute both as a songwriter and performer. Mark Murphy -- I'd rather be covered in honey and tied down on a pile of red ants. Williams I haven't been knocked out by but don't have enough experience to feel sure.

I prefer Chambers as a drummer and composer to Cyrille, but Cyrille is certainly worthy, and Chambers hasn't been on the scene over the years as much as one would wish -- certainly not as much as Cyrille, I believe.

I favor: Roscoe Chuck Cuscuna Threadgill Bobby Bradford Gary Burton (not my favorite player, but he belongs) Billy Hart Joe Chambers DeFranco (already named an NEA master) Tyner (ditto) G. Wilson (ditto) Woods (ditto) A lot of the others mentioned above are worthy figures but not masters IMO

Roscoe Mitchell

Description of the book at that link is a bit odd: "Jackie McLean (1931-2006) was one of the finest alto players and a legend of jazz. This book looks at the man and his work, his influences, and why his records have such enduring value."

I once had a dream in which Jack Teagarden was playing "Stars Fell on Alabama" while Paul Desmond embellished the melody.

The late Chicago writer J.B. Figi wrote a superb profile of Bland that ran in Down Beat in 1969. I remember editing it there as a newbie with my mouth hanging open.