Does anyone have this Clifford Brown recording?...

[Hardbopjazz]

"More Live at the Bee Hive." Anyone that has this, how is the sound quality?

Edited August 10, 2008 by Hardbopjazz

[BFrank]

That used to be available on eMusic, but doesn't seem to be there any more.

[jazzbo]

Sound quality is low fidelity, not the worst thing I've heard but if you're picky about sound quality pass this one by.

[chewy-chew-chew-bean-benitez]

what is up with this whole sound quality bag, who would give up an oppourtunity to hear live brownie becasue of sound quality-- if every jazz recording i have was DTS dolby 5.1 i think i'd have to kill myself

[JSngry]

what is up with this whole sound quality bag, who would give up an oppourtunity to hear live brownie becasue of sound quality-- if every jazz recording i have was DTS dolby 5.1 i think i'd have to kill myself

Couldn't have said it better myself.

[felser]

what is up with this whole sound quality bag, who would give up an oppourtunity to hear live brownie becasue of sound quality-- if every jazz recording i have was DTS dolby 5.1 i think i'd have to kill myself

Couldn't have said it better myself.

I'm not a sound quaility geek by any means, and I love Clifford Brown, but the original Bee Hive release was basically unlistenable to me. Even advance warning didn't prepare me for how bad the sound was, sort of like some of the Bird stuff floating around and the Miles Davis/Jimmy Forrest recordings. Stuff you wouldn't believe any one would consider releasable. I haven't heard the "More ..." release.

[Chas]

Anyone who can't listen past the sound quality of the Bee Hive stuff is well-advised to steer clear of this one too :

[JSngry]

...the original Bee Hive release was basically unlistenable to me. Even advance warning didn't prepare me for how bad the sound was, sort of like some of the Bird stuff floating around and the Miles Davis/Jimmy Forrest recordings. Stuff you wouldn't believe any one would consider releasable...

Dude, compared to some of the stuff that's floating around, the examples you give are of audiophile quality...

[Rosco]

I'm not a sound quaility geek by any means, and I love Clifford Brown, but the original Bee Hive release was basically unlistenable to me. Even advance warning didn't prepare me for how bad the sound was, sort of like some of the Bird stuff floating around and the Miles Davis/Jimmy Forrest recordings. Stuff you wouldn't believe any one would consider releasable. I haven't heard the "More ..." release.

This release is far better quality than the first volume. A few problems here and there (and I for one am grateful stuff like this even exists, regardless of sound), but it's mostly pretty good and an enjoyable listen.

[Big Beat Steve]

...the original Bee Hive release was basically unlistenable to me. Even advance warning didn't prepare me for how bad the sound was, sort of like some of the Bird stuff floating around and the Miles Davis/Jimmy Forrest recordings. Stuff you wouldn't believe any one would consider releasable...

Dude, compared to some of the stuff that's floating around, the examples you give are of audiophile quality...

Indeed! AM just listening to the Davis/Forrest recordings (Live At The Barrel Vol. 2) on Prestige P-7860, and it's not bad at all for a "location" recording.

BTW, I have Brown/Roach "Live At The Bee Hive" double album on CBD JG35965. I do feel fidelity is a notch below the Davis/Forrest recordings mentioned above (but still quite listenable), but how would this compare soundwise to other releases of this material that have been or are on the market?

[Cliff Englewood]

I'm not a sound quaility geek by any means, and I love Clifford Brown, but the original Bee Hive release was basically unlistenable to me. Even advance warning didn't prepare me for how bad the sound was, sort of like some of the Bird stuff floating around and the Miles Davis/Jimmy Forrest recordings. Stuff you wouldn't believe any one would consider releasable. I haven't heard the "More ..." release.

I couldn't have said it better myself.

I couldn't listen to the Bee Hive stuff, I'm sure the music was excellent but I just couldn't hear it.

[JSngry]

What's truly unlistenable for is stuff like the Joe Brazil jam session tape w/Trane & Joe Henderson, stuff where there's no information to hear, period, just noise in the shape of notes. But pretty much everything else, I find is like adjusting your eyesight in a dark room. After enough acclimation (and willingness to make it) you can get what you need to get around ok. Of course, the darker the room, the less definition you get, even at best, but I'm jsut saying, stuff like the Miles/Forrest stuff, compared to some things I've heard (or tried to hear) is not al that hard for me. You can still hear the timbres of the instruments, you can stoill follow the lines and the changes, it's pretty much all there, just....buried. There's some shit where it's not just buried, it's decomposed!

[Larry Kart]

The actual recordings are not accessible to me right now, but I recall that the CBS LP drawn from this material sounded better than the Lonehill. The music can be made out, and at best it's incredible. Here's something I wrote when the LP came out:

Live at the Beehive is one of jazz’s delayed explosions. Recorded at a South Side Chicago club on November 7, 1955, the group heard here was co-led by Clifford Brown, the young trumpet master who would die in an auto accident the following year, and Max Roach, the dominant percussionist of the bebop era. Also present were bassist George Morrow, tenorman Sonny Rollins (who would soon leave town as a member of the band), and three Chicagoans--tenorman Nicky Hill, guitarist Leo Blevins, and pianist Billy Wallace. The wide-open jam session that took place that night was captured by Roach on a home tape machine, and until now, the music has been heard only by the people who were at the Beehive and by a few of the drummer’s friends. Deeply wounded by Brown’s death, Roach long found himself unable to contemplate the music that reminded him of his loss, and the mediocre sound quality of the tape seemed to preclude commercial release. But Roach finally gave in to those who told him that the Beehive session had to be heard. And it turns out that the refurbished tape is more than listenable; anyone familiar with these musicians will be able to fill in the missing elements in the aural landscape.

Compared with Live at the Beehive, even the best of the Brown-Roach combo’s studio work sounds restrained. Immediately striking is the change one hears in Brown’s playing. In a tragically brief career that ended when he was only twenty-five, Brown became known for his mellow, butter-smooth tone and his ability to construct seemingly endless lyrical lines. And yet, as lovely as it was, his music at times seemed limited by its loveliness, which could became sweet and cute. But the Clifford Brown heard on Live at the Beehive is virtually another man, a savagely adventurous virtuoso who repeatedly rises into the trumpet’s topmost register to create patterns that seem to have been etched in space by a needle-sharp flame. Brown excels on every one of the album’s five tracks, but he surpasses himself on a twenty-minute version of “Cherokee.” The tune, traditionally used to separate the men from the boys, is taken at a lightning tempo, which forces Brown’s lyricism to the point of no return. Eventually, he finds himself stabbing out phrases whose content would be purely rhythmic if it were not for the way his sense of tone and attack makes each note of the design vibrate with melodic meaning.

It is Roach who spurs Brown to these dangerous heights, and in the process, the drummer surpasses himself, too. Neither before nor since has he played with such abandon, and often it sounds as though two or three drummers must be at work. This multiple-player effect comes, in part, from the way Roach has tuned his drum kit. Several years before the Beehive session, he began to adjust his instruments to precise pitches. As a result Roach’s playing became filled with tympani-like effects, as though he were trying to make the drums into a melodic voice. During that same period, though, a certain sobriety crept into his work, perhaps because Roach had to exert conscious control over his new resources. But at the Beehive session, all the wraps were off. Roach’s explosive solo on “Cherokee” is the most startling display on the album, but in no way does he slight his role as an accompanist. Brown’s solos are inseparable from Roach’s support, and the drummer creates inventive patterns behind every player at every tempo from the mercurial “Cherokee” on down to the medium groove of “Walkin’.”

Although the album includes skillful playing from Blevins and Wallace, the other major point of interest is the contrast between Sonny Rollins and Nicky Hill. Rollins, who was just about to establish himself as the dominant tenorman in jazz, is in generally fine form. But Hill, who precedes Rollins on ‘I’ll Remember April” and follows him on “Walkin’,” more than holds his own. An eccentrically individualistic player who died in 1965, Hill was a master of oblique construction; and his solos are surprisingly prophetic of developments to come. Particularly on “Walkin’,” he ends phrases by extending a note until its harmonic meaning becomes more and more ambiguous, an insistence on the purely linear that foreshadows early Ornette Coleman.

[Mark Stryker]

The actual recordings are not accessible to me right now, but I recall that the CBS LP drawn from this material sounded better than the Lonehill. The music can be made out, and at best it's incredible. Here's something I wrote when the LP came out:

Live at the Beehive is one of jazz’s delayed explosions. Recorded at a South Side Chicago club on November 7, 1955, the group heard here was co-led by Clifford Brown, the young trumpet master who would die in an auto accident the following year, and Max Roach, the dominant percussionist of the bebop era. Also present were bassist George Morrow, tenorman Sonny Rollins (who would soon leave town as a member of the band), and three Chicagoans--tenorman Nicky Hill, guitarist Leo Blevins, and pianist Billy Wallace. The wide-open jam session that took place that night was captured by Roach on a home tape machine, and until now, the music has been heard only by the people who were at the Beehive and by a few of the drummer’s friends. Deeply wounded by Brown’s death, Roach long found himself unable to contemplate the music that reminded him of his loss, and the mediocre sound quality of the tape seemed to preclude commercial release. But Roach finally gave in to those who told him that the Beehive session had to be heard. And it turns out that the refurbished tape is more than listenable; anyone familiar with these musicians will be able to fill in the missing elements in the aural landscape.

Compared with Live at the Beehive, even the best of the Brown-Roach combo’s studio work sounds restrained. Immediately striking is the change one hears in Brown’s playing. In a tragically brief career that ended when he was only twenty-five, Brown became known for his mellow, butter-smooth tone and his ability to construct seemingly endless lyrical lines. And yet, as lovely as it was, his music at times seemed limited by its loveliness, which could became sweet and cute. But the Clifford Brown heard on Live at the Beehive is virtually another man, a savagely adventurous virtuoso who repeatedly rises into the trumpet’s topmost register to create patterns that seem to have been etched in space by a needle-sharp flame. Brown excels on every one of the album’s five tracks, but he surpasses himself on a twenty-minute version of “Cherokee.” The tune, traditionally used to separate the men from the boys, is taken at a lightning tempo, which forces Brown’s lyricism to the point of no return. Eventually, he finds himself stabbing out phrases whose content would be purely rhythmic if it were not for the way his sense of tone and attack makes each note of the design vibrate with melodic meaning.

It is Roach who spurs Brown to these dangerous heights, and in the process, the drummer surpasses himself, too. Neither before nor since has he played with such abandon, and often it sounds as though two or three drummers must be at work. This multiple-player effect comes, in part, from the way Roach has tuned his drum kit. Several years before the Beehive session, he began to adjust his instruments to precise pitches. As a result Roach’s playing became filled with tympani-like effects, as though he were trying to make the drums into a melodic voice. During that same period, though, a certain sobriety crept into his work, perhaps because Roach had to exert conscious control over his new resources. But at the Beehive session, all the wraps were off. Roach’s explosive solo on “Cherokee” is the most startling display on the album, but in no way does he slight his role as an accompanist. Brown’s solos are inseparable from Roach’s support, and the drummer creates inventive patterns behind every player at every tempo from the mercurial “Cherokee” on down to the medium groove of “Walkin’.”

Although the album includes skillful playing from Blevins and Wallace, the other major point of interest is the contrast between Sonny Rollins and Nicky Hill. Rollins, who was just about to establish himself as the dominant tenorman in jazz, is in generally fine form. But Hill, who precedes Rollins on ‘I’ll Remember April” and follows him on “Walkin’,” more than holds his own. An eccentrically individualistic player who died in 1965, Hill was a master of oblique construction; and his solos are surprisingly prophetic of developments to come. Particularly on “Walkin’,” he ends phrases by extending a note until its harmonic meaning becomes more and more ambiguous, an insistence on the purely linear that foreshadows early Ornette Coleman.

Great piece of writing, Larry -- alive with insight. Thanks for posting.

[chewy-chew-chew-bean-benitez]

just bought that dolphy/brown on cduniverse!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[jostber]

The actual recordings are not accessible to me right now, but I recall that the CBS LP drawn from this material sounded better than the Lonehill. The music can be made out, and at best it's incredible. Here's something I wrote when the LP came out:

Live at the Beehive is one of jazz’s delayed explosions. Recorded at a South Side Chicago club on November 7, 1955, the group heard here was co-led by Clifford Brown, the young trumpet master who would die in an auto accident the following year, and Max Roach, the dominant percussionist of the bebop era. Also present were bassist George Morrow, tenorman Sonny Rollins (who would soon leave town as a member of the band), and three Chicagoans--tenorman Nicky Hill, guitarist Leo Blevins, and pianist Billy Wallace. The wide-open jam session that took place that night was captured by Roach on a home tape machine, and until now, the music has been heard only by the people who were at the Beehive and by a few of the drummer’s friends. Deeply wounded by Brown’s death, Roach long found himself unable to contemplate the music that reminded him of his loss, and the mediocre sound quality of the tape seemed to preclude commercial release. But Roach finally gave in to those who told him that the Beehive session had to be heard. And it turns out that the refurbished tape is more than listenable; anyone familiar with these musicians will be able to fill in the missing elements in the aural landscape.

Compared with Live at the Beehive, even the best of the Brown-Roach combo’s studio work sounds restrained. Immediately striking is the change one hears in Brown’s playing. In a tragically brief career that ended when he was only twenty-five, Brown became known for his mellow, butter-smooth tone and his ability to construct seemingly endless lyrical lines. And yet, as lovely as it was, his music at times seemed limited by its loveliness, which could became sweet and cute. But the Clifford Brown heard on Live at the Beehive is virtually another man, a savagely adventurous virtuoso who repeatedly rises into the trumpet’s topmost register to create patterns that seem to have been etched in space by a needle-sharp flame. Brown excels on every one of the album’s five tracks, but he surpasses himself on a twenty-minute version of “Cherokee.” The tune, traditionally used to separate the men from the boys, is taken at a lightning tempo, which forces Brown’s lyricism to the point of no return. Eventually, he finds himself stabbing out phrases whose content would be purely rhythmic if it were not for the way his sense of tone and attack makes each note of the design vibrate with melodic meaning.

It is Roach who spurs Brown to these dangerous heights, and in the process, the drummer surpasses himself, too. Neither before nor since has he played with such abandon, and often it sounds as though two or three drummers must be at work. This multiple-player effect comes, in part, from the way Roach has tuned his drum kit. Several years before the Beehive session, he began to adjust his instruments to precise pitches. As a result Roach’s playing became filled with tympani-like effects, as though he were trying to make the drums into a melodic voice. During that same period, though, a certain sobriety crept into his work, perhaps because Roach had to exert conscious control over his new resources. But at the Beehive session, all the wraps were off. Roach’s explosive solo on “Cherokee” is the most startling display on the album, but in no way does he slight his role as an accompanist. Brown’s solos are inseparable from Roach’s support, and the drummer creates inventive patterns behind every player at every tempo from the mercurial “Cherokee” on down to the medium groove of “Walkin’.”

Although the album includes skillful playing from Blevins and Wallace, the other major point of interest is the contrast between Sonny Rollins and Nicky Hill. Rollins, who was just about to establish himself as the dominant tenorman in jazz, is in generally fine form. But Hill, who precedes Rollins on ‘I’ll Remember April” and follows him on “Walkin’,” more than holds his own. An eccentrically individualistic player who died in 1965, Hill was a master of oblique construction; and his solos are surprisingly prophetic of developments to come. Particularly on “Walkin’,” he ends phrases by extending a note until its harmonic meaning becomes more and more ambiguous, an insistence on the purely linear that foreshadows early Ornette Coleman.

This is one great review! Thanks! I wanna hear this.

[jostber]

The actual recordings are not accessible to me right now, but I recall that the CBS LP drawn from this material sounded better than the Lonehill. The music can be made out, and at best it's incredible. Here's something I wrote when the LP came out:

Live at the Beehive is one of jazz’s delayed explosions. Recorded at a South Side Chicago club on November 7, 1955, the group heard here was co-led by Clifford Brown, the young trumpet master who would die in an auto accident the following year, and Max Roach, the dominant percussionist of the bebop era. Also present were bassist George Morrow, tenorman Sonny Rollins (who would soon leave town as a member of the band), and three Chicagoans--tenorman Nicky Hill, guitarist Leo Blevins, and pianist Billy Wallace. The wide-open jam session that took place that night was captured by Roach on a home tape machine, and until now, the music has been heard only by the people who were at the Beehive and by a few of the drummer’s friends. Deeply wounded by Brown’s death, Roach long found himself unable to contemplate the music that reminded him of his loss, and the mediocre sound quality of the tape seemed to preclude commercial release. But Roach finally gave in to those who told him that the Beehive session had to be heard. And it turns out that the refurbished tape is more than listenable; anyone familiar with these musicians will be able to fill in the missing elements in the aural landscape.

Compared with Live at the Beehive, even the best of the Brown-Roach combo’s studio work sounds restrained. Immediately striking is the change one hears in Brown’s playing. In a tragically brief career that ended when he was only twenty-five, Brown became known for his mellow, butter-smooth tone and his ability to construct seemingly endless lyrical lines. And yet, as lovely as it was, his music at times seemed limited by its loveliness, which could became sweet and cute. But the Clifford Brown heard on Live at the Beehive is virtually another man, a savagely adventurous virtuoso who repeatedly rises into the trumpet’s topmost register to create patterns that seem to have been etched in space by a needle-sharp flame. Brown excels on every one of the album’s five tracks, but he surpasses himself on a twenty-minute version of “Cherokee.” The tune, traditionally used to separate the men from the boys, is taken at a lightning tempo, which forces Brown’s lyricism to the point of no return. Eventually, he finds himself stabbing out phrases whose content would be purely rhythmic if it were not for the way his sense of tone and attack makes each note of the design vibrate with melodic meaning.

It is Roach who spurs Brown to these dangerous heights, and in the process, the drummer surpasses himself, too. Neither before nor since has he played with such abandon, and often it sounds as though two or three drummers must be at work. This multiple-player effect comes, in part, from the way Roach has tuned his drum kit. Several years before the Beehive session, he began to adjust his instruments to precise pitches. As a result Roach’s playing became filled with tympani-like effects, as though he were trying to make the drums into a melodic voice. During that same period, though, a certain sobriety crept into his work, perhaps because Roach had to exert conscious control over his new resources. But at the Beehive session, all the wraps were off. Roach’s explosive solo on “Cherokee” is the most startling display on the album, but in no way does he slight his role as an accompanist. Brown’s solos are inseparable from Roach’s support, and the drummer creates inventive patterns behind every player at every tempo from the mercurial “Cherokee” on down to the medium groove of “Walkin’.”

Although the album includes skillful playing from Blevins and Wallace, the other major point of interest is the contrast between Sonny Rollins and Nicky Hill. Rollins, who was just about to establish himself as the dominant tenorman in jazz, is in generally fine form. But Hill, who precedes Rollins on ‘I’ll Remember April” and follows him on “Walkin’,” more than holds his own. An eccentrically individualistic player who died in 1965, Hill was a master of oblique construction; and his solos are surprisingly prophetic of developments to come. Particularly on “Walkin’,” he ends phrases by extending a note until its harmonic meaning becomes more and more ambiguous, an insistence on the purely linear that foreshadows early Ornette Coleman.

This is one great review! Thanks! I wanna hear this.

[ccex]

Anyone who can't listen past the sound quality of the Bee Hive stuff is well-advised to steer clear of this one too :

I just came home from a Sonny Rollins concert in downtown Chicago and read that the Beehive was located 3 blocks from where I've lived for the last 20 years. It seems that in the early '60s the University of Chicago razed several blocks here to put up a shopping center and a high rise apartment building (known by the locals as "monoxide towers).

Today the Chicago Reader posted this: http://www.chicagoreader.com/features/stories/sonnyrollins/ about Rollins' 1955 Chicago stay, including visits to the Beehive.

And, yes, the sound quality of the Roach/Brown/Rollins sessions at the Beehive have kept me from revisiting what would otherwise be a favorite, just like the earlier lo-fi set with Dolphy.

[JSngry]

Today the Chicago Reader posted this: http://www.chicagoreader.com/features/stories/sonnyrollins/ about Rollins' 1955 Chicago stay, including visits to the Beehive.

This is a very nice article. I knew about this "in general" but never at this level of detail. Thanks for posting the link!