I’ve never quite understood the love/hate dichotomy that’s existed between producer 9th Wonder and the hip hop cognoscenti. Honestly – and this is coming from someone who is attentive to trivial details to a fault – but I never thought I’d see such a mass of people get so upset over one producer’s measly snare sounds, for Christ’s sake. I’ve managed to fall into the “dude’s ai’ight” camp, and truthfully, I couldn’t care less whether or not the guy uses FruityLoops or an MPC-3000 to craft his beats, or samples from newly released CDs or crates of moldy 45s. I wouldn’t consider 9th of the same caliber as, say, Showbiz or Buckwild, but suffice it to say that I probably wouldn’t have given Little Brother a second chance without his participation – MCs Phonte and Big Pooh never really impressed me in the least (and comparisons to anyone in the Native Tongues family is straight-up blasphemy, kids). While 2005’s The Minstrel Show suffered the most from the inflated hype that surrounded its release, I thought it was a decent sophomore effort from the trio, and one could certainly do worse these days. Yet there was a track on the record that many overlooked, a joint titled “Not Enough” that led me to believe that 9th Wonder just might be the finest producer in hip hop working in the past decade.

Of course, that would be a difficult point to argue, but it’d be even tougher to deny how utterly sick this beat is. “Not Enough,” if anything, demonstrates how crucial it is for beatmakers to chop a sample into sub-rhythmic fractions, as opposed to quarter or eighth note blocks; stylistically, anything else would sound primitive. Here 9th dices up an unidentified soul sample and renders it even more unrecognizable, morphing it into a minor-keyed, circular groove of soft cooing and breathy exhalations. This dense melange of sound can be subdivided into two separate sections (verse/chorus), but both are so similar that the track almost feels like one repeated, subtly-shifting loop. For variety, the producer programs variations in the drum pattern, like subtracting a snare or hi-hat or adding a series of bass drum hits at the conclusion of a bar. Snippets of sound can be extracted from the mix fairly easily: a delayed guitar note, an ascending string motif, wordless female backing vocals, the distinct pop of a cowbell. It’s the order in which these elements are arranged that’s a testament to 9th Wonder’s little burst of brilliance here. If the man never steps foot in a studio again, I’ll still defend his name solely on the basis of this track.

“Not Enough (Instrumental)” – Little Brother 4:31 (The Minstrel Show, ABB 2005)

So your dinner guests have grown tired of hearing Kind of Blue (1959) for the umpteenth time. You’ve extracted every last ounce of funk out of Head Hunters (1974), and you’ve discovered that casually name-dropping A Love Supreme (1964) in conversations doesn’t raise quite as many eyebrows like it used to. Relax. I’ve been there, floating in that limbo between the requisite genre must-haves and the desire to explore further, but lacking the proper guidance. When a reader emailed me last week asking for jazz recommendations beyond the reliable standbys like Sketches of Spain (1960) and The Shape of Jazz to Come (1959), I was more than happy to help, although it wasn’t the first time I’ve been asked that question. Diving into the depths of jazz headfirst is a risky (and dangerously expensive) adventure, so the following ten records are ones that I’d probably consider ‘non-essential’ to any jazz collection, but would benefit it immensely nonetheless. Bear in mind that I could have easily quadrupled this list – I can think of at least half a dozen, say, Bill Evans or Sonny Rollins LPs that qualify as near-mandatory additions – but these ten were the ones that just happened to float to the top. And since it constitutes a sizeable fraction of my record collection, I’ll take any opportunity to discuss jazz on this site anyway.

Alice Coltrane Ptah, The El Daoud Impulse! 1970

Alice Coltrane’s passing earlier this year unsurprisingly triggered plenty of reassessments of her work, and while many herald Journey in Satchidananda (1970) as the ideal introduction to her brand of spiritual enlightenment, my vote goes to the slightly earlier Ptah, The El Daoud (1970). The lineup of Pharaoh Sanders, Joe Henderson, and Ron Carter is much stronger (though drummer Ben Riley seems a tad unfocused), and quite frankly, the addition of the tambura that permeates Journey is not to everyone’s taste. Coltrane sounds radiant on the title track and “Mantra,” both of which bracket the album, but the real jewels here are the horn-less and introspective “Turiya & Ramakrishna” and “Blue Nile,” which is about as close to transcendence as one can achieve with her music. Immaculately recorded, this is a strikingly beautiful album and one that grows more personal with each listen.

“Blue Nile” – Alice Coltrane 7:05 (Ptah, The El Daoud, Impulse! 1970)

John Coltrane Crescent Impulse! 1964

Crescent (1964) is often referred to as the calm before the storm that is A Love Supreme, but I’ve always likened it to the hour of morning when the sky glows pale as it awaits A Love Supreme’s first ray of golden sunlight. It’s certainly a fine companion piece to its more prominent sibling, a grab-bag of sorts that displays what Coltrane’s quartet was capable at the time, yet in a sharper focus. More than anything else, Crescent is fundamentally a showcase for the rhythm section, with Elvin Jones presiding over “The Drum Thing,” a rare solo feature, and Jimmy Garrison occupying much of the running time of “Lonnie’s Lament” with a extended solo bass exposition. McCoy Tyner also turns in some of the most emotionally intense playing of his career, lending a somber dignity to “Wise One” that would sound nearly alien in anyone else’s hands. One could hardly go wrong with eschewing commonly-regarded stepping stones like Blue Train (1957) and My Favorite Things (1960) in favor of Crescent’s quiet majesty.

“Wise One” – John Coltrane 9:03 (Crescent, Impulse! 1964)

Miles Davis A Tribute to Jack Johnson Columbia 1970

As a cultural artifact, Bitches Brew (1969) simply cannot be contended. But from a musically aesthetic perspective – and I realize that I’m swimming against a tidal wave here – I feel it’s one of the last places to start for someone expressing interest in Miles‘ notorious electric period. Try his lesser-known soundtrack A Tribute to Jack Johnson (1970) instead, trust me. The shaky arrangements and ill-defined parameters of Bitches Brew are replaced here by a fresh, exciting dynamic in the group interplay that the leader would strive to replicate for the next five years of his career, and the record shows how well Miles could channel his genius when presented with a specific project. The story behind the recording of what would become “Right Off” has been repeated tenfold, but I’ll echo it again. April 7th, 1970. Columbia Studio B, New York City. Miles and producer Teo Macero are discussing something in the booth. Bored, the rhythm section of John McLaughlin (guitar), Michael Henderson (bass), and Billy Cobham (drums) begin vamping on a E major blues. Miles likes what he hears, perks up, and tells Macero to begin rolling the tape. He enters the room, orders a key change to Bb major, and lays down one of his top five finest solos ever. Herbie Hancock, on his way back from the supermarket, happens to pass by with a bagful of groceries. Miles signals him to join the session on a malfunctioning Farfisa gathering dust in the corner of the studio. The rest, as they say, is history, and if McLaughlin’s unbelievably badass guitar tone doesn’t capture your ears in the first 30 seconds, perhaps electric Miles isn’t your bag.

“Right Off (Excerpt)” – Miles Davis 10:54 (A Tribute to Jack Johnson, Columbia 1970)

Eric Dolphy Far Cry OJC 1961

I had a professor in college once tell me, apropos of nothing, that he “couldn’t stand” Eric Dolphy’s music, dismissing it as “noisy wankery.” Shocked, I promptly dropped the class the next day, then had the guy fired a week later. I’m kidding, of course, but his statement did tend to cast a discrediting dispersion on everything he taught during the remainder of the semester (Dramatic Orchestration for Film, I believe). I’m a Dolphy obsessive, but I’ve always been puzzled by the insistence of his Out to Lunch (1964) on your average ‘introductory’ jazz list. It’s a phenomenal record, to be sure, and arguably one of the ten most important statements in the entire canon, but Far Cry (1961) goes down much easier for newcomers. Dolphy’s foil here is played by the incomparable Booker Little, whose enthusiastic trumpet slices across the terrain while the leader sets his course for the stratosphere. Historically, the record marks the first appearance of “Miss Ann,” Dolphy’s most significant contribution to the jazz songbook, as well as the debut of an alto solo interpretation of “Tenderly,” both of which are absolutely riveting. Far Cry hints at the sort of “anti-jazz” that Dolphy would continue to explore until his death in 1964, but those intimidated by the knotty dissonance of Out to Lunch should find firmer ground here.

“Far Cry” – Eric Dolphy 3:55 (Far Cry, Original Jazz Classics 1961)

Gil Evans Out of the Cool Impulse! 1961

Sketches of Spain always seems to make an appearance on many a desert island list, but for my money, Gil Evans‘ Out of the Cool (1961) would be the soundtrack of choice to accompany my last malnourished days in a tropical paradise. Evans seemed to retain all of the finest moments from his jazz-orchestra trilogy with Miles (Miles Ahead [1957], Porgy and Bess [1958], and Sketches) and condensed them into the all-too-brief 45 minutes that make up Out of the Cool. Not a minute passes that fails to amaze, whether it’s Johnny Coles‘ understated trumpet playing, Evans’ inherent gift for imaginative orchestration, or his interpretation of already stellar material. Plenty of records could be defined as fodder for the ears, but Out of the Cool delivers a feast, and recorded with all the natural delicacy that this music deserves (remarkably, Impulse!/MCA actually got the CD transfer right on this one). Give me a pair of headphones and this album and watch me disappear for the better part of an hour. Highly, highly recommended, especially for Ellington fans.

“Where Flamingos Fly” – Gil Evans 5:12 (Out of the Cool, Impulse! 1961)

Herbie Hancock The Prisoner Blue Note 1969

Out of print for decades, Herbie Hancock’s The Prisoner (1969) is a wonderful bridge between the pianist’s earlier, sparer Blue Notes (Maiden Voyage [1965]) and the spaced-out freeform electronics of his early-’70s Warner Brothers material (Sextant [1973]). The album makes one wish that he had more opportunities and challenges to write for non-traditional ensembles in the brass and woodwinds families (similar to what labelmate Andrew Hill, below, was experimenting with at the time). Dedicated to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr, Hancock’s command of the material here is almost startling, with tenor saxophonist Joe Henderson continuing his shit-hot streak of the era by contributing many of the standout moments on the record. And trumpeter Johnny Coles, again, shows why he was one of the most underrated session men in the oeuvre. A strong record that will hopefully get more exposure now that it’s back from obscurity, The Prisoner is a solid next step for those with an inclination towards the younger, acoustic side of Herbie.

“Firewater” – Herbie Hancock 7:33 (The Prisoner, Blue Note 1969)

Andrew Hill Judgment! Blue Note 1964

Looking for a more, dare I say, stimulating alternative to the familiar standards and run-of-the-mill changes of those Bill Evans and Monk platters? Meet Andrew Hill, my personal favorite of all jazz pianists, whose entire discography is in dire need of exhumation and a subsequent retrospective more than any other musician that comes to mind. What Hill’s cerebral compositions lack in directness they make up for in longevity, as it usually takes a few dozens listens or so to realize how clever and downright catchy – in an incredibly odd way, of course – his tunes are. After a handful of passable Blue Note dates, he finally hit his stride on Judgment! (1964) with the incomparable Bobby Hutcherson on vibes and a rhythm section that anyone would envy (Richard Davis and Elvin Jones). Of the ten items on this list, this may be the most jarring transition from the usual swing and hard bop that comprises most jazz collections, but give it some time and a few more listens. Along with Hill’s own Point of Departure (1964) and Out to Lunch (see above), it’s not a bad place to start for those curious about where to get their feet wet in regards to the more challenging, ‘freer’ jazz of the ’60s.

“Flea Flop” – Andrew Hill 7:21 (Judgment!, Blue Note 1964)

John McLaughlin Extrapolation Polydor 1969

It just occurred to me a few minutes ago that I probably should have excluded Extrapolation (1969) from this list. No, it really belongs on an “absolute essentials” list, because nowhere else will you find a more concise statement of why John McLaughlin is such a massive influence on modern jazz guitar playing. I still giddy it up like a little schoolgirl whenever I play this record, but only because the anticipation of particular moments of familiarity is almost unbearable. For example, listen to “Binky’s Dream” at 4:15 for the clammed chord McLaughlin spits out as he concludes his solo and John Surman enters. Indeed, the soprano and baritone sax of the British reed legend is absolutely critical to the proceedings, but this is still the guitarist’s show, with hyperkinetic 16th-note runs, warped chord mashings, and a clean, unfettered approach to the material that keeps it fresh nearly 40 years later. Solo debuts from jazz musicians are rarely this exciting – yeah, this is pretty much a must-have.

“Binky’s Dream” – John McLaughlin 7:05 (Extrapolation, Polydor 1969)

Charles Mingus Mingus Mingus Mingus Mingus Mingus Impulse! 1963

For those who understandably can’t get enough of Charles Mingus‘ masterpiece The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady (1963), this makes an ideal companion piece. Not only were two of the selections on Mingus Mingus Mingus Mingus Mingus (1963) recorded during the same sessions, but more importantly, the record acts almost like a greatest hits collection, concluding one of the most exceptionally productive half-decades of any jazz musician’s career. One would be misled into thinking that the album contained all new material, but Mingus simply retitled the songs: “Theme for Lester Young” is basically “Goodbye Pork Pie Hat,” “II B.S.” is “Haitian Fight Song,” etc. Yet these reinterpretations are tackled with a fiery conviction by one of the sickest ensembles Mingus ever assembled, which elevates the record to must-own status – but after Black Saint and Mingus Ah Um (1959), of course. By the way, if “II B.S.” has you thinking, “I’ll tap your jaw,” don’t worry, you’re not alone.

“II B.S.” – Charles Mingus 4:48 (Mingus Mingus Mingus Mingus Mingus, Impulse! 1963)

Sun Ra Space Is the Place (Original Soundtrack) Evidence 1972

Pity the poor thrillseeker who jumps blindly into the discography of the mighty Sun Ra. Without any assistance, one could end up throwing their hard-earneds down on a record where the musicians sound like they’re on crack, the fidelity is terrible, and – is that a phone ringing in the background? I’ve always pointed enthusiastic neophytes in the direction of Space Is the Place (1972) his soundtrack for some obscure experimental art film (in typical Sun Ra fashion, not to be confused with the Impulse! release of the same title). It’s a fine ’sampler’ of his work, containing extended percussion exercises, hypnotic drone pieces, apocalyptic chants, Ra’s signature “space organ” vamps, and some of the most animated singing from June Tyson on record, who is clearly in her element here. Everything about what made Sun Ra and his Intergalactic Solar Arkestra so special can be found on this double LP, and if one discovers nothing to like here, it would be wise to proceed no further with his music.

“Outer Spaceways Incorporated” – Sun Ra 3:03 (Space Is the Place, Evidence 1972)

Over the years I’ve grown increasingly wary of naked sentimentality in music, and I’m not sure why. For example, I never gave Ghostface’s “Momma” more than a single play. I’ll acknowledge the stellar musicianship of bands like The National, yet never listen to the group. I avoid sad white guys with guitars like the plague; hell, even Jeff Buckley, whose music used to resonate with me, now makes me slightly uneasy. This explains part of the reason why ex-Tripping Daisy Tim DeLaughter’s choral cult collective The Polyphonic Spree has more or less translated as The Monophonic Headache. The group’s kaleidoscopic anthems, grandoise orchestration, and tired utopian ideology has always seemed to me as a second-tier, post-Soft Bulletin (1999) Flaming Lips, which I’m admittedly not really into either. Still, when I heard that DeLaughter had ordered his disciples to ditch the angelic robes for military garb on newest release The Fragile Army (2007), I was curious: had the great maestro come to his senses to create a sound that’s a little more appealing than a bad acid hangover? After a session of first impression haiku, I realized that nothing had changed, and The Polyphonic Spree still incited pounding migraines and symptoms of nausea. Check for various selections from The Fragile Army at your nearest Volkswagon commercial.

“Section 21: Together We’re Heavy”
A pointless intro
Christ, I hate when bands do this
Waste of a download.

“Section 22: Running Away”
Wayne Coyne, is that you
Peering through 3D glasses?
Overblown madness.

“Section 22: Running Away” – The Polyphonic Spree 3:33 (The Fragile Army, TVT 2007)

“Section 23: Get Up and Go”
Turn the amps to ‘Rock’
Nice mic’ing of the bass drum
I’ll tolerate this.

“Section 24: The Fragile Army”
Here we go again
Triggering the gag reflex
Channeling Queen now?

“Section 25: Younger Yesterday”
Too familiar
A “Running Away” re-hash?
Shit hippie lyrics.

“Section 25: Younger Yesterday” – The Polyphonic Spree 4:35 (The Fragile Army, TVT 2007)

“Section 26: We Crawl”
Please, Tim, go back to
Managing that record store
Hell, I’ll take that job.

“Section 27: Mental Cabaret”
And… cue the headache
People really like this band?
Explain it to me.

“Section 28: Guaranteed Nightlife”
Inherently wrong
Worst track on the whole record
God, by a longshot.

“Section 29: Light to Follow”
Is that a tabla?
Something sober would be nice
See you in rehab.

“Section 30: Watch Us Explode (Justify)”
Justify this, douche
But still, the drums sound kickass
Let’s call it even.

“Section 31: Overblow Your Nest”
I’m numb to this now
Dirty hippies, take a bath
That was uncalled for.

“Section 32: The Championship”
“The world will be one”?!?
Keep away from my heartstrings
Shit don’t work with me.

In other areas of the world wide internets, my good friend Jeff Weiss asked me to contribute a guest post while he was jubilating at Bonnaroo this past week. Naturally, I broke out the surgical gloves for a dissection of a Kool G Rap verse.

Sadat X “Why?” Black October Riverside Drive 2006

One of the last truly great MCs from the second Golden Age era of hip hop who is still active, Sadat X is currently nearing the end of a nine-month bid for possession. His anxiety and anticipation about his upcoming lockdown were dramatically captured on last year’s Black October (2006), a fascinating record only hindered by a few sub-par productions and a rushed mastering job as Sadat scrambled to complete it before heading upstate. Harrowing subject matter aside, the strongest impression I get from the album is how criminal it is that the man is still slept on. With his uniquely loose cadence and scholarly croak, Sadat is the equivalent of that actor who’s impossible to take your eyes away from, a scene-stealing presence that consequently raises the bar for everyone else, from early Brand Nubian single “All for One” through Tribe’s “Show Business” and Finesse’s “Actual Facts.” Experience and Education (2005) cemented his position as the figurehead of ‘grown man rap,’ where the run-of-the-mill club and street dramas are eschewed in favor of topics like discussions about the daily news and his coaching of the local youth basketball league.

“Why?” is a ‘hidden’ track buried at the end of Black October, and after an album’s worth of ruminations and remorse about his future prison sentence, a song about the frustrations of his girl coverting to lesbianism comes across as doubly hilarious – as if dude didn’t have enough to worry about. His annoyance is directed sqarely at his girl’s persistent friend, who is always suspiciously “braiding her hair” and “complimenting her underwear.” Naturally, Sadat entertains fantasies of a ménage à trois, but her staunch hatred of all men squashes that notion, and by the second verse he’s had enough of her attempts to give his shorty money and take her to the club. His chagrin is expressed perfectly when he finally throws up his arms and exclaims, “What I gotta do, keep the bedroom door closed?” It’s another fine example of Sadat’s sharp wit and creative pen, and whets the appetite for his next full-length when his head and conscience will be clear and the weight of jail time is lifted from his shoulders.

“Why?” – Sadat X 3:44 (Black October, Riverside Drive 2006)

Forgive me, dear reader, but I must place my regular posts on the proverbial back burner to momentarily digress upon a particular affliction that has been haunting me lately. I realize that the whole concept of this site is to introduce new or overlooked music to the reader, but today’s post will eschew the usual track dissection or weekly song for something a bit more personal. Something I have to get off my chest. Call it a sort of cleansing, ‘real talk,’ if you will.

You see, at the office where I spend most of my time during the weekdays, we listen to the radio at a clearly audible yet unintrusive volume. Our receiver is tuned to one of two local Boston stations: WBCN, the city’s requisite commercial ‘rock’ station, and WERS, the broadcast from Emerson College. Although the latter’s catchphrase is the mildly irritating “Music for the Independent Mind,” I generally tend to prefer it simply because it’s commercial-free, and BCN’s mindless replays of various Guns N’ Roses classics and anything from Pearl Jam’s Ten (1991) tend to dull my senses after an hour or so. WERS’ playlist consists of safe and reliable ‘indie’ standbys such as Modest Mouse, Elliot Smith, and Wilco, with the occasional Pixies or Joni Mitchell track thrown in for variety. I can usually tune it out if I don’t care for it, but lately my days have been savagely interrupted by three minutes of the foulest kind of aural garbage I’ve subjected my poor, withering eardrums to. That song happens to be titled “Littlest Things” by one Lily Allen.

It’s rare that I come across a piece of music that I staunchly loathe with every last fiber of my being; I can usually find at least one detail in a track that interests me, which I tend to focus on until it’s over or I have an opportunity to leave the room. But the intensity of my distaste for “Littlest Things” is so unprecedented, so groundbreaking, it’s almost a personal cause for celebration. I’m aware that I might have missed the critical boat on a single released six months ago, but I don’t care. I all but ignored the hype that surrounded Ms. Allen during the latter half of last year, attributing it to the average hipster’s bizarre infatuation with candy-coated girlie-pop that occupies a curious little demographic in the fanbases of everyone from Kylie Minogue to Annie. I’ve heard a few selectons from Alright, Still (2006) and they’re tolerable, but I could easily live the rest of my life without hearing them again. She’ll probably be long forgotten in five years, but who am I to deny the girl her fifteen minutes?

So what is it about “Littlest Things” that offends me so much? For starters, I hate the fact that the melody is a wholesale appropriation of Cat Stevens‘ “Wild World,” a song which the incorrigible UB40 covered back in the ’80s and remains a permanent scar on my otherwise innocent childhood. I hate that horribly EQ’d bassline that ejaculates all over the first ten seconds of the track. I hate Allen’s wispy, wordless vocalizations that are smeared into the mix. I hate that deliberately clumsy and overcompressed piano. I hate her rushed pseudo-rapping that comprises the verses. I hate how she rhymes “reminiscing” with “kissing” and uses the vomit-inducing expression “flirtatious disses.” I hate the way I can visualize Allen rocking her body side-to-side as she’s singing, using her hands to mimic the lyrics. I hate those lifeless drums. I hate the way she says “littlest.” I hate Mark Ronson, who orchestrated this whole steaming pile. Most of all, I hate the way this song bores its way into my skull with the subtlety of a goddamn jackhammer and stays there, anchored to my brain, until I wake up the next morning screaming my lungs out.

And… catharsis! I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a little better after having purged every last drop of poisonous bile this song has produced within me.

Ahem. Regular entries will resume now. Again, my apologies for the interruption.

“Littlest Things” – Lily Allen 3:02 (Alright, Still, Regal 2006)