Pete Rock “Best Believe (feat. Redman & LD)” NY’s Finest Nature Sounds 2008

I’m a devout follower of All Things Soul Brother as much as the next member of the Pete Rock Appreciation Society (just ask Dan Love), but half a dozen listens into the producer’s latest NY’s Finest (2008) and I still can’t lift the weight of disappointment off my shoulders. The issue lies not with his masterful manipulation of sounds and beats, which is always a wonder to behold, but rather with the C-list lineup of lyricists that, with a few meager exceptions, I really couldn’t give a rat’s about. Add to that a number of questionable detours into styles that clearly aren’t Pete’s foray as well as an overall lack of cohesiveness that the Soul Survivor installments were able to overcome, and what’s left is a haphazard mess of a record with little worth salvaging. Two of the tracks I genuinely never want to hear again: the ill-advised reggae tripe of “Ready Fe War,” and the sole guest production, Green Lantern’s “Don’t Be Mad,” which bears the distinction of having the most stupefyingly moronic hook I’ve heard in years. Even an appearance from Newark’s golden-agers Lords of the Underground can’t keep “The Best Secret” from deflating and falling flat. Tellingly, the record’s two (arguably) strongest selections dropped over a year ago on the “914″/”The PJ’s” 12″, the latter of which features stellar verses from Raekwon and Masta Killa. The rest, it seems, is just padding.

Still, this is Pete Rock we’re talking about, so the production rarely falters, each track radiating with the same warm, soulful bounce that’s characterized his work for nearly twenty years. It’s a detectable feel that’s difficult to place a finger on but is undeniably there, like the slick, velvety groove that makes up for the retarded garbling of Jim Jones and Max B on “We Roll” or the midnight paranoia that overshadows the dulling gun talk from Royal Flush on “Questions.” The always-entertaining Redman and weed carrier LD drop in to contribute to one of the few highlights on “Best Believe,” a mid-tempo cut laced with some juicy scratching and plenty of pimp swagger. Pete’s mic skills, which are more dominant on NY’s Finest than on past solo jaunts, remain tolerable and occasionally cringing, adhering to the usual “respect the game/longevity” content we’ve grown to expect from him. And while a somewhat clumsy 16 from Pete is certainly preferable to, say, a verse from Papoose, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss the days when Puba regularly ghostwrote for the guy. My prediction is that I’ll likely shelve this disc by next week until the double-LP vinyl of NY’s Finest instrumentals is (hopefully) released, at which point I can enjoy the record free of all the verbal clutter.

“Best Believe” – Pete Rock feat. Redman & LD 4:38 (NY’s Finest, Nature Sounds 2008)

I’ve never really been a “live show” guy. Rarely has the thrill of seeing a band play in front of an audience become some sort of transcendent experience for me like it apparently is for everyone else, which eventually becomes a bragging point in a game of one-upmanship for most (“Have you heard the new XYZ record? It’s good.” “Yeah. But have you seen them live?”). There’s a good reason why you don’t see a category for “Live Show Reviews” anywhere on this site, and a lot of it has to do with the old scale of preference, the point in a discussion where I hold my palms up and make a gentle juggling motion. To wit, would I rather:

Pay an exorbitant ticket price to see said band, stand around impatiently through a handful of local opening acts ranging from passably mediocre to flat-out awful, pay $7.50 for ten ounces in a plastic cup when a six-pack of the same beer would cost less at the liquor store near my house, wait as the headlining band takes their sweet-ass time to appear long after the sound crew has everything set up for them, realize that I forgot to bring a pair of earplugs and head to the bathroom for a wad of gritty toilet paper that would cause second-degree burns on the toughest ass cheeks, continually make “WTF?!?” gestures at the visibly high sound guy for his incompetence at his job, silently wish a sweetly violent death on that Pelé-looking asshole who insists on standing front and center, suppress my gag reflex when the foul beer from a tap that hasn’t been cleaned since the Reagan years begins to make its way back up my esophagus, wonder why said band won’t play the song I want to hear them play, inexplicably stay for the encore which consists of two poorly-rehearsed covers, squeeze myself into the herd as we slowly inch toward the exits, arrive home late and smelling of sweat and booze, and feel like shit the next day at work no matter how many Emergen-C packets I dump into my coffee,

or…

Enjoy a quiet and relaxing evening at home, listening to said band’s record in the comfort of my, um, “listening” chair (yes, that’s what I call it), hearing them play the song I want to hear them play when I want them to play it, sipping a cold beer or glass of wine, and marveling over the subtle application of hand claps in the left channel during the last chorus and outro?

There was a time in my younger, extroverted days when it seemed like I was going to see a band at least once a week, leaving the venue in orgiastic ecstasy (Mouse on Mars) or with the worst headache imaginable (Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy). Eventually I became burned out on the whole thing, to the point where now I’ll catch a live act maybe twice a year, usually a hip hop show at my wife’s dire insistence or a friend’s band at a half-empty bar on a Tuesday night. Occasionally, as I’m nodding my head complacently and resisting my natural urges so I won’t have to slosh through the urine-soaked restroom, I fondly reminisce on the night when I was first exposed to this numbing experience and the band that started it all: Cracker. Yeah. That Cracker.

You see, when I was 14 or so I went through an incorrigible bout of obsession with ’80s Santa Cruz eclectics Camper Van Beethoven. You couldn’t tell me shit about them. I treasured everything by the band, including the post-split Monks of Doom and Hieronymus Firebrain records along with frontman David Lowery’s blatant stab at tepid ’70s country-rock, the aforementioned Cracker. When I found out that Cracker was playing an all-ages show 45 minutes away, at the now-demolished TRAX Nightclub in Charlottesville, Virginia, I pleaded with everyone I knew who possessed a valid driver’s license to accompany me. The only person who agreed to taxi me over there was a guy two years older than me, a friend of a friend named Mike. I didn’t know him too well and his tastes in music were highly questionable, but he had a car and that’s all that mattered. I coaxed a hesitant approval out of my parents and Mike and I solidified plans a few weeks in advance. The show was on a weeknight, but since it was the middle of summer, I only had to worry about showing up to my part-time job the next morning.

On the evening of the event Mike picked me up in his gas-guzzling tank of an automobile, an early-’80s model Mercedes that was as unsightly as it was uncomfortable. Mike was the kind of guy who got a kick out of telling people he drove a Benz, despite the fact that there was a piss-yellow ‘79 Datsun pickup down the street that would have raised more eyebrows than his clangorous boat-on-wheels. We made small talk on the way to the venue as I tried to play it cool and subside the anxiety I felt at seeing my first live show. As we neared the club I began to panic: what if it sold out? What if we can’t find parking and miss the set? How will I get home if Mike decides to ditch me? Yet we arrived in time to see the opening act, though I have no recollection about them other than that they were some local jam-band with an alarming number of followers, mostly hippie chicks who looked like they hadn’t showered in a good week.

The rest of the show was mostly a blur. Not in a I-got-drunk-and-don’t-remember blur, but more of an uneventful, mildly disappointing, not-worth-remembering sort of blur. Lowery and company came on and performed a polite little set of tunes from their first two records (this was on their Kerosene Hat [1993] tour) with a Grateful Dead cover sprinkled in for good measure. The air-conditioning was busted and the place was suffocating. The audience was a late-’20s/early-’30s yuppie crowd, and clearly enjoyed guitarist Johnny Hickman’s corny facial expressions during his solos. I somehow got my hands on a warm beer that I left on the bar after a few bitter sips, later telling Mike that I “chugged it.” I wanted to join in the enthusiasm and excitement that everyone was intoxicated with, this communal rejoicing in loud rock ‘n roll, but I couldn’t shake the inescapable feeling of detachment. Here was one of my musical idols mere feet in front of me, and all I could focus on was why the long-haired idiot next to me in a pit-stained white tee kept stepping on my toes. Maybe I would have reacted differently if it were Camper Van Beethoven on stage, but Cracker wasn’t too bad. Why couldn’t I ignore the urge to get the hell out of there?

As we exited the club I felt drained, physically and emotionally. Mike, however, wanted to go “scouting for college babes,” so we cruised around the University of Virginia campus looking for a “kegger.” It was well after midnight on a weeknight in July, but somehow we stumbled upon a house that looked promising, and I soon found myself alone on the front steps nursing a sweaty can of Natty Light while Mike tried unsuccessfully to talk his way into the pants of any female who happened to slip into his visual orbit. Finally, the cops showed up and quashed the already-dead party, much to my relief as I hid in the bushes by the Mercedes. I initially panicked at Mike’s fumbling, off-hand comment of, “Dude, I don’t know if I’m cool to drive,” until it dawned on me that the guy had maybe three beers the entire evening, two of which had less natural alcohol than a glass of grapefruit juice. I slumbered lifelessly in the front seat on the way home, pretending I was drunk so I wouldn’t have to make conversation. Naturally, I told every one of my friends the next day that the show “kicked ass,” and, on occasions when I felt like flexing some creativity with my storytelling, lying through my teeth as I would describe the chick who totally took her top off and flashed the crowd during “Euro-Trash Girl.”

I like to think that this scarring childhood experience solely contributes to my aversion to musical venues, but I’m also open to the depressing realization that I’m probably just getting old. Years later, when I caught Camper Van Beethoven on their reunion tour, I made my peace with Mr. Lowery as he led the band through ripping renditions of their catalog that I knew and loved so well. For the unforeseeable future, however, I’ll stick with YouTube clips and live DVDs if I want to enjoy seeing a band perform in front of a crowd. Sorry, but I prefer the comfort of my couch to a sweaty, sticky bar stool. I’m weird like that.

“Cowboys from Hollywood” – Camper Van Beethoven 1:43 (II & III, IRS 1986)

“Euro-Trash Girl” – Cracker 8:04 (Kerosene Hat, Virgin 1993)

Depending on my mood, were someone to ask me what’s wrong with the state of popular music today (and if I may be so bold, the world in general), my response would probably be, “Folks don’t listen to enough John Coltrane.” Sure, you’re likely to discover at least one ‘Trane platter or disc in the average healthy music collection – a Giant Steps (1959) here, a Blue Train (1957) there, and possibly A Love Supreme (1965) somewhere – but it takes a pretty hefty amount of gumption and courage to venture into the turbulent waters of Coltrane’s later-era work (roughly ’65 until his death in July ’67), where run-of-the-mill blowing themes have mutated into noisy, hostile sound-worlds. This is the territory where Coltrane transcends corporeal terms like “jazz musician” or “great saxophonist” for more applicable designations like “immortal” or “saint.” It also sends unprepared dilettantes running for the hills in terror, palms over their ears.

Few discographies are more intimidating for a musician with such a brief window of studio recordings – roughly a mere decade (’57-’67) in Coltrane’s case. His catalogue can be divided into three distinct eras based on label association: his early “sheets of sound” phase on Prestige and Blue Note, the middle Atlantic Records years, and his Classic Quartet recordings and experimental works on Impulse!. It is this last period that has been the most discussed, dividing both critics and fans, and perplexing jazz scholars looking for an easy explanation behind Coltrane’s restless musical pursuits. The quartet that the saxophonist assembled in 1962 – comprised of pianist McCoy Tyner, bassist Jimmy Garrison, and drummer Elvin Jones – is considered today one of the most revered in the jazz canon, a breakthrough unit of minds and talent that breached beyond the confines of hard bop and helped established the parameters for the avant-garde, guided by the leader’s deeply spiritual sonic explorations.

Pity the poor soul thumbing through the “Jazz” racks at Barnes & Noble, innocently seeking some light evening dinner music and arriving home with their very own copy of Kulu Se Mama (1965). As with most of the great jazz legends whose output, official or unofficial, stretches into the triple digits, some guidance is necessary. The following ten records are what I believe to be the most essential of Coltrane’s Impulse! work, albeit under the unlikely presumption that the eager neophyte has $150 in disposable income to drop on an artist they know very little about. The rest can pick and choose based on their level of comfort and/or taste for adventure.

The Complete Africa/Brass Sessions Impulse! 1995 Originally recorded May-June 1961

Coltrane’s first outing for Creed Taylor’s label was a larger-scale project utilizing a sizable horn ensemble to supplement the quartet (although technically Garrison had not yet joined at this stage), resulting in a rich, expansive palette for which he could apply his broad strokes of tenor. The Africa/Brass (1995) charts were penned by Eric Dolphy, pianist Tyner, and the leader, and foreshadow to an extent the larger orchestrations that Coltrane would experiment with on Ascension (1965) (see below). The playing is top-notch all around, and Coltrane even unleashes the fluttering of his soprano on the waltz-inflected “Greensleeves,” which by now had become something of a custom for him wherever a 6/8 pulse appeared. Jones, in particular, seems absolutely enthralled by the surroundings, creating swells of shuffling polyrhythms to accent the soloists. This double-disc set tends to be on the pricier side, but every moment is worth it, and yes, you do need to hear all three takes of the majestic “Africa.”

“Song of the Underground Railroad” – John Coltrane 6:44 (The Complete Africa/Brass Sessions, Impulse 1995)

Live at The Village Vanguard: The Master Takes Impulse! 1998 Originally recorded November 1961

The released documentation of Coltrane’s residency at The Village Vanguard in November of ‘61 suffered from inaccuracies for years – from who played on what to what was recorded when – but with the release of the four-disc The Complete 1961 Village Vanguard Recordings (1997), the confusion appears to have been clarified. Meanwhile, the inquisitive novice should begin with The Master Takes (1998) before meticulously comparing takes within the box set, as the essentials from this historic session are all here: Dolphy’s gutteral bass clarinet on the opener “Spiritual,” the leader’s brilliant theme deconstruction on “Impressions” (one of his most analyzed solos to date), the hypnotic twin-bass drone of “India,” and the riveting quarter-hour of the John Gilmore-inspired “Chasin’ the Train,” which almost holds the same shock value as it did when it first appeared nearly 50 (!) years ago. Obsessives can and should splurge on the four-disc package, which is thoroughly and exquisitely annotated, but this five-song collection will suffice quite nicely for most listeners.

“Impressions” – John Coltrane 14:52 (Live at the Village Vanguard: The Master Takes, Impulse! 1998)

Ballads Impulse! 1962 Originally recorded September-November 1962

Normally I’d never recommend a record comprised entirely of ballads from any artist, but Coltrane was so phenomenal at handling slower tempos that it would be almost criminal to overlook Ballads (1962). The leader was suffering from dental problems at the time and was having difficulty with his embouchure, so in effect, Ballads was released as a sort of concession until his mouth healed and he regained his articulation. All of the standards here, from “Too Young to Go Steady” to “Nancy (With the Laughing Face)” are handled with class and dignity, never sinking to the level of tepid cocktail-piano pleasantry. Ballads will warmly cloak you with its dark intimacy, and few records of the era are as conducive to a lonely evening with your bottle of choice.

“You Don’t Know What Love Is” – John Coltrane 5:14 (Ballads, Impulse! 1962)

Crescent Impulse! 1964 Originally recorded April-June 1964

I’ve covered Crescent (1964) on the site before, including it on my list of Ten Non-Essential Jazz Platters last summer, and I still feel it’s the best overall representation of what this quartet could accomplish, despite its slightly grab-bag presentation. The record’s price is justified alone by the inclusion of two of Coltrane’s most jaw-dropping ballads, Tyner’s piano feature “Wise One” and “Lonnie’s Lament,” which features a haunting extended bass solo from Garrison. Other than his commanding tenor on the title track and the brief mid-album break-in-mood “Bessie’s Blues,” Coltrane cedes the majority of the playing to his band, only resurfacing during the second half of the record to engage in some sax/drum interplay on Jones’ showcase “The Drum Thing,” which closes the album. Crescent has always been popularly referred to as ‘Trane’s “darkest” record, and indeed, compared to the halo-like radiance emitted by its nearest sibling, it is certainly much more introspective and contemplative. It’s a fine place to start, with something here to satisfy everyone.

“Wise One” – John Coltrane 9:01 (Crescent, Impulse! 1964)

A Love Supreme Impulse! 1965 Originally recorded December 1964

Rarely has the word ‘timeless’ been better suited to a jazz record. I can’t in good conscience recommend another item on this list over A Love Supreme, so if you can only acquire one, make it this one. For those who’ve never heard a note of it, I’ll try my best to disguise my envy at the enlightenment you’re about to experience. A Love Supreme marvelously achieved everything Coltrane was working to accomplish up until then, his own personal poem to God that remains unparalleled in jazz to this day; even the staunchest atheist would be moved by its awesome power. In an alternate universe, a copy of A Love Supreme can be found in every hotel nightstand across the country. I couldn’t possibly elaborate upon this record without recycling what has been written before. It’s perfection, and you should own it. I’ll leave it at that.

“Resolution” – John Coltrane 7:25 (A Love Supreme, Impulse! 1965)

The John Coltrane Quartet Plays Impulse! 1965 Originally recorded February-May 1965

The John Coltrane Quartet Plays (1965) is an odd curve in the Coltrane trajectory. After the spiritual catharsis of A Love Supreme, the leader seemed to be in a kind of limbo during the following months, not wanting turn his back entirely on form and structure yet hesitant to dive headfirst into the unexplored realms of free jazz (or The New Thing, as the kids were calling it back then). On the surface, these sessions appear to be pieced together to tide over fans while the leader was immersed in the planning stages of Ascension, but as a four-song package it holds together surprisingly well. Art Davis steps in to play arco second bass on the popular Nat King Cole vehicle “Nature Boy,” while the group rips through the modal waltz “Chim Chim Cheree,” one of the last instances of Coltrane’s soprano playing. The two Coltrane originals, “Brasilia” and “Song of Praise,” are much more introspective but no less potent. It’s convenient to think of Plays as a minor stepping stone between the towers of A Love Supreme and Ascension, but it’s far more deserving of a critical re-evaluation as its own unique entity.

“Song of Praise” – John Coltrane 9:51 (The John Coltrane Quartet Plays, Impulse! 1965)

The Major Works of John Coltrane Impulse! 1992 Originally recorded June-October 1965

Unequivocally essential. The monolithic The Major Works of John Coltrane (1992) gathers both 40-minute editions of the free-jazz collective improv “Ascension,” the surreal Kalahari journey “Kulu Se Mama,” and arguably the strangest item in the Coltrane discography, “Om,” an experiment reportedly committed to tape while the leader was in the midst of an intense acid trip. “Ascension” is often compared to Ornette Coleman’s Free Jazz (1960) in scope and length, yet where Coleman took advantage of a double-quartet ensemble, Coltrane employed an eleven-piece band for a studied examination of unrestrained group improvisation. The lineup is of an all-star caliber: Freddie Hubbard, John Tchicai, Archie Shepp, Pharoah Sanders, Art Davis; the list goes on. Chord changes could be ignored or adhered to, solo structures followed a loose guideline of dynamics, modes were indicated by hand signals, and all the while the three-man rhythm section crashed and tumbled underneath. “Ascension” signaled Coltrane’s increasingly-apparent desires to move beyond the confines of the standard quartet, whose restrictions prevented his need to explore the impenetrable slabs of sound and volume he heard in his head. The other pieces included here aren’t quite as significant, but are no less fascinating and are most certainly worth having. The Major Works isn’t something you’d play while getting ready for a Saturday night at the club, but given some patience and the right frame of mind, one can get lost inside this set for months.

“Acension (Edition II) (Excerpt)” – John Coltrane 7:56 (The Major Works of John Coltrane, Impulse! 1992)

Sun Ship Impulse! 1971 Originally recorded August 1965

Even regular Coltrane devotees like myself tend to overlook Sun Ship (1971), recorded shortly after Ascension. Besides the misleading cover image (Coltrane doesn’t play soprano anywhere on the record), the record’s chief distinguishing trait from its peers is the fidelity, as it was one of the rare studio sessions not engineered by Rudy Van Gelder; the result is a rougher, murkier mix that suits the music surprisingly well. Coltrane’s solos here veer toward the raucous kinetic energy characteristic of Pharoah Sanders and Archie Shepp, and Tyner, whose unease and reservations were reflected in his playing by this point, demonstrates remarkable fluidity and what can best be described as a compelling tangentiality in his solos. Jones, on the other hand, sounds downright angry, firing shotgun-like bursts from his kit at the leader, while Garrison again almost steals the show with a bass solo that encompasses over half of the ten-minute “Ascent” (no, Coltrane didn’t exactly have a Mingus-like flair for distinctive song titles). Coltrane’s post-Love Supreme sessions tend to have a reputation as documents of group discomposure, the quartet’s once-telekinetic interplay threatening to implode from the gravity of Coltrane’s vision; Sun Ship proves that this wasn’t always the case.

“Amen” – John Coltrane 8:14 (Sun Ship, Impulse! 1971)

Meditations Impulse! 1965 Originally recorded November 1965

Meditations qualifies as my personal favorite of Coltrane’s Impulse! catalogue, a 40-minute colossus of raw, noisy power interrupted only by glistening moments of serenity. Essentially two lengthy suites that originally occupied one side of the record each, the leader actually recorded the same material ten months earlier with just the quartet, subsequently released as First Meditations (1965). For this later session, Coltrane augmented the group with a percussionist who specialized in the kind of pulse-less white noise he was searching for, a young Philadelphian named Rashied Ali, as well as the wild tenor sax of Pharoah Sanders (who had participated in “Ascension,” above). Jones wasn’t exactly thrilled by the addition of a second drummer and at times appears to be competing with Ali, struggling to establish himself over the cacophony. Indeed, it is this very conflict which only serves to amplify the intensity of the record. Coltrane seems enthralled by his new surroundings, scaling hitherto-unreachable heights with his playing, and while Sanders only contributes to two tracks (the blistering opener “The Father and The Son and The Holy Ghost” and “Consequences”), at times he sounds as if he’s a wild boar being skinned alive, such is the furious determination in his squealing altissimo. Tyner puts his best foot forward, but it’s pretty obvious he has no idea what the hell is going on; it would be his last recorded session with the group. This is not an easy album to sit through and is undoubtedly one of the more challenging listens in the Coltrane canon, but Meditations is absolutely gripping from start to finish.

“Love” – John Coltrane 8:10 (Meditations, Impulse! 1965)

Interstellar Space Impulse! 1974 Originally recorded February 1967

Coltrane’s last studio project, recorded just a few months before his death at age 40, was a series of duets with drummer Rashied Ali and posthumously titled Interstellar Space (1974), released seven years later. By this point, Coltrane was working to establish a pure-sound environment free of song structure, tempo, and the confines of tonal harmony, and the unorthodox Ali was the perfect foil for his muse. Considering its title as well as the selections named after planets in the solar system, comparisons to the cosmos and beyond are inevitable, but I’ve always heard this record as inherently terrestrial, Coltrane’s channel of tenor burrowing, splitting, and colliding against Ali’s shifting geologic architecture. Sonically, this is as bare-bones as Coltrane got, and with the absence of a pulse or harmonic counterpart, Interstellar Space can’t be approached like the earlier Impulse! selections. Yet there is a peaceful solace underlining the cacophony here, as if Coltrane knew he was clearly onto something, his spiritual nirvana through music nearing its full awakening. Sadly, he would leave this world before reaping the fruits of his discovery, but the path he cleared for the rest of us has yielded enough rewards to last a lifetime.

“Venus” – John Coltrane 8:36 (Interstellar Space, Impulse! 1974)

BUT WHAT ABOUT…?

Impressions (Impulse! 1961)
A fine supplement to any Coltrane collection, but with its two best cuts (”India” and the title track) found on Live at The Village Vanguard: The Master Takes (above), Impressions (1961) doesn’t qualify as required listening, although many will seek this out on the inclusion of one of Coltrane’s most breathtaking ballads, “After the Rain.”

John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman (Impulse! 1963)
The John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman (1963) project was suggested to ‘Trane by his producer Bob Thiele and was recorded in March of ‘63, following Ballads (above). Some lovely tunes, to be sure, but hardly mandatory.

Duke Ellington and John Coltrane (Impulse! 1962)
This somewhat frustrating curiosity would seem to have “classic” plastered all over it, but on Duke Ellington and John Coltrane (1962) it’s the latter player whose enthusiasm called in sick that day. Another date at the suggestion of Thiele, but Coltrane’s heart just wasn’t in this.

Stellar Regions (Impulse! 1995)
A collection of recordings made just before Coltrane’s death and curated by wife Alice Coltrane, Stellar Regions (1995) is more of an assortment of unpolished studio outtakes than the requisite companion piece to Interstellar Space (above) that it’s often made out to be.

Coltrane for Lovers (Impulse! 2001)
Are you kidding? Go buy a Chet Baker compilation or something – the point of this post has flown completely over your head.