Their responses, which have been condensed and edited for clarity, are presented below. “It depends on your imagination.”ĭuring what would have been the week of Monk’s one hundredth birthday, a diverse spectrum of jazz pianists offered recollections on Monk’s legacy to the Voice. There have been nearly fifty Monk albums available on eight different record labels since he made his debut on Blue Note in 1947, and each LP reveals a different layer of the way his hands molded the very concept of modern jazz - one that continues to evolve today. “A note can be as small as a pin or as big as the world,” Monk once told saxophonist Steve Lacy, some time in 1960. Yet while Monk’s penchant for headgear was indeed a fickle affair, the pioneering melodicism and improvisational elegance with which the New York City–bred genius played the baby grand remained a constant, defining factor - from the time he helped shape the concept of bebop during the Second World War as the house piano man at Minton’s Playhouse, to his final tour, in 1971. A look at the covers for some of his most beloved albums - The Unique Thelonious Monk, Monk’s Music, Thelonious Alone in San Francisco, Monk’s Dream, It’s Monk Time, Underground, and, most recently, the long-awaited release of his soundtrack to Roger Vadim’s controversial 1960 French film Les Liaisons Dangereuses - reveal all you need to know about the wide variety of lids that graced his brilliant brain throughout his four decades of active duty. Thelonious Monk (1917–1982) was a man of many hats - literally. And “Call Me Up,” which might sound at first like a relationship song, turns out to be about the rapture, or something just as urgent and spirited.Thelonious Monk performs in Paris in 1964. “Walkin’ ” or “This Road I’m On” leave no such room for ambiguity. (Her backup singer is Maxine Waters, a figure of broad experience in gospel and pop.) The title track, a pure expression of gratitude, could be addressed to a person or (more likely) a personal savior. Produced with Ben Peeler, who plays lap steel and acoustic guitars, among other things, it’s a five-song collection of rusticated devotionals, ideally suited to Ms. Southern gospel proves a durable framework for Shelby Lynne on “Thanks,” an EP due out Tuesday on her Everso label. And when he utters the imperative “Hush now,” in “Don’t Explain,” he could be talking to a lover or a hostage. He amplifies the psychodrama in “Four Women,” and brings out the wildness in “Wild Is the Wind.” “Don’t Smoke in Bed” has him evoking a death rattle, while the saxophones and accordion wail in tandem behind him. Stewart digs in, using a shivery, shuddery sotto voce. They flesh out the songs with crooked composure, as Mr. Jones, an expatriate with years of drug use behind him, looks in bad shape, too - but his playing is the farthest thing from pitiable. And it shows the moment when Philly Joe Jones sits in on drums, giving the band a serious lift. It shows his amiable demeanor backstage, gamely enduring a pushy interview. The footage on the DVD shows his stiff-backed focus at the piano, sweat rolling down his beard. (This one has Nate Hygelund on bass and Paris Wright on drums, both gifted but green.) Still, “Paris 1969” isn’t a portrait of enervation: Monk plays with vigorous purpose, and few traces of difficulty.
YOUNG THELONIOUS MONK SERIES
His quartet had dissolved, leaving only the tenor saxophonist Charlie Rouse and a series of ad hoc rhythm sections. Monk wasn’t in the best of health by the time of this concert at the Salle Pleyel within a few years, he would stop performing altogether. (Outside jazz, you’re inclined to like the albums Rick Rubin produced for Johnny Cash.) And you might bring special anticipation to “Paris 1969,” a previously unissued document of the pianist and composer Thelonious Monk, which Blue Note has just released in multiple formats, notably a CD-DVD combo. If this is your inclination, then you probably have deep feelings for Billie Holiday’s “Lady in Satin” and certain 1950s work by Lester Young. There’s a small cult of late-period partiality in jazz: listeners who savor the poignancy of a great artist in decline.