Charles Mingus
Oh Yeah

Discriminated among whites for being too black, but also among blacks for not being black enough. Too direct and fiery to be rightfully, and possibly while alive, included in the pantheon of jazz geniuses, yet too much of an experimenter to easily win over an unrefined audience. A life marked by the "bastard" complex, to the point where his now-famous and ruthless autobiography is titled "Beneath the Underdog," which, although kindly translated to "Ai margini del ghetto," more or less corresponds to "Worse than a stray dog." Bastard or not, he was certainly a lone wolf, in the noblest sense of the expression. Absolutely impossible to categorize him within one of the jazz movements that marked the 1950s, the decade in which he came to prominence. Besides, he himself rejected any label, including that of experimenter, which perhaps would have been closest to reality. His music, visceral but by no means easy, stemmed from a desperate need for expression, which in turn arose from a complex and tormented personality, of which the "bastard complex" was just one aspect among many. Rarely, as in this case, do Mingus's own words, quoted in the album's liner notes, help to understand what we will then hear, so it's worth quoting them.

"It is no longer a matter of color, it is something above that. I mean that it's becoming increasingly difficult for man to truly love. And fewer and fewer men are making a real effort to discover who they truly are and base themselves on that knowledge. Most people are forced to do things they don't want all the time, reaching a point where they feel they have no choice anymore. We create our own slavery, but I'll make it and discover what kind of man I am—or I'll die."

The translation is mine, so it may contain inaccuracies, although it more or less conveys the idea. The translation of these words into music, however, is perfect and is realized in most of Charles Mingus's records, but perhaps never as glaringly as in this "Oh Yeah" (1961). Meanwhile, the one who contributed more than anyone else to elevating the double bass to a leading instrument in jazz ensembles doesn't even touch it here. He sits at the piano with the typical modest style of someone who, rather than being a virtuoso pianist, is above all a composer and bandleader. His ideal keyboard is formed by the musicians accompanying him, already skilled on their own, but even phenomenal when perfect harmony is created with the leader. To achieve this result, Mingus doesn't impose strict rules, but on the contrary, he simply sketches an "emotional framework" within which the musicians can move freely, especially in solos. No written note: each gives their best, as long as the piece conveys the specific emotion the composer demands. Saying it seems easy, but to do it requires people like the multi-instrumentalist Roland Kirk, who, not content to bring out all the classic jazz wind voices, also adds those of two unusual instruments, like the "strich," a variant of the soprano sax, and the "manzello," a strange sax with a bell-shaped end. Or like bassist Doug Watkins, capable of perfectly handling the part that would normally belong to his leader, the most brilliant of bassists. And how not to recall the spine-tingling, at times almost human, voice of Jimmy Knepper's trombone, with his precious interventions?

Completing the lineup are Booker Ervin on tenor sax and the already-tested Dannie Richmond on drums. "Hog Callin' Blues" opens the album with a grand display of skill by Roland Kirk, whose numerous instruments frolic, shriek, bray, and even grunt (the title is "Blues of the Hog Call"). A lovely cacophony of sounds, but grafted onto a robust, fast-driving blues base. Apparent chaos, but in reality, not a single sound out of place; in some ways a preview of what Frank Zappa would achieve in rock a few years later. More classic is the blues "Devil Woman," in which at the start, we can also appreciate a rare instance of Mingus truly singing, in addition to his usual yelps, uttered during the pivotal moments of the instrumental pieces. Here at the forefront is the splendid dialogue between the two tenor saxes of Roland Kirk and Booker Ervin, but the trombone solo by Jimmy Knepper, which genuinely only lacks words to be human, is no less impressive. "Wham Bam Thank You Ma'am" is a pleasant fast swing on which alternates Ervin's tenor sax and Kirk's sharp and spicy "strich." "Ecclusiastic" is a highly original piece, where a very slow initial blues clashes repeatedly with a wild gospel shard, perfectly executed by the winds, which on occasion evoke the sound of a church organ. "Oh Lord Don't Let Them Drop That Atomic Bomb On Me," as the title suggests, is a pure blues prayer where at the start, the suffering is expressed by Mingus's voice, then by one of his rare piano solos, and finally, to satiate our curiosity, by the sound of the "manzello," the strange sax with the bell-shaped end.

Towards the end of the album, the most insane side of Mingus's genius emerges: "Eat That Chicken" seems like a parody of 1920s jazz, with a nostalgically Dixieland base overwhelmed by Mingus's shouts and the hysterical cries of the winds. In reality, Babel is only apparent, and the piece is not only amusing but possesses its own humorous harmony. "Passions Of A Man" is a decisive leap that clearly takes us beyond the boundaries of jazz. It is an orgy of free notes, sirens, whistles, and various sounds reminiscent of Edgar Varese, or even certain noise experiments by Brian Eno. Not easily digestible, but absolutely original; a sort of personal seal placed by the author to close out a particularly inspired album.