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Rating: The history of jazz is marked by an endless, excruciating series of black holes.
These are the live sessions never recorded, or those that were lost, or irreparably damaged. They are those moments when the legends tread the stage, the magic fills the room, the notes create the Masterpiece, and the light comes on. And there you are, either in or out; if you're there, you partake in the enchantment, otherwise you yearn, because it all happens only once, the void cannot be filled. But in the world, there are blue skies and green pastures as well, you remember them when the diligent and fortunate folks at Uptown uncover from who knows where a phenomenal recording, and June 22, 1945 suddenly becomes a place for everyone.
For about a year, the music of the future had been living a frenetic incubation. The air of New York contributes to this, the Minton's, or 52nd Street. The fathers, the visionaries of the time, are all there, Monk, Gillespie, Bird, Miles, all moving from one club to another with instruments in hand, an uninterrupted, convulsive jam session, black themselves in the black of the night. Someone took it upon themselves to give a name to what was happening: be-bop. Many mocked it, others let themselves be ignited by it.
The Town Hall was, on that June 22, the prestigious stage for the debut of bebop: like it or not, there are people here who play damn fast, people who are miles ahead, then you decide if you want to keep up. A thousand beta-testers were there, in the presence of five aliens: Dizzy Gillespie (trumpet), Charlie Parker (alto sax), Max Roach (drums), Curly Russell (bass), Al Haig (piano). Essential is the role of the speaker, Symphony Sid, the man who was the first to broadcast the boppers on the radio, he is the officiant. It begins, a little dusting of the tuxedos, because the living room is one of those good ones, a big breath and on stage we go, without fear, for we are the best, but Bird, where is Bird? Bird is not there, as usual, Bird is never there when he should be, the excessive timings of his soul do not fit with the common ones, but who could have invented clocks, or the sense of proportion? Thus, the entrance cameo is by Don Byas. The inconvenience turns into a very precious gem: the speaker announces the "Dizzy Gillespie Quintet", and informs of Charlie Parker's delay. I find the benevolent and disheartened disapproval of the audience moving, (ah, the usual Bird, great but incorrigible), and the applause that welcomes him when he arrives during the piece, I imagine, still panting, overlaying Dizzy in his own way. Delirium. All here, all recorded, all during "Be-bop", more than a thousand biographies, all true, live.
I could stop here, but I must tell you at least about "A Night in Tunisia", Gillespie's masterpiece executed here as never heard elsewhere. The trumpet carves into the surrounding void the most faithful representation of bebop, you see it taking shape in front of astonished ears, Parker circles around it, emitting his most inspired and skewed song, but didn't he just flit through the streets of New York two minutes ago? Well, I proceed, after all, the air of the Hall is hot, Sid plays the host, his voice soft and playful, people participate, have fun, they must, it's Dizzy's fault that he enters like this and even shakes a deaf person, because it's the air that moves, the air, by God. "Groovin' High" goes up, challenging gravity, and all the swing of the previous decade suddenly shrivels, and the wind blows it away. The merry escapades on Al Haig's piano here provide a magnificent counterpoint to the fury of the brass, a delight. Gillespie and Haig intertwine their plots, competing to see who paints joy best, it makes your heart burst.
So far I have been silent about the splendid percussion performance of Max Roach, child prodigy first, father of bop then, a thousand times with Parker, and you see why. The style is overflowing, some intersections with the winds take your breath away, Roach goes beyond, but what do you expect, he was 21 years old at Town Hall, and moreover he was a bopper, the best, sticks in hand. The crazy tempo of "Salt Peanuts" is the carpet on which to lay all his wares, furious, irrational strokes, faster than anything, because we must hurry, explore, for the end of the journey is near. And then Dizzy's vibrant voice: "sa-lt pea-nuts, sa-lt pea-nuts", how wonderful, his voice, the one that doesn't pass through the trumpet. The speaker, increasingly master of the stage, announces Sidney Catlett, who steps in for Roach in the last two pieces. Catlett plays swingingly, but the class he displays allows him to propose a refined variation on bop, accompanied by a totally liquefied solo. The audience enjoys it, Curly Russell does too.
This record is an apotheosis. It is the pinnacle of the titanic conjunction between the dioscuri of bebop, Parker and Gillespie, supported by the most spirited Roach. The impeccable acoustics of the Town Hall provide a sound much better than many studio recordings of the era, it feels like being there. But it is only an illusion, only a thousand people were there, they indeed were, in the presence of the new, suspended between astonishment and a desire to unleash. The war is over, the air is exhilarating, after the bombs, it's always like this.
How beautiful it was.
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