  |
|||
|
| If I were going to remix the CD release of At The Village Gate, I would add a faint track of a diamond needle hissing along a vinyl groove. There's something about this recording that smells of cheap grass and whatever else Bleecker Street smelled like in 1961. You just wish you had an old hi-fi stereo system to play it on. Still, I’ve already ripped through three copies of At The Village Gate CD--I can imagine how many LPs I’d need. This live disc was recorded before jazz clubs were like museums, before musicians were like curators. Listening to it, you feel the crowd at the Village Gate always evident behind the music, a low hum. The talkers in the club who came just to catch a drink on a felicitous night were welcome--their presence pulls you into the room. Herbie Mann, born Herbert Solomon, had gone to South America that year on a concert tour and had been on the world music kick before, experimenting with instruments and different international personnel, especially from Africa. He picked up a few things down south. In the late 50s, through the 60s, and into the 70s, Mann stood almost alone as a jazz flutist, and certainly among the higher strata of his peers in fusing varied influences into a mix that had cool and plenty of swing. “Comin’ Home, Baby,” the first track of only three, starts off with a double-bass front line, plunked slowly in combination with conga and drums to create an overflowing rhythm section. From the smoke-filled room, a woman with a whisky voice testifies from the audience: “Oh yeah!” or “Play it!” Then Mann's flute comes in soft, tight, with Hagood Hardy's vibes playing the same melody. They play low, easy phrases, and then the solos: first Mann, playing both beautiful clear tones and broken hoarse Coltrane notes. Who knew the flute could be this cool? Well here it is, cooler than we’ll ever hope to be. And then the vibes solo, with Hardy humming the notes moments before he playing them. And then a great solo by Ben Tucker, the composer of the tune, sounding like Thelonius Monk picking at the upright bass. Next you get two great Gershwin songs. First, “Summertime,” often played to death, but not here. No, in Mann’s hands in 1961, the song’s bittersweet essence is distilled and transported to Rio. The drums and percussion come up a samba beat. Fingers snap in time, and it’s all Bossa Nova: you need a martini, or a batido, a cold drink. Mann’s solo builds to a crescendo that includes a minute-long one-note samba that lingers, teasing and returning to that one note, for bars at a time. That same woman yells again, at the end of the solo: “Bravo!” maybe. The performances drip with sweat. It never lets you up. It’s a samba, but only in part, just as Sketches of Spain is only part Spanish music. Next, and last, is the long “It Ain’t Necessarily So,” clocking in at almost 20-minutes. Here’s evidence of the full synthesis Mann created. Mann’s smart solo on this track wails like something from the Middle East, Hebrew or Arabic. It’s like an updated “Caravan,” with the vibes and the bass falling into line. And before percussionist Chief Bey’s solo—before, when’s the last time you saw that?—the crowd goes wild. His solo rises up from the rhythm section, settles back in, and rises up again, over and over. Though Mann made some great records after this live disc, he was soon getting used to tidiness, and tidiness has never served jazz musicians. His later Brazilian stuff is even tidier, safer. Lately, it’s all gone south; I’ve seen Mann a few times live since 1990, and what you get from the updated version is a light Brazilian jazz rehash. But back in 1961, there it all is: a base of bebop with the Latin beat, but also Middle Eastern and African influences. There’s funk on this CD, there’s cool, and Boss Nova, and samba, and bebop. There’s a skinny white kid from Brooklyn playing flute, a Canadian, someone from Dakar, an African American from the Bronx, a Peruvian/Puerto Rican, and a Sudanese. At this rare moment in Mann’s career, it all held together, and it just swings. Mann is still out there playing, and he will come to your town someday, but forget it. Just buy this CD instead. --Scott Holden Smith (email)
|
