David Murray's Rediscovered DIW Catalogue

Murray's obvious strengths as a tenor saxophonist tend to eclipse his gifts on bass clarinet, that big odd horn that looks a bit like an anorexic tenor, and sounds in the same range, but with a sweeter, woody tone. No one in jazz after Eric Dolphy has done as much with that axe as Murray, making especially welcome this showcase recorded in 1991, whose title says it all. For rhythmic emphasis, he'll occasionally pop notes loudly from his mouthpiece, a favorite gambit of 1920s novelty "gaspipe" clarinetists; the man has deep roots. The crack backing trio is pianist John Hicks, bassist Ray Drummond and drummer Idris Muhammad.

Rubber-wristed new jazz pianist Don Pullen often paid the bills by working as a soul-jazz organ player on the side. In 1991, he and David Murray made an okay organ quartet record, Shakill's Warrior (with Stanley Franks on guitar and Andrew Cyrille on drums). Shakill's II recorded in '94 is the superior sequel, zippier and more in the pocket than the original. J.T. Lewis is so sure-footedly swinging on drums, you could miss that the first tune's in 5/4. Guitarist Bill White's grit-on-the-strings solos and lean and syncopated peek-a-boo chords are conspicuous assets, as they play blues up ("1529 Gunn Street") and lowdown ("Blues Somewhere"). On "One for the Don," Murray's tender tenor could be Stan Getz. (After Pullen died in 1995, Murray recorded an album of his tunes, Long Goodbye, with Lewis on drums and Pullen disciple D.D. Jackson on piano.)

This is one of the more notable entries by the occasional big band where Murray collaborates with conductor/shaper of improvised parts Butch Morris, not least because of guest shots by mesmerizing singer Andy Bey (rapping on "Let the Music Take You") and the astounding, too-little recorded Joel Brandon, Chicago's late "master whistler." On "Paul Gonzalves" (yes, they misspelled the name of Ellington tenor star Gonsalves), Brandon whistles two solos distinguished by his swing, strong lines, sterling tone and confident pitch. Morris cues in or sculpts backgrounds on the fly, and by now the band knew the drill. The orchestra sounds tighter and more in tune than on some earlier efforts: Kansas City cross-riffs mixed with big New York ideas.

One celebrated aspect of David Murray's technique is his ability to play spectacular, iron-jawed high note passages. So it's a treat to hear him alongside a wind player who may inhabit the same range, especially a compadre from back when they were both young pups, jazz flute virtuoso James Newton. He has a piercing but silvery tone, all the way into the piccolo range, and he and Murray dance around each other nimbly. The band is not always a quintet; six players are involved — including pianist John Hicks, Murray regular Fred Hopkins on bass and drummers Andrew Cyrille and Billy Hart — and they are sometimes deployed in shifts. But the fluid lineup just adds to the date's limber, any-which-way quality; this is bright, melodic, adventurous music.

Bop, free, funk and world music hybrids are all under the command of tenor saxophonist/bass clarinetist David Murray, the rightful heir to Eric Dolphy's crown of thorns. Murray’s first masterpiece gets off to a blazing start with “The Fast Life,” which glides and collides with a bravura, glissando panache, noisy and frenetic but with joyful purpose, like a game of Red Rover on roller skates. “The Hill” is cleaved in two: Wilbur Morris’s bowed bass personifies the blues lament of the climb; then the five-horn gaggle let loose for a celebratory pile-on during the joyful spree down the back side. “Ming,” an homage to Murray’s wife, is a gorgeous, sonorous ballad that faithfully sounds like an incredibly smart and complicated 25-year old guy using elements of Ellington’s “Melancholia” to announce ecstatic surrender to the love of his life. “Jasvan” is a cantering waltz stacked with brisk but substantial solos from George Lewis (trombone), Murray (on bass clarinet here), Butch Morris (cornet), Henry Threadgill (alto sax), Olu Dara (trumpet), Anthony Davis (piano) and Wilbur Morris (bass), yet somehow it is the late, great drummer Steve McCall who steals the show. “Dewey’s Circle” concludes the set with infectious mirth, a holy alliance of New Orleans and Kansas City-style sass and erudite blues toastmastery. All five songs are by Murray, who expertly synthesizes and satisfies the often contradictory demands of the cerebral cortex and the tapping toe.

Jazz took a conservative turn in the early '80s: think Wynton Marsalis, whose 1982 debut swore allegiance to 1965 Miles Davis. But back then even progressives were looking to the past, albeit a broader one. Some players — the term neo-classicists was bandied about — were hearing the whole panorama of jazz as source material for an organic style grown from old and new elements, the rowdy ones included.

David Murray was neo-classicism’s poster kid. The tenor saxophonist had his own voice, early, but any well-versed jazz fan could hear generous helpings of mighty forebears: Ben Webster’s big and bearish tone, rhythmic swagger, and tender stage-whispered ballads; Albert Ayler’s Theremin-like upper-register keening; a gospel saxophonist’s ecstatic falsetto (Murray can play entire solos up there); Eric Dolphy’s careening from the bottom of the horn to the top (and back) in big staccato leaps. Like all of the above, Murray had — still has — a great sense of drama. He’s also the first bass clarinetist of consequence to jazz since Dolphy died in 1964, with his own sweetly woody, almost bubbly sound on ballads, as he loudly popping notes from the mouthpiece like a novelty “gaspipe” clarinetist of the ’20s.

Murray’s always been a heavy swinger, never the kind of fool to cede swing and a populist blues feel to Wynton and company. Of his straightahead-ish quartet dates, 1986’s I Want to Talk About You is a time-capsule ready snapshot of superior nightclub jazz, via Charlie’s Tap in Boston. Murray’s ultra-New York rhythm section is pianist John Hicks, bassist Ray Drummond and 23-year old drummer Ralph Peterson; the program’s a bellyful of beauteous ballads, night-train riffing and open-road blues. (In the populist vein, you should also hear the foot-happy shuffle “David – Mingus,” by a one-shot quartet that should’ve made a whole album: Murray, guitarist James "Blood" Ulmer, bassist Lonnie Plaxico and drummer “Smitty” Smith.)