Começamos monumentalmente com uma Jam Session gravada ao vivo no Radio City Music Hall de Nova Iorque, durante a edição de 1972 do Newport Festival. Quem entra?
- 18 minutos denominados Night in Tunisia com Dizzy Gillespie, Benny Green, Stan Getz, Mitt Jackson, John Blair, Kenny Burrel, Mary Lou Williams, Percy Heath, Big Black e Max Roach.
Um pouco do ambiente e contexto para a sessão do Newport de 1972, que extraordinariamente realizou-se em Nova Iorque:
Out of the piles of broken camp chairs, a wantonly destroyed piano, strings torn out in a display of willful evil, and a general shambles of a stage, testimony to its death in Rhode Island, the Newport Jazz Festival has risen like Lazarus to live again.
The day after lhe dregs of one of the lost Iribes of the Woodstock Nation ripped off the 1971 NJF, we awakened late, the dull after shock settling in, only the initial waves slightly mitigated by sleep, After brunch we set up beach chaises and blankets on the rear lawn of our motel, purchased several extension cords so that we could operate my tape recorder in the midst of our enclave, and with the help of some rare (in many ways) music, we proceeded to get our souls together.
It was a religious meeting in a very pure sense, part wake but also an affirmation of the music that rewards the spirit of its true believers with healing and recharging powers. A lot of paople had already left Newport for their homes in New York and Boston, etc., but we were not ready to depart for a variety of reasons, among them the preceding night's stunning finale and the beautiful weather, certainly one of the attractions of the entire Newport Festival concept. As part of our spontaneous ritual, after three or 50 hours of listening, commiserating and refreshing with dips in the adjacent pool, we drove in three cars to the festival field to view the wreckage in daylight. As the workers piled up the broken chairs and a multitude of empty wine bottles, the gulls from Naragansett Bay hovered high overhead like vultures on the veldt.
Morbid curiosity satisfied, we motorcaded to the house in which festival producer George Wein made his summer headquarters. Here it was really wake-like, conversation subdued, tone almost sotto voce. Wein accepted our condolences graciously. Here was a man who had not only lost financially but a huge piece of his life had been clubbed below the belt. Newport had become an institution a concentrated jazz summer camp for us underprivileged city kids who had been breathing nightclub smoke ali year. It is George Wein's business-or a major part of it-but it is his love, too, and I couldn't helpthink of 1945, the summer my camp was closed by a polio epidernic, and the owner standmg helplessly by as some kids became ill and the healthy ones streamed out of the gates. Infantile paralyses squashed the Newport Jazz Festival last year only it was paralyzed morals instead of muscles.
Although he was battered, Wein managed to be optimistic that afternoon. Granted it was a vague brand of optimism but it was quietly there. I felt that even if Newport would not be the host in 1972, the festival would surface somewhere. If someone, however, had suggested nine days in Manhattan as the time and place I wouldn't have thought any further discussion relevant.
New York, however, found the festival very relevant and from July 1-9, 1972 the city came alive with a spirit it hadn't experienced in a long while. The areas around Philharmonic Hall and Carnegie Hall were centers of activity as people shuttled back and forth between the events staged at the two auditoriums. They greeted old friends, made new acquaintances and, moved by the great aura of feelgood that jazz engenders, even smiled at strangers.
Radio stations, long solely rock captives, began to play jazz records. Dick Cavett devoted an entire TV show to this gloriously resilient music on the eve of the festival. The Daily News used its centerspread to document the happenings in photographs and the Times covered each day in depth like a political convention.
ln addition to the daily programs at the two main halls, seminars were held in Lincoln Center; New Orleans-styled boatrides turned the Hudson into the Mississippi; Yankee Stadium echoed to rimshots instead of base hits; people danced to Count Basie and Sy Oliver at the Commodore; and greatest of all, Radio City Music Hall resounded to two monster jam sessions, attended by overflow crowds of more than 6,000 on each occasion.
Newport Jazz Festival-New York was the continuation of an old tradition and the beginning of a new one. The best of what died in Rhode Island did not perish and is definitely part of what was reborn. It was one time when the pains of birth turned out to be a pleasure. The time-honored jam session is one of the oldest, enduring traditions in jazz. It has served as test of strength, diving board-for-egos, field laboratory and social forum, among other things. If the "cutting contest" aspect has diminished it is still there vestigially. At Radio City, there was more of an emphasis on a good "git-together" where¬ in musicians received a chance to exchange musical thoughts and feelings with their peers, many of whom they had not jammed with for a long time. Some had never before gotten the opportunity to blow together. As usual, there were some surprises, and more than an average amount of inspired performances.
I´ll never forget the huge lines that wound around three corners waiting to get in to the movie palace. The first night I sat on the steps of the top balcony; the second night front-row center in the orchestra. Those who were there have many memories, especially of the musico For those who were and those who weren't, here are the highlights of July 3 and 6, 1972.
Para as manhãs dos corajosos, inícios de dia diabólicos, proporcionamos "Change Has Come" de Albert Ayler, gravado ao vivo em Greenwich Village. Antagónico ao desconcertante som, fica a capa, uma das mais sedutoras das estante, de manuseamento regular.
«Change Has Come implies, says Ayler, that "in my music, I'm trying to look far ahead. Like Coltrane, I'm playing about the beauty that is to come after all the tensions and anxieties. This is about post-war cries; I mean the cries of love that are already in the young and that will emerge as people seeking freedom come to spiritual freedom.»
After all this, for the last glance at the elevator mirror before hit the road: "Moanin´"
The session racks up a self-challenging achievement by starting right out with a climax, for it would be difficult to improve on the groove established by Bobby Timmon´s composition Moanin´. The first chorus is the quintessence of funk, based on the classic call-and-response pattern, with Bobby´s simple phrases (focused on the tonic) answered by the the horns and rhythm punctuations on straight, churchy pairs of chords. Notice how simply Lee´s solo opens, fanning out slowly in impact and intensity until by the first release he is swinging in a more complex fashion. Two choruses each by trumpet, tenor and piano are followed by one on bass.