Thelonious Monk with John Coltrane: Complete Riverside Recordings

In their day, and to some extent still, Thelonious Monk and John Coltrane were two of the most controversial figures in post-war jazz. Both have had their ardent admirers and fierce critics since time immemorial. The consensus today seems to respect them both as pioneers who pushed the art form into theretofore unchartered territory, while the aesthetic and emotional appeal of their music remains as open to debate as ever. It is all the more surprising, then, that the two hardly ever played and recorded together. Aside from a double set of their Carnegie Hall concert from 1957, released to great fanfare four years ago, and a barely audible bootleg from the Five Spot from around the same time, The Complete Riverside Recordings (Riverside, 2006) is the only other surviving document of their collaboration, and purportedly the only one recorded in a studio.

Recorded by Orrin Keepnews, then owner and producer at Riverside, over three sessions in the spring and summer of 1957, the set promises more than it delivers, but almost makes up for that by other unexpected revelations. This is an archival document, not a record to be listened to for pleasure. False starts, aborted takes, and even studio banter are plentiful. Whether you consider that to be valuable or distracting will depend on your perspective, of course. Suffice it to say this is a record to study, not to float away to into some magical jazz universe. Far more important, however, is the personnel. Monk, Coltrane's senior by nine years and the undisputed leader of these sessions, had brought in a septet (!) which included, in addition to Coltrane, Art Blakey on drums and Wilbur Ware on bass, the now forgotten Ray Copeland on trumpet, Gigi Gryce on alto and, unbelievable though it sounds, Coleman Hawkins on second tenor.

Or perhaps not so unbelievable - Hawkins was Monk's first steady employer in the late 1940s, and the quintessential swing-era saxophonist had done an amazing job late in his career keeping up with the bebop kids without sacrificing his trademark style. So the most obvious reason the recording is valuable is the opportunity to hear not the interplay between Monk and Coltrane, but the contrast between Coltrane and Hawkins. In fact, the first track to offer this - Gryce's Blues for Tomorrow -- does not feature any of Monk's piano at all (he is reported to have fallen asleep and wheeled out on an equipment cart, but Keepnews had to use up the studio time he had paid for). Coltrane solos first, followed immediately by Hawkins. Coltrane was on the cusp of his "sheets of sound" period in 1957, but here he betrays little of what was to come a couple of years later. His tone is much less edgy than what most listeners are used to, but the solo as a whole is unfocused, and already sounds unnecessarily busy. Hawkins wins hands-down - his statement is swinging, well structured, played with enough energy to keep up with the rest of the band but without compromising clarity.

Further comparison between the two is available on Ruby, My Dear - Hawk and Trane get one version each. Coltrane acquits himself better here - his solo is measured, relaxed and very "inside" (the same can be said of his solo on Epistrophy), while Hawkins pulls off a few boppy runs in homage to his session mates.

Behind all of this, or some of it at any rate, is Monk. He actually solos very little, preferring to play the role of glue, but when he finally does on Epistrophy and Well, You Needn't in the middle of Disc Two, it is very effective. His solos are firmly based on the themes, he does not show off, and where he uses the dissonance for which he was supposed to have been famous, he balances it perfectly with space - the stranger the intervals, the fewer notes he uses. His comping, too, is much in the same vein, though it is worth considering the fact that he plays much more behind some of the horns than others, and the one that gets short thrift is Coltrane. Whether it was a clash of two intense musical personalities, or a simple lack of familiarity with one another's styles, we will never know. Suffice it to say that Monk lays out a lot, and when he does not, as on Trinkle, Tinkle and, to a lesser extent, Nutty (he starts but seems to give up after a while), his playing behind Coltrane is far from adventurous. It sounds as if the two couldn't quite find a shared musical language, and Monk, being the more experienced of the two at the time, simply got out of the way.

His playing behind Gryce, by contrast, whether sparse, as on the short version of Epistrophy, or more dense, as on Well, You Needn't, is always appropriate. It really seems that of the bunch, Hawkins included, Monk is the most comfortable with Gryce, and in general, it would not be an overstatement to say that Gryce is the real discovery of the record. Boppy, but without the nervous jitter of Charlie Parker, he develops his solos thoughtfully and has a good feel for the tune and his accompanists. Definitely on this reviewer's list to explore further.

Whether Complete Riverside Recordings is essential will depend on your approach. For an historian of 1950s jazz, it is an indispensable document. For the rest, it tantalizes with possibilities while leaving us with little that is truly satisfying, while at the same time suggesting many areas for further exploration.