By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
Proof of how much remains to be done is demonstrated by how much was done in 2001, a year so rich in spelunking expeditions that a mere list won't do. Though I violated my own injunction against writing liner notes, I cannot fail to identify the choice classic-jazz box as Lady Day (Columbia), not only because it nails one of the preeminent achievements in the canon, including rejected takes that really mean something, but because its remastering wipes away the taste of the label's abysmal-sounding 1980s Holiday CDs. In a year short of elaborate boxes, two others merit no less attention. Screamin' and Hollerin' the Blues: The Worlds of Charley Patton (Revenant) transcribes his lyrics, providing a new dimension to the most incomprehensible of seminal blues mumblers, and is packagedlike Holiday, only much more elaboratelyin a 78-style album. It also features superior notes, not to mention a facsimile reprint of John Fahey's 1970 Patton book.
Still, the most revelatory release of recent years was The Long Road to Freedom (Buddha/BMG), an investigation into African American music from the middle passage to the pre-jazz beginnings of the 20th century, created by Harry Belafonte at many recording sessions between 1961 and 1971, and then, for reasons never explored in the unsatisfying if attractive booklet, abandoned for three decades. Belafonte recruited choirmaster Leonard de Paur to arrange songssome famous, many unknown and astonishing, especially the lost Civil War anthemswith historical authenticity in concert versions that mine the tradition of the Fisk Jubilee Singers. This amounts to a refutation of the old-folks-in-overalls approach that dominated the '60s folk boom. Brilliantly engineered and performed by voices both raw and slick, from Joe Williams and Gloria Lynne to the Georgia Sea Island Singers and an unforgettable yet forgotten little girl named Sharon G. Williams, this immensely entertaining and thoroughly original voyage rewrites and expands exponentially what we think we know about black America's musicall America's music.
The leading purveyor of jazz boxes is the mail-order Mosaic, which enjoyed an inventive year with The Complete Vee Jay Paul Chambers-Wynton Kelly Session, 1959-61, and Classic Columbia Condon Mob Sessions. They are splendid, and so, I imagine, is the oddly edited The Complete OKeh and Brunswick Bix Beiderbecke, Frank Trumbauer and Jack Teagarden Sessions, (1924-36), which I have yet to work my way through. But the two sets I most value, and will discuss next time, are probably the most unevenThe Complete Roost Sonny Stitt Sessions, partly because it's almost entirely new to me, beginning with a wild date arranged by Johnny Richards, and serves as an object lesson in the vagaries of a too prolific paladin, heard here at his best and near worst; and The Complete Capitol Bobby Hackett Solo Sessions, which to my great surprise, having spent several years and much money hunting down the original LPs, is more impressive in aggregate than any of the single albums ever seemed. Resisting its chronology fetish, Mosaic helpfully put two banal "concept" albums on disc five, which is worth playing once; discs one through four you will play over and over.
Other boxed discoveries include John Coltrane's Live Trane (Pablo), the quartet in Europe from 1961 to 1963, most of it previously unissued; Art Pepper's The Hollywood All-Star Sessions (Galaxy), small bands in L.A. from 1979 to 1982, previously issued only in Japan and including encounters with Stitt and Lee Konitz; and Miles Davis's The Complete In a Silent Way Sessions (Columbia), a gorgeous little monument that made me reconsider what I had long regarded as a mildly involving transitional LP. Most notable reissues, however, simply revived long-deleted albums. The excellent Verve Master Edition series restored Louis Armstrong's rare and controversial late Decca LPs, promenading the pop pleasures of Satchmo Serenades, I Like Jazz, the angels and Good Book concept albums, and the often incandescent Satchmo: A Musical Autobiography, which should have created more of a stir than it did.
Delmark discovered a lovely, unissued, mostly blues recital (1970s) by Art Hodes, Tribute to the Greats, and rediscovered the most obscure of ragtimers, Brun Campbell, taking off from barbering in 1947 to relive his heady youth on Joplin's Disciple. In the obscurity sweepstakes, however, Fantasy's OJC wins easily for Don Sleet's All Members, an almost all-star 1961 session (Jimmy Heath, Wynton Kelly, Ron Carter), led by a 22-year-old trumpeter about whom little is known, except that he died 25 years later, having made this one impressive album. More significantly, OJC also got around to Jaki Byard's Sunshine of My Soul, one of the great 1960s trio sessions (David Izenzon, Elvin Jones), even if hardly anyone knew it: Discover and marvel.