1. Straight, No Chaser x2
2. Decidedly x2
3. 'Round Midnight
4. Rhythm-a-ning
5. Sweet And Lovely
6. I Mean You x3

#1 not on Mulligan Meets Monk or Jazz Giants

• Thelonious Monk
• Gerry Mulligan
• Wilbur Ware
• Shadow Wilson

 LINER NOTES

Fame did not come early or easily to Thelonious Monk, but once it came, it lasted. Jazz, they say, is a performer's art, and audiences are notoriously fickle. ("You've got to keep your name before the public" was Louis Armstrong's modus operandi until he dropped in his tracks.) During the lost ten years of his life, Monk made all of three public appearances (in 1974, 1975, and 1976, all in New York City), yet his funeral in February 1982 was a media event surpassed in the annals of jazz only by those of Armstrong, Duke Ellington, and Billie Holiday.

He had become a legend, of course, and his prolonged inactivity and invisibility added to the aura of mysteriousness that had surrounded him from the time he first come into view-obliquely and gradually-in his third decade of life. And there were musicians who performed his music in his absence, though Monk without Monk could at best be only a reflection. What kept him alive as a continued presence in jazz, then, were the records, not least the body of work he created for Riverside Records from 1955 to 1960, a period that many (including this writer) consider his peak years, and which was consistently and intelligently kept in view via Milestone reissues put together by the music's original producer, Orrin Keepnews. (For a fascinating and moving account of recording Monk, read Keepnews's notes to The Thelonious Monk Memorial Album, Milestone M-47064.)

Many of these albums contained newly issued alternate takes from which fresh insights into the workings of Monk's mind could be gleaned, but none are more revealing than the music on the fourth side of this double LP. There we can eavesdrop on Monk for almost 22 minutes as he shapes and refines a solo interpretation of his most famous composition, "Round Midnight" a workout that is followed by the originally issued final version of the piece.

No doubt this unique sequence will be a feast for musicologists and serious students of Monk's music. But it also offers many delights to the lay listener, whom it allows to follow the inner workings of Monk's mind as he chisels and polishes those granitic blocks of sound until they assume shapes that please and satisfy him. Until he recently came across the tapes (which have been only slightly edited, and contain some of Monk's verbal asides as an additional bonus), Keepnews had not been aware of their survival. Needless to say, he was overjoyed.

This self-contained panoramic view of "Round Midnight" is of such significance that it must be considered the album's main event, but it follows a preliminary bout of considerable interest - the only recorded encounter between two very distinctive (and very different) musical personalities, Monk and Gerry Mulligan, brought to us complete with four previously unissued alternate takes. I suspect that there were few among the multitude crammed into St. Peter's Lutheran Church to witness Monk's funeral who recalled, when Mulligan appeared to pay musical homage, that he had once recorded with Monk. (Gerry played a beautiful "Ruby, My Dear," but was then a bit annoyed to learn that it had already been performed earlier in the proceedings. "I would have played something else" he said. "I know a lot of Monk's tunes")

Mulligan Meets Monk (that was the original title- an indication of where things were at when the album was issued late in 1957, more than six years before Monk appeared on the cover of Time magazine) is not one of the more celebrated albums in the Riverside Monk canon. It did get four-and-a-half stars in Down Beat (from Dom Ceruili), but there were mutterings elsewhere in the jazz press of a musical mismatch. Those were the days, of course, when the critical game of putting musicians into stylistic boxes was at its height.

Monk thus was identified with bebop. That this was a mistake, he himself had long since pointed out, telling George Simon of Metronome in 1948 that "most bebop sounds like Dixieland to me" - not as cryptic a remark as it might seem, since it pertained to Monk's dislike for just running the chord changes in a solo. Mulligan, in turn, was associated strictly with cool jazz, perhaps less of an error, but nevertheless, like all such pigeonholing, misleading and limiting.

Often, early critical dismissal of a record leads to subsequent neglect, and that has pretty much been the fate of this one, referred to, if at all, as one of the few unsuccessful musical meetings either player has been involved in. This canard was no doubt often repeated entirely by rote, since the original album was hard to find, of least until it was reissued in Japan in the Seventies.

I've always been rather fond of it, though it would be wrong to rank this collaboration as equal to those between Monk and such musical mates as Milt Jackson, Sonny Rollins, Thad Jones, John Coltrane, Art Blakey, and Max Roach. It has its special virtues, however, not least among them the humor and playfulness that Gerry seems to bring out in Monk, in particular on "I Mean You" and "Rhythm-a-ning"

Another virtue, albeit not unique to this session, is the presence of a rhythm team uncommonly sympathetic to Monk. While not as famous as Blakey and Roach, rightly considered ideal drummers for Monk, nor associated with him for as long as Frankie Dunlop or Ben Riley, who come later, Shadow Wilson had a marvelous empathy with the rhythmic feel of Monk's music and had recorded with him as early as 1948 - the success of the Blue Note version of "Misterioso," one of the first genuine Monk masterpieces, is to no small degree due to his drumming.

This becomes all the more impressive when one considers that Shadow had been Jo Jones's immediate successor in the Basie band. He filled that demanding role so well that no less a drummer than Charli Persip could cite "the Jo Jones kick on "Blue Skies" as one of his favorite Basie recollections, though the author of that kick had actually been Shadow Wilson. The nickname takes on a certain irony (there had to be a nickname, since the given first name was Rossiere), for it was Wilson's fate to always be overshadowed, and he was given little time to rectify matters. He died in July 1959, a few months shy of 40.

Shadow worked hand-in-glove with Wilbur Ware, another tragic figure. Though he lived to be 56, the bassist's career was frequently interrupted by bouts with drugs or alcohol, and in his later years, by advanced emphysema. One of the great natural musicians in jazz, Ware had a totally personal approach to his difficult instrument and was, in addition to his brilliant section work, one of its most remarkable soloists. His influence on better-known fellow bassists was great, but his individuality of ideas and home-grown technique was uncopiable.

Ware's association with Monk brought out the best in him, and there was no musical reason for it to end at a time when Monk was just beginning to come into his own in terms of public acceptance. But end it did, with characteristic abruptness. As Keepnews tells it, Ware walked out of the studio after the last of the two afternoon sessions with Mulligan without more than routine goodbyes, left his bass at the Five Spot, but failed to materialize there for work with the regular Monk quartet that evening. When there was no message and Ware proved impossible to find, Ahmed Abdul-Malik was quickly recruited and became his permanent replacement. That the music here represents the lost collaboration between Monk and Ware gives it an added dimension of musical and historical interest. he Monk-Ware-Wilson team was indeed a marvel.

For Mulligan, his visit with Monk and Company was a considerable departure from the pianoless, rhythmically smooth and understated approach he had been favoring since the great success of his 1952 quartet featuring Chet Baker. Of course, it was a Mulligan axiom that he could play with anybody, and he was an inveterate sifter-in with groups and players of all persuasions, in clubs and at festivals.

Nevertheless, recording with Monk was a challenge. Not only was Monk a pianist with a most definitive touch; he was also a leader who truly led, and in fact insisted that any improvising soloist who came to play with him must play the music his way, all the way. Though Monk liked to lay out for long stretches when a horn soloist got going, anyone straying too far from the melody and structure into the forbidden realm of aimless noodling on the chord changes would be sharply called back onto the track. There are moments here when this almost happens, but Gerry is quick to get the message. Clearly, Monk is in charge, and just as clearly, Gerry doem't mind being led, for a change.

As a result, Gerry's playing here is very concentrated. The discursiveness that on occasion crept into his playing at this stage of the game - after all, he was not much past his thirtieth birthday, almost a full ten years Monk's junior - is absent. And on the two ballads "Sweet and Lovely" (one of those romantic tunes Monk was so fond of, and which he made his own), and "Round Midnight"(in a group version that adds to our perspective on the solo workout), he brings out the passion in the baritone saxophonist. Clearly Gerry is more at ease with "Midnight" than with the other Monk originals and it is not insignificant that it was included at his request.

As almost every musician who has worked with Monk points out, he had gift for bringing out something new and perhaps unsuspected in them. Even in a rather casual encounter such as this, Monk makes Gerry play with uncommon assertiveness and with a sound as strong and deep as he has ever produced. What Monk seems to be telling him is "follow me, but be yourself," and it works.

It works also on the one original Mulligan brought to the date. "Decidedly," as the title gives away, is a pleasantly disguised variation on "Undecided," a standard by trumpeter Charlie Shavers that was not part of Monk's repertoire. Monk has fun with it, playing longer and more flowing lines than usual in his first solo chorus on the originally issued take, and giving most of the solo space to Gerry and Ware (who shows what he can do with an ostensibly simple walking bass pattern). Monk even responds to Gerry's invitation, in the out-chorus, to engage in a little of the contrapuntal interplay that is a Mulligan trademark. (Elsewhere, he usually stands off, obviously preferring the horn to play thematically along with him when the melody is stated, so that in the out-chorus of "Straight, No Chaser" the baritone's part is reduced to background noodling.) Yet even here Monk's stamp is clearly on the take selected for original issue, where the tempo is more stately and the improvisation more focused on the melody.

Speaking of tempos: Monk almost invariably plays his own pieces more slowly than others do. A case in point is "Straight, No Chaser," obviously conceived as a medium blues rather than the horse race it usually becomes in other hands. He was never shy of speed when it fit, as shown on "Rhythm-a-ning". Speed for its own sake, however, never interested him, another distinction between Monk and bebop.

The three takes of 'I Mean You' are quite instructive in this regard. As every connoisseur of alternate takes well knows, they invariably get consecutively faster, as the players become more familiar with the tune, the routine, and each other. The tempo goes up not necessarily by intent, but almost instinctively. Not so with Monk here. To be sure, Take 2 is just a mite faster than Take 1, but the issued take is considerably slower than the first. The only other musician of whom such a thing was true on occasion was Duke Ellington, with whom Monk had more than just that in common. (I remember a Newport Jazz Festival in the early Sixties - a time when public endorsements by established jazz figures could still make a difference - where, during a Monk set, Duke came out on stage to lean over the piano and watch Monk play, with fond approval written all over his face.)

The three versions of this tune also offer a wealth of other differences, especially in the piano solos - the one on Take 2 being especially unpredictable and venturesome, albeit with an air of speculation about it.

In retrospect , this meeting with Mulligan offers very satisfying music. It's good to have it back in circulation, especially with the four fresh takes added. Now that we will get no more new music from Monk, everything he left behind takes on new importance, and it is good that so much unissued material has been prudently saved, for Monk never played a meaningless note. The "Round Midnight" in progress proves how much each note meant to Monk. He never wasted any-few players have been more economical than he; especially pianists, whose instrument by its very nature tempts the player to extravagance and displays of dexterity. But not Monk; he was too conscious of the specific gravity and weight of each note he culled from the instrument, and its relationship to the next one. (I was pleased to learn, from Ira Gitler's eulogy of Monk, that he had excelled in physics and mathematics at Stuyvesant High School - then as now one of the best and toughest in New York - but not surprised. His keen awareness of relationships was evident in everything he played and everything he did.)

To Monk, the piano was a sounding board. A study should be made of his use of the pedals, both the damping and sustaining one. e used his feet as unorthodoxly as he did his hands, and as percussively. He struck his notes, aware that the piano is a percussion instrument, a big, tuneable drum. His technique may have been eccentric, but it was intensely functional - to borrow a word from the Monk canon (not so coincidentally the title of a piano solo). He knew exactly what he wanted from the instrument.

Much as I love Monk's ensemble music - would that he had been able to explore further the possibilities of tonal and textural combinations implied by "Carolina Moon" and "Brilliant Corners" - it seems to me that when you hear him playing solo, you hear the essence of Monk. It is in this role, by himself, that he is free to explore fully what is in his mind, free to bond notes (he could do that on the piano), free to suspend meter, free to shape the music as he wanted it to sound. He is also free to lurch forward in those sudden clusters of sound that so resembled the manner in which he sometimes 'danced' by himself. (I remember one night in the little room just offstage at the Village Gate, crammed with musicians and all manner of hangers-on, when Monk, waiting to go on at a benefit, heard some inner muse that wanted him to dance. And so he did, big as he was, nimbly picking his way between sitting and standing bodies, utilizing every inch of shiftingly available space and never stepping on anyone's foot.)

Here he is, in 1957, working on a solo version of a piece of his own, his most famous composition, that even then must have been part of him for almost fifteen years, a piece he had played perhaps a thousand times. In the hands of almost any other pianist, it would long since have become a set piece, a show-piece, perhaps subject to refinement in detail, but not to changes in overall design.

Monk, however, approaches "Round Midnight" as if it were a brand-new challenge. In his hands, it becomes a vehicle for new explorations of melody, harmony, rhythm, sound texture, and structural and spatial relationships. In overall design and smallest detail, the encounter with the familiar becomes an occasion for renewal and discovery. And how he knew to use space and silence!

Monk used words even more sparingly than he used notes, but everything he said was fraught with meaning. There is a marvelous moment, early on in the progress of "Round Midnight" where Monk stops and says: "I can't hear that right . . . " Not hit; not get. Hear. He has to hear himself right, satisfy his mind's inner ear, bring forth what must be. There are no shortcuts.

If there could be a single word for Monk's music, that word might be integrity, in all its levels of meaning. Since words are treated rather cavalierly these days, it might be worth our while to define these levels. Integrity means "the state or quality of being complete, undivided or unbroken; an entirety." That fits. It also means "an unimpaired or unmarred state; entire correspondence with an unmarred condition; soundness; purity." That fits too. And it further means "soundness, honesty, freedom from corrupting influence and practice." That also fits. And it finally means "an unimpaired moral condition, a state of innocence: And that, insofar as music can be moral (and it can; any art can), fits again.

Thelonious Monk never played a meretricious note, never let his music or himself be used for any nonintegral purpose. Yet he achieved acclaim, even success. He could not have done this all on his own, yet he never asked for help. He took it when it was offered unconditionally, and he survived as an artist and a man because he inspired such offers. Yet he didn't use people, like some artists - great ones - have done. He was no saint, yet there was something holy about him, as there is about those rare beings who are all of a piece, all unto themselves.

Some day, perhaps, we will find out why Monk withdrew from the world in his last years of life. Was it by choice, or was it imposed by conditions (physical, mental) beyond his will? Did the private world he had built for himself, and which for so long seemed to make him almost invulnerable, break down? No matter what the answer might be, no matter how sad it is that the music he could have made (and must have heard) in those years will never be, it is a miracle of sorts that he was here at all, that he accomplished what he did with such integrity.

"Round Midnight" in progress affords us a rare glimpse of Monk's private musical workshop, and makes us understand just a little bit more about his art and craft.

-Dan Aforgenstern
Director, Institute of Jazz Studies, Rutgers University

Producer's Note: This material belongs to a period of intensive studio activity, less than a year in length, that represented one of the creative peaks of Thelonious's career. On October of 1956 he had begun what was to be his giant first stride toward proper recognition, the album Brilliant Corners (with Sonny Rollins and Max Roach, among others). In April 1957, we fulfilled my two-year ambition to do a Monk solo-piano album with Thelonious Himself. John Coltrane and Wilbur Ware joined him for one track, and in the next few months came the rest of the Monk/Trane recorded collaboration: the Monk's Music session (with Ware, Art Blakey, and Coleman Hawkins) and the three selections which are all that remains of the incredible music of Thelonious's 1957 Five Spot quartet.

In August, to complete the flurry of recording, we taped a blowing date we'd had in mind for several months - ever since Monk's offhand comment had made me aware that Gerry Mulligan was a friend and almost-neighbor of his and we had quickly agreed that a Monk/Mulligan encounter was a sufficiently unlikely event to be intriguing to all three of us. Dan Morgenstern's reference to critical "mutterings" politely skirts the fact that we were being put down because the personnel happened to add up to the Five Spot group with Gerry in place of John. As everyone should know by now, convoluted contractual and personality clashes made it impossible to extensively record The Quartet, but the Mulligan recording was never for a moment intended as any sort of substitute, merely as its own bizarre self....

In those days, no one even considered the possibility that monumental events might be taking place in the studios. I (among others) was quite cavalier about the disposition of original session tapes, and I now find it remarkable that any unissued material from the Fifties survived. Some, unfortunately, did not.

It was only when recently asked to do a definitive inventory of every existing Monk-on-Riverside reel that I turned up the alternate takes with Mulligan (which I had always, though rather vaguely, remembered as high-level performances) and the solo work-up of "Round Midnight" (the existence of which came as a total and wonderful surprise). The latter is reproduced here with only very nominal editing - some silences, a few announcements of take numbers and the ugly electronic beeps that accompanied them - and virtually no coherent moments of music have been deleted. It provides some memorable examples of what I once described as Monk "thinking out loud" at the piano - the only moments of comparative unclarity seem to be when my comments or questions from the control room manage to confuse him.

Orrin Keepnews (August 1982)

This is one of those once-in-a lifetime meetings of giants...

It can be said that to date there have been basically two major schools of modern jazz. The start of it all was the music originally known in the early 1940s as "be-bop" and then "bop"; and although these specific terms are now out of fashion, the music itself - as adapted and permutated through a decade and a half - remains a vital force. Later in the 40s there arrived what has come to be known as "cool" jazz. Both developments were gradual and complex creations; no one man can be singled out as the only, or even the primary instigator of either. But no musicians can be considered as more significant to the birth of these two basic facets of the contemporary jazz revolution than, respectively, THELONIUS MONK and GERRY MULLIGAN.

Although only in fiction, legend and superficial histories of jazz is it claimed that vast changes take place in single blinding flashes, you can point out specific key times and places for modern jazz. One; the experimental sessions at Minton's Playhouse in Harlem at the turn of the 40s. Another; the late ;40s recordings for Capitol that have been put together into an album most aptly titled :Birth of the Cool." It is of course anything but coincidental that the playing and thinking of (in the first instance) Monk and )in the second) Mulligan were fundamental factors. You would be fairly safe, even in so argumentative a field as jazz, in reducing matters to the simplest terms and saying that bop begins with Monk and cool jazz begins with Mulligan.

Possibly even more significant is the fact that neither of these men were content merely to blaze trails and then sit back and let others follow them. Both remain in the very forefront of jazz creativity. Mulligan's first big impact on the jazz public was through his original Quartet (which included Chet Baker and Chico Hamilton), and he has gone on from there to lead other important bands - both small and large - and to create consistently fresh and adventurous arrangements both for his own groups and for others. He also managed over the past several years to hold a steady lease on the top baritone sax positions in those notoriously unstable indices of success and fame - the numerous polls operated by numerous magazines.

Monk, although he has been prominently on the scene ever since the start, remains an excitingly inventive creator who is just about as far in front of the pack as he ever was. Thelonious, at the time of this recording, was just beginning a resurgence of popularity that was to bring him, over the next few years, richly deserved and long overdue recognition from critics and audiences alike. Did this come about because more people arrived at a point of being able to grasp his concepts or was it because he began at this time to reach even greater peaks of his immense powers as composer and performer? You can take your pick between theories. The fact remains that Thelonious need no longer be classified as a neglected genius - and that this proper state of affairs dates from just about the period of this recording.

Since it is only fiction, legend and superficial histories of jazz that there is supposed to be either indifference to or active dislike between various schools of jazz, there should be nothing at all surprising in the revelation that Gerry and Thelonious have always had strongly positive feelings about each other's music. What may be more surprising is that there is a long-standing bond of personal friendship between them, and that the idea of playing together has long been a very appealing one to both men. Consequently, the suggestion that they record jointly made immediate sense to both.

Actually, Riverside's plans for the album were rather more pretentious than the way things turned out. We had in mind beginning with a simple quartet set-up, and gradually expanding to a large all-star group and more formal arrangements. But at the end one blowing;' session (at which I Mean You, Rhythm-a-ning, and Straight, No Chaser were made), both Gerry and Thelonious felt strongly that this was so much the right groove that it would be a mistake not to complete the album this way. Having learned from experience that certain musicians know their business far better than any members of the control-room set, and having enjoyed the first session as much as they had, we offered no objections whatsoever.

The atmosphere on both occasions was one of complete and fruitful relaxation . There was much too much mutual respect and affection on hand for there to be any danger of feelings of competitiveness getting in the way. By general choice, the bassist and drummer with whom Monk was currently working at the Five Spot were used. Gerry had played with Shadow Wilson before, and knew to expect wonderfully firm support. But Wilbur Ware was a new experience for him, and - like most people newly exposed to this extraordinarily inventive bassist - he was mightily impressed. It was Mulligan's preference to work largely with Monk's challenging tunes; it was his insistence that he have the opportunity to play the modern jazz classic 'Round Midnight with its composer. A Mulligan original and a standard rounded out the picture. And, very probably, Gerry's approach to 'Round Midnight and the application of the Monk treatment to a characteristic Mulligan tune are the high spots of the LP.

This is not the sort of album that stands any need of hysterical hard-sell advertising copy on its liner notes. The solo work and the joint exploration of the lines worked out by both men can speak very ably for themselves. Among other things, the record serves to demonstrate that Mulligan's usual pattern of playing with a pianoless group is a concept, not a fetish. When the occasion calls for it, he is certainly neither unwilling nor unable to play most effectively in the company of a pianist - or, at least, this pianist.

This is a rare meeting of major facets and major figures of jazz. It is, like their separate efforts, intriguing and provocative. It is in all probability a significant document, a piece of jazz history. But surely there has never been a more enjoyable and enjoyed historic occasion than these two evenings when Mulligan met Monk . . .

Orrin Keepnews

These alternate takes have for the first time been added to the original Mulligan Meets Monk album for this Compact Disc Reissue. The first of these is "alternate" in a literal sense - not just the usual record-label meaning of "not originally issued." On August 13, 1957, separate tape machines were being used for the customary monaural and the new-fangled stereo versions of the session. For take 5 of "Decidedly," which turned out to be the preference, the stereo equipment malfunctioned. Accordingly, takes 4 and 5 were alternatively released: the latter on the then-more-important monaural record (RLP-247) and #4 on the stereo (RLP-1106) although neither album noted the fact. The earlier versions of "Straight, No Chaser and "I Mean You" (which, along with the only take of "Rhythm-a-ning" were made on August12), are simply not-initially-chosen efforts that have long been accepted as definitely good enough and different enough to be heard. All three have appeared on the Limestone ';twofer' 'Round Midnight (M-47067) and in the boxed set Thelonious Monk: The Complete Riverside Recordings (15 RCD-022-2)

O.K.

I began working with Thelonious Monk in the summer of 1955, and produced my last Monk album in April of 1960. That span was in a very real sense the start of my still-ongoing career as a jazz producer, for Thelonious was the first important artist I was associated with. He was also in many ways my first teacher -I had to learn my craft on the job and the lessons taught by this man on sessions such as those represented in this collection gave me the toughest and strongest kind of practical training. You can find my name listed as producer on more than a couple of dozen original, reissue, and compilation Monk albums. This means that any single anthology of his output during this period (even one as extensive as this compact disc, containing more than a full hour of music) can only be an extremely partial sampling. But that is really no drawback: in fact, I am continually fascinated by how many different valid approaches and combinations of selections can be drawn from the body of Monk's work on Riverside. In this particular case, I have not made the selections; that assignment was handled by my old friend Ed Michel, himself a sensitive and experienced jazz producer. I can honestly say I very much enjoy and approve the Monk pattern he has constructed for this occasion.

The emphasis, quite properly, is on Monk's compositions, for with very few exceptions Thelonious preferred to play his own music. Rather daringly, however, this compilation stays away from the most familiar, expected (can I go so far as to say routine?) choices. A Monk disc without "'Round Midnight;" "Epistrophy;" or even "Well, You Needn't" is unheard-of boldness, but it works. Among other things, this could make people more aware of just how extensive the lastingly-valuable Monk repertoire really is; and of course these eight compositions barely scratch the surface.

[There is only one piece here by another writer and, appropriately, it is part of a non-Monk project. "Pea Eye" is from the single Riverside album on which the pianist was strictly a sideman. The leader here was a trumpet player he greatly respected, Clark Terry, and Thelonious never sounded more relaxed in the studio than he does on this bright number by Clark.]

Of the eight Monk-composed selections, the opening "Bemsha Swing" is one of the few that might be generally familiar, and it is heard in a strikingly unusual version that has Max Roach doubling on drums and a full set of tympani that just happened to be in the studio that night. From the celebrated Monk's Music album, the choice is not one featuring the two great tenor saxophonists, Coltrane and Coleman Hawkins, but a beautiful and difficult ensemble piece, "Crepuscule with Nellie," on which the composer is the only soloist. Because of contractual problems, Riverside was only able to tape one session by the legendary original Five Spot quartet in which Thelonious was joined by Coltrane (who was signed to Prestige Records at the time). The tricky "Nutty" was one of the three sections recorded then.

"I Mean You" was written back in the late Forties for one of the pianist's earliest sessions for Blue Note Records, but is less well known than several other compositions from that period. On this 1957 date, Monk might seem to be leaving room for some controversy by using his Five Spot bassist and drummer on a quartet date shared with saxophonist Gerry Mulligan. Similarly, you could make comparisons between the initial quartet and the 1958 edition that featured Johnny Griffin and is heard here on "in Walked Bud." But the fact is that to Monk any change in personnel meant that he was walking on a completely different path and could deal with his basic repertoire in totally new ways. "PlayedTwice;" written for this 1959 date, augments the quartet of that year with the cornet of Thad Jones; the 1960 "San Francisco Holiday" adds trumpet and a second tenor; each time the difference is astounding. But "Little Rootie Tootie" is something else. For a Town Hall concert by a ten-piece orchestra, Thelonious and arranger Hall Overton developed intriguing expansions of Monk material; in this case, what had originally been the piano solo on a trio recording is the basis for a roaring ensemble chorus.

-Orrin Keepnews