mfs@mhuxr.UUCP (SIMON) (09/01/85)
Blakey runs the top jazz finishing school, has for thirty years, and is still at the top of his game. This edition of the messengers has been together for almost a year, when tenorist Bill Pierce was replaced by Jean Toussaint, and has gone from tentative to inexperienced to solid to terrific. Pianist Mulgrew Miller is from Mississipi and has the home-fried tone to prove it. But he is no mere graduate of the Bobby Timmons school of sanctified funk. As he proved during a fiery "Joy Spring," his sound was forged by a McCoy Tyner-ish blacksmith in Bud Powellian ovens. He also has a sly sense of humor, evidenced by oddly placed Monk quotes that seem incongruous, but a chorus or so later have been made to fit the fabric of the solo perfectly. He is a monster solo pianist and Blakey makes sure he gets lots of space to show it. Alto man Donald Harrison has a piercing tone; as his time with Blakey goes by, he has acquired assurance as a soloist, but suffers from an undeveloped identity. He will sound like Jackie McLean here, Cannonball Adderley there. Fine mentors to be sure, but where is Harrison under all that? We still don't know, and it seems that neither does Harrison. Trumpeter Terence Blanchard has been called the new Marsalis by some and while I would hate to burden him with that hype, the comparison makes some sense. Blanchard is only 21, joined Blakey at 18 and is the latest in a line of hot New Orleans cats. Sounds familiar? The similarity breaks thereafter, though. Blanchard's tone is descended from Freddie Hubbard, while Marsalis is clearly influenced by Fats Navarro. Terence does not have Wynton's monster chops, or rather he chooses not to display them all the time. Finally, while Marsalis has elected to become a chameleon, who shines in a variety of styles while making his mark on none, Blanchard has doggedly developed the Blanchard sound, as evidenced by a lovely version of "Tenderly." There is no real need to carry the comparison any further. They are clearly both very talented yound men, with differing approaches to their instrument. The most pleasant surprise in this gig was Toussaint's emergence from under the mantle of Sonny Rollins. His tone has broadened to include Wayne Shorter-like obliqueness. He has shortened his lines, delivering phrases packed with ideas, not sixteenth note arpeggios. His solo feature was luminous, as he tested and discarded several tunes before settling on the right one, which he developed in a relaxed, logical fashion. He brought down the house. As for the Old Man, he playing has never been better. He throws the gauntlet to kids one third his age with the full knowledge that he would crush them if they dared to accept it. I love the way he rolls up his eyes while administering a rhythmic kick in the pants, or grins broadly while delivering a get-your-ass-in-gear-sucker press roll to some wandering soloist. Mrs Blakey's bambino, as he calls himself looks and acts after 47 years in show business like he has at least another 50 to go. God bless him. Marcel Simon