In the 1950s, multi-hornman Jimmy Giuffre stepped into the jazz limelight and provided an alternative to the dominating improvisational streams of the period, East Coast Bop and West Coast Cool. Somewhere along the line Giuffre slipped from the forefront of the jazz discussion, and that’s a shame. His ’57 LP The Jimmy Giuffre 3, recorded with guitarist Jim Hall and bassist Ralph Pena, is a fine place to begin absorbing his very valuable work, and as it was reissued just a few years ago it charms shouldn’t be at all difficult to find.
The very foundation of jazz rests upon figures that are often neglected, unheard or essentially forgotten by the public at large. And while it’s a daunting prospect that as the years pass, worthy artists like Joe Albany, Walter Perkins, and Valdo Williams continue to fade even further into the deep recesses of cultural amnesia, it’s also undeniable that this general air of obscurity is part of jazz music’s appeal for serious fans.
That is, the emotional rush of discovery when being amazed by a lost record by an unknown player, connecting the dots through various personnel to other unheralded sessions and possibly even to the work of more celebrated improvisers, household legends that sometimes play support roles on strong recordings by names with no more contemporary currency than a handful of obsolete subway tokens: John Coltrane working in the quintet of the fascinating tuba player Ray Draper on New Jazz 8228 springs to mind as one example.
Now, in the grand scheme of things Jimmy Giuffre is far from an unknown jazzman. A progressive composer and multi-instrumentalist who struck out as a leader in the incredibly fertile period of ’55-’65, he already had work as an arranger for big-band mainstay Woody Herman under his belt, writing the hit “Four Brothers” for Herman’s excellent Second Herd in ’47.
Giuffre’s own early records are interesting in how they avoid the norms of Hard-Bop and Cool-Jazz that dominated the period. It’s true that he was an exponent of the West Coast Cool school, playing with Shorty Rogers after leaving Herman, but on his own Giuffre lacked any intrinsic ties to the laid-back, often proto-Playboy-isms that made the Cool sound so appealing to cads and chicks all over the landscape of ‘50s America.
His first two LPs for Capitol do hold moments of overt West Coast tendencies, but the path of his playing quickly led to a different sort of laid-backness, far more invested in “blues-based folk-jazz” to use the man’s own concise description. By the appearance of The Jimmy Giuffre 3 in 1957, he was firmly out of the shadow of the Cool and squarely in the sunshine of his own impressive sensibility.
While Gerry Mulligan and Chet Baker get a lot of deserved props for their pianoless quartet from ’52, what Giuffre set in motion with his first trio is arguably more impressive; a lineup of bass, guitar, and horns. Simultaneously relaxed and introspective, engagingly melodious and uniquely intuitive, the group were really unlike anything else happening in jazz at the time, but so low-key in operation (laid-back, again) that they weren’t really grasped and appreciated by anyone other than studious or highly zealous listeners.
The trio’s somewhat easy-going, approachable air shouldn’t be taken as a lack of intensity; if the group’s music is explicitly relaxed it also holds an implicit power that’s helped it to span the decades as far more than a curiosity of its period. Giuffre’s sense of collaborators is superb, with Jim Hall’s flawless guitar and Ralph Pena’s supple bass engaging in wondrous elevated interplay.
This is the sound of three beings approaching their chosen endeavor with a rigorous yet unforced equality, each player contributing an essential weave of dialogue to the flowing, loose focus of the whole. Any dominance that the familiarity of horns might promote is quickly lessened by the spacious interaction of all three instruments, the music sidestepping any inclinations toward virtuosity or showiness in favor of an expression of collective beauty.
Nobody falls into a role of support, and rarely has jazz experimentation arrived on a recording with such deceptively casual discipline. Yes, the blues is here in spades, but it registers as strikingly different from the prevailing hard-driving mode of the post-boppers, which was very much about sweating it out and advancing the Modern Jazz language on the bandstand/in the studios and prevailing as a collective of downtrodden angels defining the parameters of street-level professionalism.
In contrast, The Giuffre 3 feel like a workshop band, and one that was far less tied to the developments of Bop. In this sense, they’re remindful of some of Mingus’s prime stuff, in tactics if not sound. Giuffre’s employs three horns, the clarinet and tenor/baritone saxophones, and with them he brings an added sense of tonal variation to an already healthy sonic palate, playing with impressive richness and self-control in an environment that would amplify every misstep or bad decision.
Hall’s work is as authoritative and sensitive as anywhere I’ve heard him, clean and brisk and communicative and dare I say tasteful on an instrument that, in the wrong hands, can produce little more than clichés or unfortunate ideas.
Likewise, only the strongest bass players can thrive within the trio context, where so much more is required than just walking the rhythm and giving an occasional solo flourish. Pena proves his ability, and it’s a shame that he was so under-recorded in appropriate situations.
This album, originally released on Atlantic, was given a nice LP reissuing by the label Jazz Track a few years ago, and it’s a fine place to begin experiencing Giuffre’s work. It includes “The Train and the River,” probably his best known tune after “Four Brothers,” and the whole record really catches him at just the right point of growth and full-bodied expression, ultimately serving as a fine introduction.
The Jazz Track edition tacks on one extra cut from a subsequent trio of Hall and bassist Jim Atlas that’s certainly very good; to be blunt though, it kinda doesn’t fit thematically. This isn’t really a complaint, but rather an observation. ‘tis okay to have the extra tune around, even if it is ultimately out-of-place. Those unfamiliar with the original LP might not even notice.
Guiffre went on to record a slew of important discs over the six years following this release, including three masterpieces with a trio including pianist Paul Bley and bassist Steve Swallow; two in ‘61 for Verve (Fusion and Thesis, hard to find on vinyl but paired up in ’92 on a double CD by the German ECM label) and the simply amazing Free Fall for Columbia in ’63.
Those albums are an undisputed highpoint of the early jazz avant-garde, featuring an idiosyncratic sound that, unlike the work of Coleman, Coltrane, and Taylor from the same period, curiously didn’t inspire a later group of disciples from within the ranks of the free scene.
It’s now part of jazz lore how that trio broke up after a night where they played a set that earned them thirty-five cents apiece. Even adjusting for inflation, that’s some tough fucking luck (please excuse the lingual coarseness). But in the end it’s all okay, for Guiffre bounced back, going on to record some high quality later stuff, particularly in the ‘70s (The Train And The River for Candid Choice from ’75 is a definite highlight) before his death from pneumonia in 2008.
The Jimmy Giuffre 3 remains one of his strongest works, a record that proves how in the halls of jazz history, obscurity and neglect are often indicative of substantial artistic worth.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
A+
