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TIME: Almanac 1995
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1995-02-26
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<text id=94TT1503>
<title>
Oct. 31, 1994: Jazz:The King of the Hill
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1994
Oct. 31, 1994 New Hope for Public Schools
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
ARTS & MEDIA/JAZZ, Page 86
The King of the Hill
</hdr>
<body>
<p> Two multi-CD sets of recordings by bebop pianist Bud Powell
chart the brilliant, tormented career of a great innovator
</p>
<p>By Jay Cocks
</p>
<p> There is soul and fuddle here. Heat and hesitation. The grace
of real genius and at times a touch of madness. Among the five
CDs that constitute The Complete Bud Powell On Verve and the
four that make up The Complete Blue Note and Roost Recordings
(Capitol), you get a deep experience of his gift and his torment.
It is, much of it, great jazz. All of it is vital. These separate
CD sets are neither monument nor memorial, even though this
year marks the 70th anniversary of Powell's birth. Rather, the
recordings provide a map of trails blazed. There are still some
byways only Bud Powell dared wander down, and many that only
he could find again, but a lot of piano players have followed
his path. His work still lights the way. And more, it leads.
</p>
<p> It's often said, as a way of orienting anyone coming to him
fresh, that Powell did for the piano what Charlie Parker did
for the saxophone. Together, and with no small assist from Thelonious
Monk and Dizzy Gillespie, they took a hand in fearlessly turning
jazz inside itself, then inside out, as they created bebop.
But Powell found distinctive melodic nuances on his keyboard.
He wasn't as witty and romantic as Nat Cole or as exuberant
a geometrician as Art Tatum, both non-beboppers. But he could
find a secret, personal vibrancy on a standard like Jerome Kern's
Yesterdays, or combine a dark heart with a soaring spirit in
such tunes of his own as Crossin' the Channel and Cleopatra's
Dream. And he could make Tea for Two, for God's sake, sound
like an entire banquet, with the Mad Hatter himself doing the
pouring.
</p>
<p> Born in Harlem in 1924, Earl Powell was, on the evidence, something
of a prodigy. His father was a building superintendent but also
had some skill as a stride pianist, and he started giving his
son lessons at the age of three. By the time Bud was seven,
his father claimed, neighborhood musicians would come by and
take the boy out so everyone could admire his chops. At 10 he
could play Fats Waller and Art Tatum. While he was still in
his teens, Powell fell in with Thelonious Monk, who after a
time would even let Bud take over the piano for an evening's
final set. Powell made his first recordings with trumpeter Cootie
Williams' orchestra in 1943. He was 19.
</p>
<p> His musicianship would grow, but against heavy odds, as Powell
was beset by mental problems. In 1945 he was whaled on by a
couple of Philadelphia cops when he went to a club to hear Monk.
"They'd beaten him so badly around the head," Cootie Williams
remembered, "((Bud's mother)) had to go get him...His sickness
started right there." Powell began showing signs of insanity,
and that was combined with drinking and drug problems. He was
periodically confined to psychiatric hospitals, where he underwent
electroshock therapy and was even sprayed with water laced with
ammonia. For a few years in the late 1940s, the wizard saxophone
player Jackie McLean, eight years younger than Powell, spent
a lot of time as a kind of musical apprentice and all-purpose
guardian for him. He'd take Powell to performing dates, get
him together with musicians like Parker who still revered him,
and generally make sure he got through the day, and through
the music.
</p>
<p> Often enough Powell did need help with that; still, the music
could dazzle. The way McLean recalls it in the notes that accompany
the elegantly packaged Verve set, Charlie Parker "got used to
being king of the hill. But when he stepped on the bandstand
with Bud, he wasn't king of the hill anymore, because Bud was
going to give him back as much as he got." And that, of course,
was near as good as it ever gets.
</p>
<p> The Capitol set opens with Powell's first date as a leader,
recorded on Roost in 1947, kicking off with a sprung version
of I'll Remember April that betrays none of Powell's troubles.
It bursts with giddy invention that could have tipped the song
into anarchy if Powell hadn't been able to restrain his own
abandon. He was so good and so graceful, he could realize his
inspirations with tremendously controlled dexterity. The earliest
of the Verve recordings are from 1949, and they end with a 1955
session in which Powell, his bass player and drummer close out
with a heavyweight combination: Gillespie's Bebop and Monk's
52nd Street Theme. The Capitol compilation ranges a little further,
giving a last glimpse of Powell in Paris, where he lived much
of his later life, cosseted and honored. His version of Like
Someone in Love has a reckless majesty that seems to draw a
circle back to the exuberance of his youth, then close it, without
a seam showing. He would die three years later, in 1966.
</p>
<p> Powell's sad life and wondrous music were in large part the
inspiration for filmmaker Bertrand Tavernier's fond 1986 jazz
eulogy, 'Round Midnight, but what is so imposing about the music
on these CDs--immediately, insistently impressive--is not
the sorrow but the vigor. Powell's may have been a troubled
spirit, compromised and violated, but it was never stilled.
</p>
</body>
</article>
</text>