Last year, the New York-based Dot Time label issued The Duo Sessions, which featured privately made tapes of groundbreaking jazz pianist Lennie Tristano in dialogue with fellow pianist Connie Crothers, saxophonist Lenny Popkin, and drummer Roger Mancuso. An enlightening spotlight on an artist who’d effectively disappeared from recording studios and bandstands later in his life, its format was CD only; by extension, the praise the set received in the pages of this website was substantial, but fairly brief. In a sweet development, Dot Time’s vinyl edition, with an accompanying download, is freshly available, its arrival spurring a deeper evaluation of Tristano’s work and his tight but intense sphere of influence.
Born on March 19, 1919, Leonard Joseph Tristano made a strong entrance onto the jazz scene during the bebop era, playing in bands with Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie for radio broadcasts and then getting his own group together, first with saxophonist Lee Konitz and a little later adding another saxophonist in Warne Marsh, both horn players inseparable from any worthwhile consideration of the pianist’s life and work (they figure prominently in this review).
Tristano began teaching piano in the 1940s and seems to have never quit, this practice eventually overtaking his interest in studio recording and gigs, though the biggest hunk of his discography is sourced from live performances. By 1978, the year of his death, his body of work was amongst the slimmest of any major jazz figure.
There was side one of Crosscurrents, cut in ’49 for Capitol but unreleased until ’72 (alongside unrelated recordings by Buddy DeFranco and Bill Harris), Tristano and The New Tristano, both for Atlantic, from ’56 and ’61 respectively, and the fairly obscure but fascinating Descent Into the Maelstrom, first released in Japan by East Wind in 1976 and in the US two years later by Inner City. Without a bunch of live recordings dating from ’49-’65 (and it’s worthy of note that Tristano and Maelstrom are partly comprised of performances), the man’s shelf would be meager, indeed.
Roughly a decade after Tristano’s death, and even with the release of New York Improvisations by Elektra in ’83 (featuring recordings from the pianist’s Manhattan studio from ’55-’56), his once sizable reputation was in decline. I speak from experience, as when I attempted to special order a Tristano recording circa ’89, New York Improvisations was the only release available, and only on tape.
This is in no small part due to Tristano’s choices, with his efforts at teaching gradually solidifying into what’s been called the “Tristano school,” its biggest exponents being Konitz and Marsh, but also pianist Sal Mosca, bassists Peter Ind and Sonny Dallas, drummer Nick Stabulas, and the three contributors featured on The Duo Sessions.
It may seem counterintuitive to have shaped a school of players and yet end up on the margins, but as stated above, Tristano’s sphere of influence was intense (students were sometimes described as disciples) but not widespread, as the man’s style, integral to the development of cool jazz (but lacking in that style’s popularizing sensibilities), was somewhat controversial, which is to say, he deemphasized the blues and swing (i.e., two of jazz’s thickest roots) in favor of heightened improvisation (he was a technical marvel) while exploring continual variations on a small book of standards.
There were still gigs, at least until the mid-’60s, but Tristano’s commitment to them wasn’t exactly total. During his ’59 stand at the Half Note, he reportedly took Tuesday’s off to teach, with Bill Evans his sub in a band that included Konitz, Marsh, drummer Paul Motian and bassist Jimmy Garrison. In 1994 Verve issued Live at the Half Note featuring that band under Konitz’s name as a 2CD set. It’s a classic.
But it feels inappropriate to focus so heavily on Tristano’s career difficulties after he emerged so strongly on the scene (awarded Metronome magazine’s artist of the year in 1947, in fact), partly because of a resurgence of interest from a younger generation of players that includes saxophonist Mark Turner and pianist Ethan Iverson.
This isn’t uncritical appreciation. Iverson’s multipart essay “All in the Mix,” written for his blog Do the Math, brilliantly tackles the complexities of race as it applies to Tristano, who was white, the Tristano school, which was also mostly white, and their interactions with the bop and post-bop communities, which, needless to say, was shaped by the brilliance of African-American artists.
Iverson’s piece is best read after getting acquainted with Tristano’s work, which I mention because The Duo Sessions isn’t well-suited as an introduction, either. For that, one should check out Crosscurrents (reissued on wax in 2009 by Doxy but available on CD and digitally through Capitol Jazz as Intuition, where the Tristano tracks are more appropriately coupled with Marsh’s 1955 LP Jazz of Two Cities), the two Atlantic LPs (both last released on vinyl by Rhino in 1991), and New York Improvisations (also given an LP edition in 2009 by Doxy).
But The Duo Sessions is still a revelatory discovery, foremost because it documents Tristano’s only recorded duets with a pianist that’s not Lennie Tristano (he was a pioneer in overdubbing in jazz, with his initial examples (featuring the rhythm of bassist Ind and drummer Roy Haynes) self-released on 10-inch shellac and 7-inch vinyl in 1952, over a decade prior to Bill Evans’ Conversations With Myself).
The two pieces with Connie Crothers (probably the most prominent Tristano schooler other than Konitz and Marsh), “Concerto: Part 1” and “Concerto: Part 2” (note that only the second is on the vinyl, which was sequenced with fidelity in mind, importantly, as these aren’t hi-fi recordings), date from 1976, and they dish out a higher level of rumble than one might expect given the overall thrust of Tristano’s style.
Although he’s sometimes affiliated with the avant-garde, this is largely due to a pair of freely improvised tracks, “Intuition” and “Digression,” both heard on Crosscurrents. If also groundbreaking, these tracks are ultimately minor (if quite likeable) experiments that pale next to Ornette’s innovations and can furthermore obscure that Tristano’s main objective was in establishing an alternate, individual path forward from bebop’s game-changing innovations (Tristano was enthralled by Bird).
And so, the tracks with Crothers are pretty surprising, with this two-part composition (per the title; I’m unsure how much of their interaction is improvised, certainly some) beginning in classical territory, but with a significant amount of angularity that gradually progresses into a reminder that Art Tatum was a prime influence on Tristano in his younger days.
Other stretches release energy that can briefly recall the keyboard heat of Cecil Taylor, Don Pullen and Dave Burrell, which is no shocker as there are four hands involved. But along with passages aptly assessed as contemplative, what’s remarkable is how the two pianists never seem to clash. Clocking in at a smidge over ten and a half minutes, the two tracks with Crothers inspire cravings for a full LP.
Recordings from October 15, 1970 with tenor saxophonist Lenny Popkin open the set, six on the CD and digital and three filling the vinyl’s first side. There’s a casualness to their encounter that obviously derives from the non-commercial impetus of the documentation, but that doesn’t equate to low intensity.
Popkin blows with a subway street corner verve throughout, confident and loose but with a clear vast knowledge of saxophone modernity (needless to say, his case would be loaded with change and bills). But the repertoire is clearly established as Tristano’s zone, with his playing flowing forth lively and attentive to his collaborator’s motions. And when Popkin lays out, Tristano really flourishes, particularly during “Chez Lennie.”
Piano is heard first in “Out of a Dream” (which opens both the CD and vinyl), but interestingly, it’s pure drums for over a minute in “Palo Alto Street,” the first of eight pieces (five on the wax) with Roger Mancuso behind the kit that date from 1967-’68. That Mancuso kick starts so many of these tracks isn’t a surprise. It’s the dynamism of his forward motion that’s rather striking. And downright appealing.
So is Tristano’s playing, which reminds me more of Paul Bley with Mancuso here than I’ve ever heard it anywhere else. But not always. As “My Babe” progresses, it gets a swagger boost that suggests Tristano could’ve knocked it out of the park from the stage of the Lighthouse during this period. And “Minor Pennies” (Tristano’s oft-recorded minor key variation on “Pennies From Heaven”) finds him in absolute killer form.
For longtime Tristano fans, The Duo Sessions is simply a must hear. And if you’re appreciation of the man’s work is just beginning to flower, it’s still a safe bet you’ll want to check this out, too. But if it’s the vinyl you desire, don’t dally, as only 500 copies were pressed. It’s reportedly the first in a Tristano series by Dot Time, which is cause for excitement.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
A
