In 1979 I attended a club performance by the original lineup of Jack DeJohnette’s Special Edition, a quartet that, along with Peter Warren on bass and DeJohnette on drums, featured two horn players, one who switched between tenor saxophone and bass clarinet (David Murray) and the other an alto player (Arthur Blythe). Even this jazz newbie could tell he was witnessing some top-tier musicians, and when the horn players engaged in simultaneous soloing, as they did several times that evening, the effect was exhilarating. Walking into the concert, I had no idea who the sidemen were in the band; walking out, I realized I had some catching up to do.
In the case of David Murray, that was no small task, not so much because of his discography prior to that point (his first album came out in 1976) but what followed. It wasn’t just the number of records he appeared on (in 1988 alone he put out seven LPs as a leader) that kept his fans busy; it was also his versatility. Here was a musician whose early discography includes memorable solo recitals, duets, trios, quartets, octets, and a big band that created quite a buzz in New York City’s now-defunct Sweet Basil. Murray was also a member of the World Saxophone Quartet and Clarinet Summit, plus he collaborated with Kip Hanrahan and such literary figures as Ishmael Reed and Amiri Baraka.
Yet that only tells part of the story, as predicting David Murray’s next stylistic detour during this period was next to impossible. First tagged as a fire-breathing enfant terrible of the avant-garde, he soon proved a fine ballad player on songs like “Ming” and “Home” and surprised listeners with a more straight-ahead sound on 1983’s Morning Song, his first album to include standards. Also, Murray quickly stood out for his ability to connect with musicians from different generations. Fellow young musicians Murray collaborated with during the 80s included Anthony Davis and James Newton. Murray also seemed at home with veteran avant-garde jazz musicians (Lester Bowie, Andrew Cyrille, Dave Burrell, Sunny Murray, and others) and musicians who were not associated with the avant-garde (Randy Weston, Joe Chambers). More than just a musician who played gigs and recorded albums, Murray was a unifier and a spokesman.
During the early 1980s Murray went from the loft scene to club dates, and then to larger venues, including small halls and outdoor festivals. But after he moved to Europe in 1996 keeping up with David Murray required more diligence, and lately what has long seemed like a nonstop stream of recordings has slowed down a bit. His website and Facebook page aren’t exactly overrun with updates, and the only concert dates I heard about were on the East Coast. So when I was told that he’d be performing at a loft space within walking distance of where I live in Cincinnati—a city he’d never played before—I decided fake news had finally penetrated to the jazz world.
But this news was real. On a sweltering summer night Murray played the Loft Society, a venue inside a third-floor apartment where the air conditioning and even the fans were turned off (too loud). Every time the Loft Society hosts a concert it seems like time stands still, as you’d swear, during the performances, that you were sitting in a New York City loft during the heyday of loft jazz, as musicians who play there have been quick to note. That night Murray performed duets with Kahil El’Zabar, who played a variety of percussion instruments, including a full drum set. Although I hadn’t seen Murray perform for over 20 years, it took only seconds to get reacquainted with his sound, which includes high-register notes as well as some of the lowest tones you’ll hear from a tenor or bass clarinet, solos where he invokes Ben Webster in one phrase and Albert Ayler in another, and what is often a very vocal-like approach. Between sets Murray gave me his phone number, thus launching a series of conversations that started during the end of his tour with Kahil El’Zabar and ended after he returned to his apartment in New York City. I quickly learned that Murray, who was born in 1955, was doing gigs around L.A. when most kids his age were buying their first 45.
“When I was about 12 we had a band that used to play stuff like ‘A Taste of Honey,’” he said, “but we would play it in a jazz way. I had a trio with a cat named Charles Green, and we used to play in all of the Shaky Pizza Parlors. They had like 28 of them.”
When asked what records he listened to early on, he mentioned some titles by mid-century titans. “One jazz album I got was Coleman Hawkins and Ben Webster, and I had another Coleman Hawkins that I played to death. And I also had Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie. I would slow the record down to 16 and learn the music an octave lower, then speed it up and play with the record.”
At Pomona College Murray enrolled in an independent study that even then must have seemed like a dream assignment (and now sounds even juicier): a series of interviews with four iconic musicians. “I went to John Cage’s house, I went to Cecil Taylor’s loft, I went to Ornette’s loft, I went to interview McCoy Tyner in a club; those were the people I wanted to interview.” When asked what he discussed with John Cage, Murray said, “Space, and his sense of silence. It took a lot to get him to say anything. It was very sparse, our conversation. Very sparse and sometimes very short. A lot of staring away and a lot of looking into nothingness.”
John Cage’s silence one minute and early punk rock the next—after Murray moved to New York, that is. “The loft that I had, Studio Infinity, was on the third floor. That was right on the bowery, right across from CBGB. Actually my next door neighbors were the Ramones. They came over to my loft a few times.”
Murray quickly became part of the already vibrant loft jazz scene, and his early recordings are consistently hard-edged and dissonant. But where the previous generation kept pushing the boundaries, Murray and other new lions took a step inward. In Murray’s words, “I grew out of the loft jazz, but loft jazz couldn’t hold me.“I had such a dynamic quartet, and I thought it would be a shame to have people like Eddie Blackwell and Freddie Hopkins and Art Davis and Ray Drummond and John Hicks on the bandstand and not swing. It would be like some kind of sin.“I was one of the first guys to play at the Vanguard from that time from the loft jazz scene. I started playing there, and Max Gordon said, ‘Keep playing those ballads.’ After all that happened I guess people discovered I could swing and I could bring people in, and people would come out to hear me in droves.
“I might have lost fans playing different types of commercial places, but to me it added to my stature and my vitality as a musician.”
Another key New York club for Murray was Sweet Basil, where he premiered an octet and a big band, both of which featured some of the hottest musicians from that period. Even in a more straight-ahead context Murray avoided getting too comfortable.
“I had to make different kinds of records,” he explained. “I’ve had to fire great piano players. You can’t have the same piano player on every record with the same group; otherwise you’re redundant. Even the great John Hicks had to get fired.” But you continually rehired him, I said. “Of course I did,” Murray responded. “He was the greatest piano player of his era. For me, he was it.”
While discussing his career since moving to Europe, I mentioned an interview where he said journalists make it seem like he’s been twiddling his thumbs ever since—something he’s quick to refute.
“When I was in Europe, I’d come to New York every three weeks and do a recording and do some gigs,” he said. “I did three recordings in Cuba, I did one in Argentina, I finished my contract at Justin Time, and I was in New York the whole time. I’ve been doing concerts, the World Sax Quartet and all that.
“I did Fo Duck Revue in Senegal and recorded a bunch of albums in New York when I was supposedly twiddling my thumbs. I did a Pushkin opera and I did another opera with Amiri Baraka when I was supposed to be twiddling my thumbs. I did a big concert with the Roots in Paris at Jazz à la Villete, and I did The Obscure Works of Duke Ellington and Billy Strayhorn.”
When asked why these projects haven’t received more attention, Murray said, “People just want you to be in New York, where they know where you are. I don’t really care if they know where I am. I know where I am.”
These days, however, Murray is spending more time in New York, and at the end of our conversation he began discussing potential upcoming releases in multiples (including both live and studio albums with El’Zabar and a new octet project), suggesting he may return to his old prolific self. It seems entirely possible that Murray could shake up the American jazz scene like he did in the 1980s. We’ll see if we can keep up with him.
By Jeff Wilson
This will take some explaining, but I can connect the dots between pawing through LPs at a headshop called Elysian Fields in Des Moines, Iowa, as a seventh grader, and becoming the Music Editor for The Absolute Sound. At that starting point—around 1970/71—Elysian Fields had more LPs than any other store in Des Moines. Staring at all the colorful covers was both tantalizing and frustrating. I had no idea who most of the artists were, because radio played only a fraction of what was current. To figure out what was going on, I realized that I needed to build a record collection—and as anyone who’s visited me since high school can testify, I succeeded. Record collecting was still in my blood when, starting in the late 1980s, the Cincinnati Public Library book sale suddenly had an Elysian Fields quantity of LPs from people who’d switched to CDs. That’s where I met fellow record hawk Mark Lehman, who preceded me as music editor of TAS. Mark introduced me to Jonathan Valin, whose 1993 detective novel The Music Lovers depicts the battles between record hawks at library sales. That the private eye in the book, Harry Stoner, would stumble upon a corpse or two while unraveling the mystery behind the disappearance of some rare Living Stereo platters made perfect sense to me. After all, record collecting is serious business. Mark knew my journalistic experience included concert reviews for The Cincinnati Enquirer and several long, sprawling feature articles in the online version of Crawdaddy. When he became TAS music editor in 2008, he contacted me about writing for the magazine. I came on board shortly after the latest set of obituaries had been written for vinyl—and, as fate had it, right when the LP started to make yet another unexpected comeback. Suddenly, I found myself scrambling to document all the record companies pressing vinyl. Small outfits were popping up world-wide, and many were audiophile-oriented, plus already existing record companies began embracing the format again. Trying to keep track of everything made me feel, again, like that overwhelmed seventh grader in Elysian Fields, and as Music Editor I’ve found that keeping my finger on the pulse of the music world also requires considerable detective work. I’ve never had a favorite genre, but when it comes time to sit down and do some quality listening, for me nothing beats a well-recorded small-group jazz recording on vinyl. If a stereo can give me warmth and intimacy, tonal accuracy, clear imaging, crisp-sounding cymbals, and deep, woody-sounding bass, then I’m a happy camper.
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