AMAZON REVIEW FANFIC

The Duke is the king. He was huge. Too much recent writing bogs down in arguments whether Strayhorn got enough credit, whether Hodges or Nanton or Williams were showcased properly. These writers, came to the banquet late, and are squabbling over table scraps. Ellington dominated the jazz world from the mid-1920s until he died in 1974. Ellington was the vanguard. This CD is one to prove it.

The year is 1962. Big bands are dinosaurs. Ellington's orchestra still performs, but dance hall venues of the 30s and 40s went out with the war. He's been doing studio work, some with the band, some with smaller ensembles. Everyone wants to record with the Duke. This time out he's with the angriest man in jazz, Charlie Mingus, the Black Saint himself. How did they do? Unbelievable.

Here's Duke, elegant, sophisticated, and smooth. He plays piano in the parlor. Probably in the Hamptons. Max Roach accompanies discreetly with brushes and cymbals. You can almost hear the whispers of liveried waiters circulating with champagne and canapés. But beneath this frothy party, up through the floorboards, comes a rumbling, and a thumping. Not a guest at the party, what you hear is an unpresentable, dangerous member of the family. Locked away for the night, he's Charlie Mingus, the beast in the basement, down there, pounding away at the foundations.

Max reacts. Brushes, cymbals and the quiet pretense of elegance, give way to sticks and traps and a harder edge- "Duke," he says, "Duke, you hear that?" The Duke doesn't answer right away. It's like maybe he didn't hear it, but then, when he answers, he answers with a discord. "Is that what you mean?" Another discord, "You mean that?" "Yeah, Duke, that's it. That's what I mean."

Bit by bit Duke and Max pick up Charlie's themes. Duke, over sixty, he's seen it all, commiserates with Mingus, the quintessential angry 60s black man. "Yeah, Charlie, we know, Charlie. We're angry, too, Charlie. It's not just you. You're not alone, Charlie." They grumble, angry together. But with age comes wisdom, and sweetness, and forgiveness, and after a bit, Duke hits a nice round churchy gospel chord. "C'mon, Chuck, lighten up." Another gospel chord. Max cracks a joke. And Mingus mellows.

The trio hits a nice rhythm. A bit of harmony, even. "Wanna come upstairs, Charlie? Join the party?" And, after a bit, he does, walleyed and nervous in the bright light. "You understand, Duke, this is just for you? I'm only doing this for you." He really doesn't like these people, but still-- It's better than the basement.

Mingus never really is comfortable in the parlor. And as long as he's upstairs, the guests look at the waiters with apprehension. This bass player, you know, he could lead a revolution. But Mingus likes jazz, and he likes the Duke. Duke's not just one of those lard-butted bandleaders, he's one of- Aw, man, forget `one of', he's the BEST jazz piano player EVER. so sit up and listen or Mingus will kick your--