Remembering Close Encounters of the Monk Kind

The Thelonious Monk Institute has become one of the jazz world’s most important institutional entities. Its extensive educational activities (including its mentor-style program at USC) and its annual competition--which has given initial recognition to artists such as Joshua Redman, Jane Monheit and numerous others--have proven immensely valuable.

For longtime jazz fans, however, the association of a funded institution with the name of one of the music’s most eccentric figures has its fanciful aspects--appropriate, in a way, as a memorial to the enigmatic qualities that were intrinsic to Monk’s compositions, his piano playing and his career.

Anyone fortunate enough to have heard him in action before he stopped playing in the mid-’70s has to have colorful memories of the experience. (Although Monk survived until 1982, he spent the intervening years in a kind of inner personal exile, rarely talking, never returning to his music.) In the early years--from the ‘40s into the ‘60s--his performances were brilliant examples of a thoroughly individual jazz imagination at work. Although there always were eccentric aspects to the way he dealt with his life and his art (including dark episodes with drugs and alcohol), Monk was almost never less than amazing, and often considerably more than that.

Even in later years, the sudden, off-the-wall incidents often were surrounded by compelling musical moments. In San Francisco in 1971, for example, I heard Monk in action at a local club. Partially in action, that should be, because he opened the set with “Well You Needn’t,” then danced his way offstage as tenor saxophonist Paul Jeffrey dug into his solo. And it turned out to be a long solo, since Monk had simply disappeared from the room. Ten minutes or so later, he sauntered back in, sat down at the keyboard and took the tune out, enriching it with his incomparable ability to blur the line between harmony and rhythm.

Later in the week, I had a more direct encounter. While sitting in the control room of a Folsom Street studio, working on the production of an album by Blood, Sweat & Tears. I suddenly became aware of a presence in the back of the room. I turned, and there was Monk, wearing a plaid cap, a small smile on his face, dancing from one foot to the other as the music unfolded. He was there, I assumed, because his manager, Harry Colomby, was the brother of BS&T;’s drummer (and co-producer). Asked if he wanted a seat, Monk shook his head no, continuing his little step pattern, obviously enjoying what he was hearing. A few minutes later, he was gone. Like his music, his presence always took place on his own terms.

One of the blessings of jazz recording history is that Monk’s music has been so well-documented. From Blue Note and Prestige through Riverside, his efforts in the ‘40s and ‘50s--when virtually all his major compositions were released--were issued in a continuing flow. Most are available via collections: “The Complete Blue Note Recordings” on four CDs, “The Complete Prestige Recordings” on three CDs and “The Complete Riverside Recordings” on 15 CDs.

Monk’s move to Columbia Records in 1962 left many of his fans with mixed emotions. It was great, they surmised, that he would finally receive the widespread distribution and marketing that come with a major-label association. But there was also the fear that mass-market pressures associated with such a company might somehow adversely affect his music.

They should have known better. Monk simply didn’t seem to know how to be anyone other than himself. A pair of recent Columbia Legacy reissues reveals the extent to which his musical path of the period was a logical continuation of his earlier work.

“Thelonious Monk: Live at the Jazz Workshop” (* * * * Columbia Legacy) was recorded in 1964 but not released until 1982, when it was issued as a double LP. This two-CD version adds additional performances and restores some edits, almost doubling the length of the original. The material encompasses versions of a string of Monk classics--”Evidence,” “Blue Monk,” “Epistrophy” and “‘Round Midnight.” And the quintet is one of his most stable and supportive units, with Charlie Rouse on tenor saxophone, Larry Gales on bass and Ben Riley on drums. There is also an intriguing taste of Monk’s ability to transform songs of other composers in his brief but touching solo renderings of “Don’t Blame Me” and “Memories of You.”

“Monk in Tokyo” (* * * * Columbia Legacy), a two-CD live set recorded in 1963, has only been previously available in Japan or as an import. Rouse is again present, this time with the rhythm team of bassist Butch Warren and drummer Frankie Dunlop. Much of the same material from the “Jazz Workshop” recording is covered, in part reflective of Monk’s tendency to repeat much of the same material in his live performances. The difference--subtle to be sure--is in the solo perspectives he brings to the tunes, and the manner in which he and his players respond to various playing environments.

In this case, the quartet was working in front of dedicated jazz fans, their enthusiasm apparent in the applause that greets the start of many of the numbers. And, once again, there are a few offbeat examples of Monk’s envelope-stretching renditions of standards--”Just a Gigolo” and “I’m Getting Sentimental Over You.”

It would be hard to find any Monk album that isn’t worth having, but the prodigious amount of available material can place demands on anyone’s finances. Still, you can’t go wrong with either of these live outings, both of which come close to reproducing the electric feeling present whenever this quixotic, cryptic and mesmerizing artist took the stage.