Revinylization

Jazz collecting has an archaeological aspect to it; it's one of my favorite aspects of the hobby. Far more than most other genres, jazz evolved over its first several decades, and it did so on record. Every musician was distinctive, changed from session to session, and interacted with other musicians in ways specific to the ensemble, the time, the place, and the mood. Every record, live or from a studio, is a snapshot of where jazz was precisely then and there. You can get to know musicians' styles, and with practice, you can really hear what's going on.

I called it "archaeological," but most archaeology is dry, dusty stuff, at least compared to jazz. Archaeologists dig for hours, painstakingly, for a bone fragment or a small piece of a pot. With jazz, you buy a record, put it on the 'table, and access the vital force of a moment in musical history.

In the 1940s, jazz's mainstream (as we think of it today) moved away from blues and toward harmonic experimentation and abstraction. A second branch, exemplified by alto player Louis Jordan (the yang to Bird's yin), went the other way, embracing blues and straight-ahead rhythms and blazing a trail toward rock'n'roll. But there was always cross-fertilization, and in the '50s the bebop-influenced jazz mainstream began to crave an earthier sound and to move back toward blues.

In 1957, just two weeks out from a session with John Coltrane that produced Blue Train (arguably Trane's first great album), Lee Morgan took Paul Chambers and Philly Joe Jones—two-thirds of Trane's (and Miles's) rhythm section—into Rudy Van Gelder's studio. Morgan was, at age 19, already a veteran with a rapidly expanding discography. This was his 18th session of the year and his sixth session as leader (including one as co-leader, with Wynton Kelly). Either Chambers or Jones had played on all five Morgan-led albums, but never before had both played at the same time.

In 1950s jazz, geography still mattered, and Philadelphia was having a moment. Morgan was from Philly, having followed his idol, Clifford Brown, out of town just before Brown died, at age 23, the year before. Philly Joe, of course, was also from Philly.

Philadelphia was known for a relatively funky sound. Filling New Yorker Kenny Drew's seat from the Blue Train band, Bobby Timmons, a Horace Silver protégé, brought some of that with him. (The following year, Timmons would write the standard "Moanin'," and Morgan and Timmons would join Art Blakey's all-Pennsylvania Jazz Messengers. Blakey was from Pittsburgh.)

The Cooker leads off with Dizzy Gillespie's "A Night in Tunisia," which Morgan and Timmons had recorded earlier that same year with the Jazz Messengers. "Tunisia" starts off here, as it does there, with drums and a strong rhythmic pulse before Morgan plays the melody and Pepper Adams takes a short solo. An extended Morgan solo follows, combining virtuosic bebopish riffs with subtle rhythm-and-blues embellishments. Pepper answers, alternating on- and off-the-beat passages while swinging propulsively. And off we go. Throughout this album, including here, Timmons swings the hardest.

On "Lover Man," Morgan demonstrates that a player known for slash-and-burn—Morgan is the cooker after all, although Timmons steals the show—can be introspective. Beautiful stuff.

The Cooker, then, is late-'50s, Philly-tinged, hard-bop featuring an extroverted trumpet player and propelled by a Coltrane/Davis rhythm section. The Philadelphia influence ensures it swings. It is, as we say around my house, easy to listen to.

Like other late-'50s Blue Notes, The Cooker was first released in mono. The stereo version didn't come out until 1968. (In his studio, Van Gelder had just started recording in stereo at a May session that same year, with Horace Silver.) Both recordings—mono and stereo—are very well-made. The piano isn't muffled as it often is, or not very.

Mono originals of The Cooker in good shape sell in the high hundreds of dollars, up to thousands. The previous US vinyl reissue—in 2006 from Classic Records—was of the mono version; a few factory-sealed copies are still around, selling for more than $100. Early stereo copies are hard to find—and pricey. With patience, you can find a '70s reissue in the $50 range.

For vinyl fans who don't want to enter the collector's market, this new stereo Tone Poet is the only real choice. Fortunately, it's superb. Like all the records in this series, it was supervised by Tone Poet Joe Harley, remastered by Kevin Gray from the original analog tapes, and pressed to pristine 180gm vinyl at RTI. In contrast to too many high-end jazz-vinyl reissues, this is a proper 33rpm LP, with all the songs on a single disc, just like the original (stereo) issue. The gatefold cover is meticulously crafted. The vinyl is quiet, without meaningful flaws. The stereo images are corporeal, and the soundstage has real depth. To my ear, this sounds slightly better than the 24/192 FLAC file on Qobuz—I don't know how or why—with a slightly wider stage and denser sonic images.

The only reason not to buy this record is if you don't have a record player, or if you're broke.