[0]In 1969, Miles Davis profoundly altered the genetic makeup of jazz with In A Silent Way and Bitches Brew. Impressionistic, enigmatic, and intoxicating: the former possessed a concentrated beauty that contrasted with the latter’s oceanic scope. Each introduced aberrant grooves, electric tonal colours, and post-production methods that were then unfamiliar, if not entirely alien, to the jazz idiom. Because of their extensive influence, these two recordings are widely recognized as the ones that crystallized the somewhat nebulous genre of jazz fusion.
Such a notion might satisfy at a superficial level, but to anyone with more than a passing interest it's readily clear that the most celebrated of the fusion groups (Mahavishnu Orchestra, Return To Forever, Herbie Hancock’s Headhunters, mid-period Weather Report) were musically at odds with what Miles was turning out during the 1970s. Certainly Davis had tilted the heads of his progeny toward new ways of thinking, yet beyond the basic electrification of jazz—which in any case had become pervasive after the relative commercial success of Bitches Brew—there were few sonic aspects in common. The work of fusion’s most conspicuous artists also seemed to imply that these “new directions in music” (to quote Miles himself) had lost their original sense of freedom and been reduced to the furious convolution and over-composition of jazz-rock or the tight, well-rinsed deliveries of jazz-funk.
Miles Davis, in comparison, experimented with increasingly dense and deviant forms until commencing a lengthy hiatus in 1975. When listening to his glorious burst of mutant jazz from In A Silent Way to Pangaea, it’s clear that there's an obvious need to disentangle this particular string from the whole great ball of (con)fusion. This then is free fusion, something grown in the left field of jazz when free improv is coupled with a compelling groove. In short, free fusion is when avant-garde jazz shakes its ass. It’s a delirious convergence, the effect being that the groove hooks and holds the listener while a swirling sonic mass sneaks inside to scramble his/her perceptions. Technically, free fusion tends to lean more toward open-ended, melodic vamps with abstract texturing, rather than harmonic complexity. It often exhibits a cosmic nature, containing elements of psychedelia and/or spirituality that are fortified by studio sound processing and instrumental effects. Free fusion may also be characterized by its ability to reflect not only the current social consciousness—as great jazz has always done—but also a widening fascination with either emerging or existing (ie. global) musical forms. As an example, Miles’s work during this period integrated elements from European avant-garde, Latin/Brazilian, African, and Indo-Asian musics, in addition to the new funk flavours served up by Jimi Hendrix, Sly Stone and Stevie Wonder.
Although he had the highest profile, Miles wasn’t the only jazz artist with a taste for deviation and amalgamation. The ‘70s introduced a considerable group of agitators who set their own sights on shattering jazz conventions and consequently birthed an impressive number of free fusion “classics”. The list of essentials continues to evolve, as recent reissue campaigns by indie labels such as Soul Jazz Records, whatmusic.com, and Cuneiform unearth and restore lost artifacts. While each session has brought new dialects to an existing free fusion vocabulary, some titles go even further to extend and redefine the genre's established boundaries. A subjective sampling of this latter set appears below, in rough chronological order.
[0] Pharoah Sanders Karma [Impulse!, 1969]. In 1967, Pharoah's Tauhid marked the onset of his journey into spiritual/mystical jazz but Karma, consisting almost entirely of the 33 minute jewel “The Creator Has A Master Plan,” comes closest to the mark in combining the accessible with the confrontational, the contemplative with the ecstatic. This track, created from sections of longer or multiple recordings, cycles between restraint and release: a slow rhythmic clamour repeatedly builds to glorious cacophony wherein Pharoah parts your hair with the distorted cries of his tenor saxophone. There are traces of his earlier work with John Coltrane (the bassline for “Creator” resembles that of “Acknowledgement” from A Love Supreme) and Sun Ra (as with the Arkestra, the ensemble often suggests a swarm of percussionists), though Karma was clearly the moment where he achieved his own distinction. Pharoah, who during the 70s dropped ten albums of screeching beauty and celebratory rhythms on the Impulse! label, rivalled Miles Davis as the most enduring practitioner of free fusion.
Miles Davis A Tribute To Jack Johnson [Columbia, 1971]. Beyond the fertile funk abstractions of In A Silent Way and Bitches Brew, Miles Davis delivered at least three more decisive statements of free fusion. A Tribute To Jack Johnson was conceived as the soundtrack to a documentary on the world’s first black heavyweight champion boxer and is arguably of similar stature to its namesake. The two sidelong epics were remarkably crafted by producer Teo Macero using multiple studio takes, something made explicit on the recent Complete Jack Johnson Sessions box. The result is a rendering of jazz-rock that Miles/Teo made perfect then chose never to revisit. The players remain tight yet flexible throughout, possibly because Miles’s presence dampened any of their potential heroics (compare the sublime rigour by John McLaughlin and Billy Cobham to their later pyrotechnics in Mahavishnu Orchestra.). “Right Off” may have found its name simply through wordplay but the title also nails the confident swagger heard in its opening moments. The rock rhythms and lack of predetermined structure have prompted some to dismissively refer to these sessions as “jams”– a description that's just plain wrong, as the first ten minutes of “Right Off” hold some of the most responsive spontaneous improv on record.
[0] Miles Davis On The Corner [Columbia, 1972]. As with Jack Johnson, Teo Macero conjured the tape voodoo for On The Corner. Its onset jarringly hits in mid-conversation so that the listener is immediately playing catch-up. Highly repetitious and (de)based in a filthy funk, it was widely marginalised upon its release though has since proven to be fairly prophetic. With On The Corner, Miles attained equanimity of foreground and background by elevating the rhythm bed while shading the individual voices of his supporting players. The ingredient list is extensive (including multiple keyboards, drums, tabla and electric sitars), solos are abbreviated and often simultaneous, and the effect is much like trying to grasp multiple conversations all at once. That said, there's a stunning commonality to it all, owing to the central rhythms that keep everything synchronous. The lengthy title suite slides over a funky backbeat, whereas the “Black Satin” groove fuels the remainder of the record, the beat sitting tightly on the One, and humping it quite nicely for a therapeutic 35 minute ride. Never again would Miles be so explicitly carnal.
Weather Report Sweetnighter [Columbia, 1973]. Weather Report was formed from the Bitches Brew cauldron and their first few albums mapped a similar although separate path from that of Miles Davis. Their 1972 tour traced the group’s transition from free electric storms (as found on the Live In Tokyo sides) to frenetic throb, with Sweetnighter as the logical conclusion. Shamelessly groove-ridden, it refines Miles’s balancing act from On The Corner by adding greater contrast to the now-equivalent lead and rhythm sections. At times this relationship is completely inverted, as with the dominant backbeat of “Boogie Woogie Waltz” and the breakbeat callisthenics that steal “Non-Stop Home”. Unsurprisingly both tracks have since been pilfered by the beat sample merchants. Upon its release, Sweetnighter's apparent lack of linear event also caught a lot of critical fire. The point missed was that the “event” is found in the collective interplay and fractured counterpoint more so than with solo voicings. Weather Report may have had a greater impact in subsequent years—undoubtedly assisted by the fretless bass antics of Jaco Pastorius—but Sweetnighter remains their greatest union of groove and electric invention.
[0] Herbie Hancock Sextant [Columbia, 1973]. Herbie assembled his “Mwandishi” sextet in 1970 and over the course of 3+ years and three studio longplayers the group produced a devastating burst of cosmic jazz that expanded on many of Bitches Brew’s original designs. With its unconventional instrumentation (bass clarinet, trombone, flugelhorn), the group delivered multi-coloured excursions that invoked both cerebral space and sensual rhythms. Sextant was their final album under Herbie’s alias, although other members later used this configuration for their own like-minded recordings. What differentiated Sextant from prior offerings by the group—as well as those of their contemporaries—was its depth of immersion into electronics. While Weather Report were coincidentally investigating the sounds of electron flow, their use of the synthesizer wasn't as emphatic as with the Mwandishi group. This album virtually buzzes and hums with wayward electronics: “Rain Dance” for example explores the splendour of the ARP synth (courtesy of specialist, Dr. Patrick Gleeson) for more than half its duration. Sextant remains one of the most effective hybrids of jazz with electronics, and an obvious touchstone for the electro-jazz movement that followed 25 years later.
[0] Larry Young Lawrence of Newark [Perception, 1973]. After clouding the contours of John McLaughlin’s Devotion and the first three albums by Tony Williams Lifetime, organist Larry Young issued the free-floating wonder of Lawrence of Newark. Young’s outside approach to his instrument was incomparable and his use of recurring jabs, smears, and tonal clusters created a mysterious alchemy that could occasionally summon the spirits. With its hazy yet open airspace, Lawrence of Newark transcends even the mind-bending jazz-rock convulsions he'd shaped previously with McLaughlin and Williams. Young’s over-driven organ lines produce a carnivalesque atmosphere capable of shifting between the cosmic drift of “Hello Your Quietness” and the pulsating intensity of “Khalid Of Space Part Two”. The album is further elevated by Pharoah Sanders, the fairly conspicuous “mystery guest”, whose presence likely contributed to a greater spiritual sense not so evident elsewhere in Young’s discography. Of course there's also the inundation of percussionists who never cease to maintain a constant vibration in the room...
Miles Davis Dark Magus [Columbia, 1974]. After recruiting the vigilante guitars of Pete Cosey and Reggie Lucas, Miles unleashed his most rabid work. Dark Magus is the fieriest of his live files currently available for the 73-75 era (if only because the later sets, Agharta and Pangaea, repeatedly slow the pulse as the group pushes further onto introspective free rock terrain.) Sounding like a viscous projection of Funkadelic’s acid-baked stonk, this album is laden with throbbing fuzz-wah drones, a thumping low end, and an uncompromising aggression that literally growls, paces and screams at the listener. Saxophonist Dave Liebman slices at the sonic overgrowth in a fruitless search for daylight, while Davis continually abuses the organ keys with his forearm. Even the congas of percussionist Mtume Heath sound menacing. By this point, Miles had developed a rudimentary form of conducted improvisation that could mimic Teo Macero’s razor edits, something that closed the gap between his studio constructs and live sessions. The 1973-75 era is typified by its sudden jump cuts, as the band dissolves a potent wall of sound, often isolating a single instrument, then just as quickly rebuilds it. Distinct themes remain so elusive that the only reliable point of reference is the head-shaking pulse of the rhythm section.
[0] Ornette Coleman Dancing In Your Head [A&M, 1977]. Ornette dropped an early glimpse of his free funk vision with “Rock The Clock”, a brief yet prescient track from 1971’s Science Fiction. The real (i)deal actualized with his Prime Time group and the December 1976 sessions that captured their organized chaotica on Dancing In Your Head and its companion piece, Body Meta. Both pointed to a free fusion evolution, tangential to the funk gravitas that had ushered Miles offstage in 1975—an exhilarating clatter then, rather than a monstrous din. With its insidious melody line, multi-textured layers, shifting meters, and rhythms that tilted, skittered and bumped around a steady pulse, a new prototype was set. Ornette’s Prime Time were electric, not electronic, as they generally eschewed studio embellishments to favour clear tonal contrasts. In this sense, he refuted the cosmic tip of free fusion and created something more akin to the early 70s funky transgressions of the free jazz contingent (check Art Ensemble Of Chicago’s “Theme de Yo Yo” from Les Stances A Sophie or the title cut from Luther Thomas’s Funky Donkey.) During the 1980s this model, moreso than any other, would continue to assert its presence in the free fusion headspace.
Sun Ra Lanquidity [Philly Jazz, 1978]. Sun Ra appeared immune to the strains of free fusion during its 1969-75 outbreak, given that few of its characteristics—beyond the cosmological bent that he'd long since acquired—were reflected in any of his sessions during this time. It wasn't until 1978 that he drew a closer orbit and chose to trip on the concept, quietly delivering a laudable stack of groove-based freeform jazz. Sleeping Beauty, On Jupiter, Strange Celestial Road, and “Space Is The Place” from Other Side Of The Sun are all staggering spins, but the pick of the litter is Lanquidity. This record marks the moment when Ra’s implicit funk expressions became explicit. Conceivably inspired by the popularity of disco music, he’d already begun to translate the music of the nation’s discotheques into his own language. Earlier in 1978, the drum machine-driven “Constellation” from Media Dream and the title cut to Disco 3000 both betrayed some fascination with Giorgio Moroder’s electro-disco stock, albeit transformed by the dissonant sputters from Ra's obscure Crumar Mainman synthesizer. Lanquidity is less concerned with the then-ubiquitous disco beat (Ra’s actual disco track appeared the next year with “UFO” from On Jupiter.) Instead, it borrows its instrumentation to create a new lifeform, one that just happens to recall the earlier heady days of free fusion. The Arkestra charmingly amble and teeter across chugging funk and funereal downtempos, clearly engaged by this new direction yet fully retaining their idiosyncratic nature. A rare achievement, given the massive dumbing down that disco culture would eventually extol on many other free fusion artists (cf. Gary Bartz, Herbie Hancock, Norman Connors, even Pharoah Sanders.)
The first wave of free fusion seemed to peak in 1973 and noticeably subside by 1975, its major players having succumbed to artistic fatigue, economic pressures, or a mix of both. Miles Davis had stretched his music into radical shapes until, exhausted, he isolated himself from the jazz world for the latter half of the seventies. Weather Report softened their edges, became more lyrical and moved into increasingly structured environs. Herbie Hancock, disillusioned by Mwandishi’s lack of popular appeal—and the accompanying financial drag—cultivated a lighter, commercially viable brand of jazz-funk. Many others, including Pharoah Sanders and Sun Ra, reverted to avenues already travelled. Ornette Coleman’s envisioning gave new spin to the free fusion course, yet it was still necessary for another generation of players to advance the original intents of the genre. Given time/space limitations, the various shifts and peaks of the intervening decades are left as food for later discussions.
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