Charles Mingus at Ronnie Scott's: Another fascinating Resonance reclamation project

Major-label fadeaways from jazz decades ago can explain why a 1972 engagement of the Charles Mingus Sextet at Ronnie Scott's fabled London club has remained hidden till now.

Columbia Records, at one time a stellar presenter of jazz, started overemphasizing the bottom line under Clive Davis, and the temperamental genius of the double bass and extensive small-ensemble music was among the victims. The gig was expected to generate the next Mingus album on Columbia, but Davis put the kibosh on that plan.

So runs the narrative that's part of the abundant gathering of reminiscence and analysis that fills the booklet accompanying a new three-disc set: "Mingus: The Lost Album from Ronnie Scott's" (Resonance Records). LP versions will become available Saturday on Record Store Day.

The range of energy, commitment, and insight from Mingus and his sidemen, chiefly alto saxophonist Charles McPherson, is impressive. In his remarks to the audience, it's clear the sometimes cranky, even volcanic, bandleader feels at home at Ronnie Scott's. The gig was expected to produce the next Mingus album on Columbia, but the corporate shift put the kibosh on that plan.

The Mingus fan will be comfortable as well about what's been brought to light. Producer Zev Feldman has brought about another worthy unearthing of a jazz treasure. More requiring the indulgence of fans is Mingus' declared strategy of providing the most openness and surprising variety to spur his sidemen to the greatest creativity. Mingus always took his chances that strategy would pay off more often than not. "Organized chaos" was his preferred phrase, and the listener's tolerance for excursions into chaos will affect the enjoyment. 

Charles Mingus in his heyday.

Mingus' designs here as in the rest of his discography reflect a lifelong devotion to the music of Duke Ellington. Though venturing into his own version of free jazz, in 1972 the composer and inspirer of his sidemen had no qualms about reaching into the heritage, just as Ornette Coleman and the Art Ensemble of Chicago did in their own ways. Nearly a hundred years ago, Ellington closed off the social commentary implied in "Black and Tan Fantasy" with the first part of the famous melody in Chopin's "Funeral March" Sonata.

Thus, this collection includes an extrapolation of "When the Saints Go Marching In," titled "Pops" after Louis Armstrong's nickname and his informal manner of address to just about everyone. There are also brief visits to old jazz standards ("Ko Ko" and "Air Mail Special") to help anchor the band and the audience in tradition.

At their best, a Mingus band always feels like a real community, prizing individuality in a collective context. Thus, quotations in solos seem less like personal indulgences than a facet of group rapport. In "Mind Readers' Convention in Milano," Jon Faddis goes into Dizzy Gillespie's "Salt Peanuts" not only for the tune's sake but also to acknowledge his debt to the bebop trumpet master. Elsewhere there are long, almost medley-like strings of tributes to familiar music in the bassist's own solos. The center tends to shift: there's often a kind of centrifugal force at work in a Mingus band performance. This piece throws off little bits of the theme as it goes along.

Ellington's habit of prizing his sidemen's sound and phrasing in original compositions is carried out well in the originals Mingus chose at Ronnie Scott's. There's a great version of "Fables of Faubus," somehow cohesive despite its 35-minute length. Musicians not well known to me are in this band, and they are often spectacular. Besides McPherson, mention should be made of distinctive pianist (and occasional vocalist) John Foster and drummer Roy Brooks, who contributes one of the set's unexpected delights in "Noddin' Ya Head Blues" with a witty solo on musical saw. It belongs in the Musical Saw Hall of Fame. But that's just a by-the-way gem in this glittering treasure chest.