Album Appreciation: "Brilliant Corners" by Thelonious Monk

I spent five minutes (that's five minutes, for you people on the west coast) of my precious time yesterday writing an email to William-Sonoma. To be precise, I was inquiring as to why they put the milk chocolate-covered graham crackers on the top when it's painfully obvious that dark chocolate is nine times superior. One hasn't experienced true human discomfort until they're forced to root through the box and remove all milk chocolates, selfishly scavenging for the dark chocolate ones on the bottom.

And those pricks at William Sonoma? They write:

Thank you for your email. We are dedicated to responding to our customers in a timely manner. We handle email messages in the order in which they are received, and we reply to most messages within 24 hours.

Customer Service
Williams-Sonoma Home

A form letter, that's what you are! And meanwhile, it's been twenty-four hours and I don't see a response! Now, a man with tooth of gypsy in his head may very well presume that the reason for their lack of response is that they're too busy listening to Thelonious Monk's 1956 jazz classic, "Brilliant Corners". Like other jazz masterpieces of the era, it is at once challenging, dense and accessible enough for a dinner party. Like other jazz masterpieces of the era, it requires an all-star team to nail the hit on the head and tiger the touchdown to first base - namely, Sonny Rollin's fluid saxophone stylings (this is Monk's first album to feature horns) and Max Roach's percussive grace, along with Oscar Pettiford and Ernie Henry are chosen to tackle Monk's difficult material.


It is said that he would rarely speak to anyone other than his beloved wife Nellie, and certainly in later years it was reported that he would go through an entire tour without speaking to the other members of his group. Bassist Al McKibbon, who had known Monk for twenty years and played on his final tour in 1971, later said "On that tour Monk said about two words. I mean literally maybe two words. He didn't say 'Good morning', 'Goodnight', 'What time?' Nothing. Why, I don't know. He sent word back after the tour was over that the reason he couldn't communicate or play was that Art Blakey and I were so ugly." [1] - Wikipedia

We at Riverside feel very strongly that the whole emphasis on the exceedingly far-out and "mysterious" nature of Monk's music was seriously overdone during the early years of his careeer, so that many who would have been interested in listening (and very probably would have found themselves quite able to listen) were frightened away in advance. - producer Orrin Keepnews

These men worked hard. They struggled and concentrated and shook their heads over some passages with those half-smiles that mean: "Hard? This is impossible! For the original compositions on this date represent Monk at his most inventive and therefore (to repeat myself) at his most challenging...("I've never been satisfied with one of my records yet," he says, and means it). - producer Orrin Keepnews

The delicious title track required at least twelve takes to master the twisted timing and unusual melody. But Rolling nails it. Totally nails it. It speeds up and slows down, yet the group remains a single entity. As Mssr. Keepnews (awesome name) mentions, this song (and album) embodies the seeming contradiction of music at once impossible but never inaccessible. Monk's soloing throughout the album is fluid and melodic, convoluted and dissonant and deeply rooted in that ever-flowing nature of jazz.

Then there's "Ba-lue Bolivar Ba-lues-are", supposedly Monk's phonetic spelling of "Blue Bolivar Blues". I feel instantly transported to a sleazy 1956 nightclub as I engross myself in this thirteen-minute groove, which fits its title and features some of Rollins' finest soloing (though the liner notes dutifully remind the dear listener not to "neglect to dig the several things Monk is doing behind the horns).

"Pannonica" treads near ballad territory, yet with another captivating melody perhaps even iressistable enough for those rock fans intimidated by the pretensions surrounding this jazz territory. The song begins with a celeste that Monk reportedly just happened upon in the studio, while the 2:25 horn solo ups the mood even more. It is a fine song, my dear sandbag.

"I Surrender, Dear" is the obligatory solo piano piece boasting the bizarre title, always vaguely implying the melody without stating it right out for the silly listener. If if it's not quite up to the quality of tracks one-three, it's because:
a) We've been spoiled and
b) it lacks the rich experience of these musicians playing off each like a group of mud-wrestling nun.

Thankfully, "Bemsha Swing" brings back the...swing, for lack of a better word. In it's third recording, this song strives off of forceful horn blasts and catchy chord changes. These fine music-makers once again take turns with the tasteful solos, bringing some good-time jazz ecstasy fort the whole family.

P.S.
He wasn't lying - Art Blakey really was a strange-lookng mothafucka: