Tolliver Eventually Hits The Spot At London's Jazz Cafe

A steady stream of punters around the Pure Pleasure records stall positioned near the bar is a clear sign of the status of tonight’s artist. The label has just reissued Charles Tolliver’s Paper Man, which is celebrating a 50th anniversary no less, and there is a palpable buzz in the air at the prospect of seeing the 77-year-old trumpeter lead a quintet, the formation that performed so valiantly on the aforesaid album, an important example of the continued evolution of the acoustic aesthetic in jazz during the late 1960s, as the tide was largely turning to all things electric. Though Tolliver doesn’t have original sidemen Gary Bartz, Herbie Hancock, Ron Carter and Joe Chambers, he can justify his ‘All Stars’ billing by being able to present drums and bass dream-team Lenny White and Buster Williams, two bona fide legends, as well as the lesser known but, as it turns out, very impressive figures of alto-saxophonist Jesse Davis and pianist Keith Brown. This is a group with no shortage of prestige.        

The players certainly need their wits about them as they open with a workout of Charlie Parker’s ‘Repetition’, which is as invigorating an example of the heyday of modern jazz as one could hope for, with its greyhound velocity, winding track of chord changes and darting themes. It races into life. Williams’ swish chromatics and White’s relentless rhythmic throb release an irresistible energy that does not leave a near capacity crowd unmoved, but Tolliver struggles on the opening choruses, being slightly off tempo, hesitant, if not skewed with some of his phrasing and articulation, and, worryingly, undermined by the sheer physical demands of the horn occasioned by such a steeplechase piece. As the night unfolds the sense of him being a touch frail is compounded by the fact his solos are noticeably shorter than those of his partners.

Yet Tolliver makes a recovery. With a compelling self-confidence he announces to the crowd, ‘We’re gonna go crazy now!', and the promise is well fulfilled on the bracing swing of ‘Hit The Spot.’ The energy rush appears to bring the whole band up a notch. The head-solo-head structure is well negotiated by the horn and rhythm sections and the character of the improvisers, particularly pianist Brown, cuts through. It is when the tempo cools down that leader and sidemen really come into their own. ‘Emperor March’ is a gem of sensual, lyrical soulfulness, on which Brown uses a Rhodes setting that underlines the decisive influence Tolliver and associate Stanley Cowell have had on the generations that have followed their revered Strata East period of the early 1970s. To contemporary ears, the breezy, sultry melody and understated backbeat could be heard as Tolliver in Glasper mode, but it is more a case of the former revealing himself as a touchstone for the latter. Furthermore, the trumpeter launches into a thrilling display of his tonal range, alternating a warm low register purr and higher crackle to good effect. Later in the set Williams shows that the inspiration is shared as an epic solo by the bassist proves another highpoint, first and foremost because of the beautifully warm, luminous glissando and wide variety of harmonics and double-stops that suggest the flourish of Spanish guitar in the midst of the blues. The masterclass is a reminder of the depth of history in the room, and how the quintet remains a vital living link to key chapters in black music. But the value of seeing this generation on stage goes far beyond the ability to play at such a high level.

African-American septuagenarians, who came of age in the post-war years, have an exceedingly rich cultural database that extends to language as well as sartorial elegance. When Tolliver asks the audience if they actually know the meaning of one of the closing tunes of the gig, ‘Copasetic’, there is a bemused silence among the iPhone-wielding members of the front row. Their faces, rather than screens, light up when he informs them they’ve just heard an original colloquialism for, ‘It’s cool’. The easy spontaneity of the explanation chimes with the discreet elegance of the beret he sports. Whether the audience makes a connection between Tolliver’s look and all the emblematic pictures of a similarly attired Dizzy and Thelonious is a moot point, but these references matter because Tolliver’s band draws in ways obvious, and not so obvious, on the most solid of foundations. When Davis, who has taken many long, ebullient solos on the night, throws in a skilful quote of Monk’s ‘Epistrophy’, he tips an honourable hat to the elders. It is a soul-stirring theme and a mind-bending word.