Art Blakey - Free For All

It’s amusing to ponder the reactions of certain button-down record buyers upon their perusal of Art Blakey’s classic albums on local Woolworth’s racks during the racially-stymied 50s and 60s. Picture Blakey, as snapped by Blue Note shutterbug Francis Wolff: a succession of proud, usually intense, sometimes defiant expressions on his various visages, and always, a healthy supply of sweat. Perspiration is such an intrinsic component to the covers and the music insulated inside. Beaded across his furrowed bald pate on Moanin’, trickling in glistening rivulets down his cheeks and chin on Three Blind Mice- the liquid results of his athletic workouts are a sure-fire evidence of the exponential calories expended in putting his impregnable kit through its paces. A Galactus with sticks, Blakey concocts tsunami-sized cross-rhythms with enough propulsive force to topple skyscrapers. That caricatural comparison isn’t ideal though since the infamous Marvel Comics world-devourer couldn’t command even a fraction of Buhaina’s dynamism or agility.

Free For All embodies the arguable apogee of the fabled Blakey ardor. At just four cuts, it’s a short jaunt, but any longer and the ensuing bumps and bruises might prove chronic. The title cut and “The Core” are tornados of gloriously stentorian rhythm, but the action avoids devolving into Buddy Rich-style bombast. Blakey always holds the helm, but he never browbeats his sidemen. He’s the general who galvanizes his troops and garners the best from them by leading by example. Shorter responds in kind, conjuring some of his most florid and fulminating solos on record, statements that retain their improvisatory incisiveness without ceding an ounce of zeal. Hubbard scales similar heights. Matching Blakey’s mettle on the title piece in a game of dramatic brinksmanship, the clarion-toned trumpeter eventually pulls back. The drummer ploughs forward and past him, detonating a solo that rattles the rafters of Rudy Van Gelder’s studio and likely the dentition of everyone present with a barrage of pile-driving press rolls. Even the characteristically genteel Curtis Fuller reciprocates in the fervor. “Pensativa” acts balm to the towering infernos of the earlier cuts, but Shorter doesn’t let the relative calm restrain him from lighting another bottle rocket of a solo. With more energy unfettered and expended than the majority of the Jazz Messengers live dates, this is also among the venerable outfit’s most incandescent.