TUNAGE – MMB (APRIL)

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Charles Mingus didn’t just play a jazz standard—he took it apart, set it on fire, and built something unforgettable.

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“I’ll Remember April” is one of those jazz standards every musician runs into, eventually. It’s basically a jam session rite of passage—48 bars of twisty harmonic turns masquerading as a wistful ballad about lost love and changing seasons. I’ve been familiar with it for years. Played it, heard it, filed it under “That one tune that’s fun to blow over but nobody remembers the lyrics to.”

Then I heard the Charles Mingus versions.

Someone once told me, “There’s jazz, and then there’s Mingus.” At the time, I thought that sounded like one of those pretentious one-liners people drop in record stores to feel superior. But after diving into his takes on “I’ll Remember April,” I get it. Oh man, do I get it.

Mingus didn’t just cover “April.” He took it apart like a mad scientist, rewired its guts, jolted it with electricity, and dared you to still call it a “standard.”

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The Café Bohemia Version (1955): Mingus and Roach Light a Fuse

Let’s start at Café Bohemia, 1955. Picture a packed New York club, cigarette smoke thick enough to chew, and a band that clearly didn’t come to play it safe. Max Roach sits in on drums, and if you’ve ever wanted to hear someone simultaneously keep time and destroy it, this is your moment.

The melody of “April” makes a brief cameo, like it wandered onstage and then realized it was at the wrong gig. What follows is 13 minutes of fearless improvisation, with Mingus, Roach, and pianist Mal Waldron operating on some telepathic groupthink. The horns? They show up, but the rhythm section is driving the bus—and the bus is on fire.

Roach’s drumming is the engine room of this madness. His solo isn’t just technically jaw-dropping—it’s spiritually charged. He plays like he’s pulling sound from some ancient, elemental place. It’s powerful, commanding, and completely locked into the spirit of the tune, even as the band steamrolls past the recognizable parts of it. He doesn’t just support the performance—he embodies it.

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The Antibes Version (1960): Bud Powell and the Beautiful Collision

Now fast-forward to 1960 at the Antibes Jazz Festival in France. Mingus is in full mythic form. His band includes avant-garde sorcerer Eric Dolphy, hard-bop bruiser Booker Ervin, and lyrical firebrand Ted Curson. Oh, and just to make things even more surreal—bebop piano legend Bud Powell drops in.

I was hypnotized by Powell’s piano. He doesn’t just comp—he sets the tone for the whole damn piece. His phrasing is gentle but firm, melancholic but insistent. He drove the vibe of the entire take with a calm storm underneath. It was a genius move by Mingus to bring him in. Powell didn’t just play the tune—he channeled it.

And as chaotic as the rest of the band is—Dolphy sounding like he’s melting into the fabric of reality, Ervin breaking every hard bop ceiling—Powell grounds the whole thing with this subtle gravitational pull. It’s stunning.

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Same Tune, Two Earthquakes

Each of these versions is radically different, but neither feels careless. Each artist involved—Roach, Powell, Mingus himself—took the time to embody the nature and spirit of this piece. They didn’t just play “I’ll Remember April”; they meditated on it, exploded it, resurrected it.

Here’s the wildest part: I know I was listening to the same song. But these takes? They felt like two completely different pieces of music. That’s not just impressive, it’s disorienting in the most thrilling way.

Café Bohemia is all raw nerve and instinct, like jazz fighting for its life in a boxing ring. Antibes is a theatrical, kaleidoscopic manifesto with solos. Both are driven by Mingus’s refusal to play it safe. Both reveal just how much space one tune can contain if you’ve got the nerve to stretch it.

After hearing these, that old quote—“There’s jazz, and then there’s Mingus”—stopped sounding smug. It started sounding accurate.

Mingus didn’t interpret “I’ll Remember April.” He cracked it open, poured his entire brain into it, and gave us two versions that are less about remembering a month and more about never forgetting the man who dared to redefine it.

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