Tag: Charles Mingus

I’ll Remember April, But Not Like This

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TUNAGE – MMB (APRIL)

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

“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.”

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.

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.

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.

Mingus and Mitchell’s Rebellion

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TUNAGE – THROWBACK THURSDAY

A jazz legend. A folk icon. One final act of creative defiance.

When Joni Mitchell dropped Mingus in 1979, it threw everyone for a loop. Critics scratched their heads; fans wondered where the dulcimer had gone. It didn’t sound like Blue, or Court and Spark, or anything even remotely close to her folk-pop reputation. And honestly? Joni didn’t care.

“This wasn’t just a genre crossover — it was a genre collision.”

This was Charles Mingus’s final project. ALS had stolen his ability to play, but not his impulse to push boundaries. So instead of retreating into legend, he reached out to Joni Mitchell — the queen of tunings, lyrics, and curveballs — and asked her to set words to some of his compositions. She said yes.

The result was a challenging listen — five spoken-word “raps,” interludes pulled from their conversations, woven between rich, angular jazz compositions. It was intimate, raw, and not made for background listening. You don’t just hear music — you hear mortality, mischief, and Mingus grumbling like a jazz prophet in a wheelchair.

“Mingus couldn’t play anymore, but he wasn’t done.”

Mitchell described their first meeting like this:

“The first time I saw his face it shone up at me with a joyous mischief… Charlie came by and pushed me in—‘sink or swim’—him laughing at me dog paddling around in the currents of black classical music.”

Translation: Mingus didn’t want a tribute. He wanted a partner with nerve.

The lineup was no joke:

  • Jaco Pastorius on bass (melting frets like butter)
  • Wayne Shorter on sax (bending the air around him)
  • Herbie Hancock on electric piano (tickling the keys like he invented them)
  • Peter Erskine and Don Alias holding down rhythm
  • Plus wolves — yes, wolves — on “The Wolf That Lives in Lindsey”

“She didn’t smooth the edges — she leaned into the mess.”

This isn’t dinner-party jazz. It’s messy, meandering, occasionally maddening. But it has guts. At one point, Mingus told her she was singing the wrong note.
She replied, “That note’s been square so long it’s hip again.”
Mingus, without missing a beat: “Put in your note, my note, and two grace notes too.”

That’s the whole album right there — layered, irreverent, and unbothered by convention.

From Skeptic to Fan

My journey into Joni Mitchell’s world didn’t start with a musical epiphany. It started with a woman — one who casually mentioned that Prince was a fan of Joni Mitchell. I made a face. Possibly several. My inner monologue said: Oh great, another misunderstood-genius folk artist I’m supposed to pretend to like.

But then I saw her vinyl collection.

Not a greatest-hits graveyard. Not recycled top 40 safe bets. Her shelves were full of weird, daring, intentional records — the kind people own because they listen, not just display. I started paying attention.

I got home, looked up Joni’s discography, and there it was: Mingus. Charles Mingus? With her? I hit play.

Then I heard him — the voice. The Maestro. Laughing, breathing, alive. For a second, I thought I’d stumbled onto a secret Mingus record.

Then the bass came in. And I paused.

This isn’t Mingus on bass. But the lines were liquid, wild.
Then the piano hit. I stopped. “Who’s tickling the keys like that?” I muttered. I knew that sound. Herbie Hancock.

This was no crossover fluff. This was a full-on creative risk with real players and real weight.

I stopped the record, called her, and said:
“Okay — what’s the Joni Mitchell starter kit?”

She gave it to me. Blue. Hejira. Court and Spark.

I listened. And suddenly, the whole picture came into focus.

I came back to Mingus later — and this time, I didn’t feel lost. I was ready. I didn’t need it to make sense immediately. I just needed to meet it where it was.

Critical Reception: Then and Now

Upon its release in 1979, Mingus got a lukewarm reception.
Stereo Review said it had “no improvisation.” Robert Christgau gave it a C+, calling it a “brave experiment” that didn’t quite succeed.

Folk fans missed the softness. Jazz critics missed Mingus’s hands. Everyone expected something different — and Mingus gave them none of it.

But over time, things changed. Today, Mingus is respected for what it is: bold, strange, and ahead of its time.

“After four decades, the deeply personal and experimental Mingus has grown into one of the most important titles in the Mitchell catalog.”
— Ron Hart, GRAMMY.com

Even those who played on it are reflecting differently now:

“It was and remains a brave project and statement… an essential piece of not only Joni’s library of music, but of American music in the late 1970s.”
— Peter Erskine, drummer on Mingus

Funny how time — and maybe a little patience — can change everything.

Final Word

Mingus isn’t cozy. It’s not an easy listen. It’s not even especially likable at first.

But it’s real.

Two artists — one dying, one evolving — making something on their own terms. No pandering. No hand-holding. Just music, conversation, and courage.

I started listening to Joni Mitchell because of a woman.
But I kept listening because Mingus didn’t try to win me over.
It made me meet it halfway.

And once I did, I never looked at music — or Mitchell — the same way again.