The Masters of Groove

The Godfathers of Soul Jazz meet the Godfather of Soul The Masters of Groove. The Jazz Standard. The Godfather of Soul. Meek names they are not. If you are going to call yourself by any one of the above you best be able to not only deliver but, like “The Greatest”, be able to back it up with force. Well, these three mighty forces tossed and tussled over the course of 15 sets and five nights, all in honor of the 70th anniversary of James Brown’s funky birth. Now I don’t want to mislead anyone into thinking that the Godfather (or God, as many I know refer to him) was physically in the house, but his music certainly was; and if you were there and couldn’t feel that then I pray for you. But if you weren’t fortunate to be there then I pray that the Masters of Groove will soon come to a town near you, for they are more than aptly named. My town, New York City, can claim to set the standard for many things, like the highest rat to person ratio, or the friendliest people. And, arguably, jazz. On any given night of the week, uptown or down, whether it’s Lincoln Center, the Lenox Lounge or St. Nick’s Pub, there’s plenty of jazz from which to choose. And in any venture where the competition is stiff, sometimes it’s the name that makes all the difference. This competition may have led to the tastefully comfy Jazz Standard adopting its lofty name, but I guarantee that after one listen, you’ll understand how competition can sometimes be of benefit. The acoustics of the Jazz Standard not only set the standard for live jazz, but — bring it on, I dare you — for all music venues in the Big Apple. The Masters of Groove could easily be named the Godfathers of Soul Jazz, as its members were instrumental (no pun intended) in melding the sounds of popular soul, jazz and funk in the ’60s and ’70s. Normally a trio, MofG boasts a lineup that would make most competitors weep. On drums, Bernard “Pretty” Purdie. Literally a living legend, Mr. Purdie is the most recorded drummer in the world (“The Hit Maker” used to be his moniker), having appeared on over 5000 albums, from Aretha Franklin (that’s him on “Rock Steady”) to King Curtis, Steely Dan to Hall & Oates, Pucho and his Latin Soul Brothers to, yes, James Brown. On Hammond B3 organ, Reuben Wilson. He maintained the HB3 groove for Blue Note during their sampler’s delight soul/funk jazz period, holding down the keys for such greats as trumpeter Lee Morgan, drummer Idris Muhammad and the mighty guitarist Grant Green. And on guitar, lo and behold, it’s Grant Green’s son, Grant Green Jr. It must be hard to follow in a father’s footsteps who not only shares your name (think of the poor progeny of George Foreman) and profession, but was/is considered one of the best of all time. This is Jr.’s predicament, and he’s beginning to fill the enormous shoes left for him, having honed his chops over the years on the New York jazz scene and several albums (including his own and Mr. Wilson’s latest). But wait, there’s more. The MofG realized they couldn’t pay proper tribute to Mr. Dynamite without the help of a sax or trombone player (right, Maceo, Fred?), so they enlisted the skills of two accomplished veterans. On tenor sax, John Stubblefield, who, after a stint as a Stax session man, plied his horn for decades with the likes of the Mingus Big Band, Ft. Apache and McCoy Tyner. Finally, on trombone, we have Frank Lacy, who has been a whirlwind for the Mingus Big Band, Lester Bowie’s Brass Fantasy, Roy Hargrove and many, many others. It was the last night — a Sunday — for the MofG so I expected the energy to be at a peak, the week-long run ending with a bang. The quintet wasted no time demonstrating that they were up for the challenge, jetting into a lengthy soul jazz number that featured beboppish horn runs, which led to a sustained pulse of funk that loosely corralled each player as they ventured on solos that could drop a jaw. Twenty minutes had passed and there was no doubt the Masters were here to get their groove on. Furthermore, it was clear that the Jazz Standard was setting the standard for sound. The venue was redone a few years ago and the audio engineer, the acoustics engineer, and the soundman had all done (and were doing) an incredible job. Each instrument was crisp; no dead notes, no distortion; one could pick an instrument at any time and hear that musician’s effort. Even the drums, particularly the cymbals, which are known to obfuscate the higher notes of the horns and organ, were, though forceful, kept at bay. With the pounding Mr. Purdie at the kit, this was a remarkable feat. The audience? Well, they were having difficulty holding up their end. They were polite enough (duly clapping after solos). And quiet (you could hear a peanut drop between numbers). Too quiet. It was eerie, even. Maybe they had spent all their energy at church that day and couldn’t bear another organ, or maybe they wanted James Brown himself. At one point, “Pretty” hollered, “Ya alright out there?” Then like a good teacher, he modeled what should be done next by standing up, clapping on the One, and shaking it, as Reuben Wilson introduced the highly danceable bass line of Mr. Brown’s classic, “Cold Sweat”. Then, after a few more zombies joined in on the clap, Mr. Purdie sat and kicked into a wicked beat that finally made the people wake up and smell the funk. Wilson and Purdie solidified the jerky groove, southpaw Green then thickened it by adding his rhythmic guitar chords before the horns came in blended together to stir the splendid ump and oomph. Stubblefield took off on a solo part Maceo, part Kirk, which fluctuated between punctuating the notes of the bass drum and yodeling with abandon. Not to be outdone, Lacy tried to blow the plaster from the walls, first with single, abbreviated blasts that mimicked a funked-up elephant, then with more elaborate phrases that swung above and below while the band stayed relentlessly in the pocket. The capping highlight was Mr. Purdie’s solo, which I swear had to have been executed with more than a mere mortal’s four limbs. Eyes closed, he seemed to be using the Force, maintaining multiple beats, marches and flares with nary a sweat, making one’s body ripple and jerk in that inexplicable funky manner. The rest of the show followed a similar recipe. Every cut was a lengthy treat. Whether it was on original compositions like the bluesy funk of Mr. Wilson’s “Ronnie’s Bonnie”, the funk noir of the Masters of Groove’s “Bond II” (off of their excellent Masters of Groove meets Dr. No! album), or covers, such as the soulful rendition of the Temptation’s “Just My Imagination” (with Green Jr. and Lacy providing the smooth vocals) or the show-stopping finale of Brown’s “Sex Machine”, the band scorched. They would unfurl a particular groove, then have each member stretch it out with his respective individual twist. With Mr. Green it was his speed metal-like solos; with Frank Lacy it was his Herculean circular breathing and flailing elbows; Stubblefield brought steadfast force and rich, complex phrasing; with Wilson it was his bluesy vamps that swirled and sometimes shrieked; and with Mr. Purdie, well, it was everything. He was like an octopus swatting flies while glued in the pocket, controlled, muscular, delicate, precise. There’s a reason he’s been on so many albums: he’s B-A-D. Or as James Brown would say, “Super Bad!” The end result was funk, soul, jazz and a touch of blues jammed into a sticky treat that even zombies couldn’t resist.