After 31 weeks of jazz research, I've finally hit upon a foolproof signal to identify the true crème de la crème among jazz albums. It's quite simple, actually: if the cover art is a painting by S. Neil Fujita, the album will be life-changing.¹ Our first such example was Time Out, back in week 6—a strong contender for my favourite album of the first half, rivaled primarily by Tijuana Moods (also by Mingus!)—and Mingus Ah Um² rivals or exceeds Time Out in my estimation.

As such, this album deserves a proper track-by-track commentary. If you want an actually insightful rendition of that premise, allow me to direct you towards altrockchick, who artfully blends deep musical insight with relevant historical context. If, on the other hand, you're satisfied with the flaccid pseudo-intellectualism upon which we pride ourselves here at the Simpsonian, don't touch that dial.

Tracks

Better Git It in Your Soul

If I could only keep one track from everything we've heard so far, this would be it. "Better Git It in Your Soul" is a pure expression of jazz joy: the rhythms are infectious, the melodies are catchy, and Mingus himself can't help but inject some background gospel extemporizations. In the sitcom adaptation of my life, this is theme song—friends appear one at a time in the background, looming like phantoms until we make eye contact and share an "oh you" look, at which point they make their madcap dash to centre stage as the rapid sax/brass section plays.

Far be it from this neophyte to attempt to gatekeep jazz, but if this track doesn't do it for you, I'm not sure anything in the jazz canon will—just as the title proclaims, you better git it in your soul!

Goodbye Pork Pie Hat

I've noticed that seemingly wacky track titles are not uncommon in jazz (seriously, check out some of the ones on The Jazz Messengers); at first blush, I assumed this was another entry in that storied tradition. The truth is far more solemn: a pork pie hat simply refers to a style of hat that was popular in the 1930s & 1940s—a style that was particularly favoured by prominent saxophonist Lester Young. We touched on one of Young's tragic final performances last week—this composition is a moving elegy to Young, and the first of several references Mingus makes to his musical forebears on this album.

Boogie Stop Shuffle

But Mingus doesn't dwell on the tragic; we immediately transition to an upbeat boogie that stays firmly lodged in your eardrums long after the album is done. The piano keeps that line swinging on repeat pretty well throughout the song, while the other voices take turns layering other ideas on top.

Self-Portrait in Three Colors

Mingus again pumps the brakes with another slower, searching track. The title offers a puzzle that's somewhat beyond my discernment: what exactly are the three colours that comprise this self-portrait? I assumed they'd appear "temporally" (i.e., one after the other), but I don't hear any obvious transitions to suggest that. Perhaps each instrument is supposed to be carrying a colour?

Open Letter to Duke

Another fantastic—if somewhat disjointed?—track. We start firmly in upbeat bebop territory, but we don't stay there long: just before the two minute mark (and just after a short drum solo), a theme is introduced that, to me, is the most memorable part of the song—a high note, followed by a rapid "slide" down ending with a slight dissonance that continues to be explored throughout the middle of the track; slowly pulled apart like a confectioner working taffy. When the theme is finally restated at 4:15, it feels unavoidable; a black hole drawing us back to where we started. And yet, it isn't really inevitable—just as we abruptly cut from the hard bop to this section, Mingus takes yet another unexpected turn around 5:10 and discards the dissonance in favour of a jaunty staccato theme to close out the last ~40 seconds. (Wikipedia mentions this track was based on three earlier Mingus compositions; perhaps that explains this track's patchwork nature?)

If you've paid even a modicum of attention on our jazz journey, you'll have clocked that the title here is an obvious nod to Duke Ellington, one of America's most-beloved bandleaders. Based on the phrasing of the title, I had assumed this track was antagonistic: a rising star firing a salvo against the old guard; rejecting accepted conventions in favour of blazing new trails. That happens to be completely wrong on all accounts; Ellington was one of the earliest and most formative musical influences on the young Mingus. Later in life they would go on to collaborate professionally, though their time together didn't last long…

Bird Calls

Aha! A straight bebop composition with "Bird" in the title on an album like this? That's an easy slam dunk; of course it's a reference to Charlie Parker. Except, apparently this is the exception that proves the rule; quoting from charlesmingus.com: "It wasn't supposed to sound like Charlie Parker. It was supposed to sound like birds—the first part." Now I'm confused on two counts: first, because that seems utterly implausible—Mingus was dismissive of Parker at first, but eventually came to recognize him as a jazz genius; how could this not be a reference to him? Second, I can hear the bird calls at the very end—but the beginning? Not so much.

Fables of Faubus

Another highlight of the album, selon moi. This is also our first taste of Mingus's political side: the titular Faubus is Orval E. Faubus, best-known for sending in the Arkansas National Guard to prevent black students from attending a local high school (in stark defiance of the Supreme Court's then-recent decision in Brown v. Board of Education). Especially given Mingus's multiracial background, he was (appropriately) pissed off by this stunt, and originally wrote "Fables of Faubus" as what today we would call a diss track. Now, you might be understandably confused as to how a groovin', struttin', but importantly instrumental song might communicate these political overtures, and the answer is (as always) the meddling interference of music executives. "Fables of Faubus" originally did feature lyrics that leave little doubt regarding Mingus's political leanings, but spineless Columbia Records insisted they be removed from the album. Mingus found a way, though—a year later he released Charles Mingus Presents Charles Mingus with the more independent label "Candid," which allowed Mingus to release the track as he had always intended (titled "Original Faubus Fables" on that album—yes, that album is on my "must acquire" shortlist).

Pussy Cat Dues

This track is notable for its changeup in the woodwinds: John Handy swaps his alto for a clarinet for the only time on this album, and the resulting solo is smooth and cool—somewhat reminiscent of earlier jazz, based purely on that instrumentation (Benny Goodman comes to mind), but still remaining distinctly modern. (There's another great Mingus solo on this one too—at over nine minutes in length, everyone gets space to have some fun.)

Nothing against "Pussy Cat Dues," but for my money the tracks from here on out don't shine quite as brightly as what we've heard already—in context of jazz as a whole, each definitely holds their own, but the best of this album really is a cut above.

Jelly Roll

Yet another homage from Mingus, once more helpfully identified in the title—this time the subject is Jelly Roll Morton, one of jazz's earliest performers. (So early, in fact, that he claimed to have invented jazz entirely.) In Myself When I Am Real, Gene Santoro's biography of Mingus, this track is described as an ingenious blending of old and new; in particular, each soloist was asked to play an old-style solo followed by a more modern one. That distinction isn't fully obvious to me, but one thing that is is Mingus's bass lines; he really gets a chance to shine on this one (along with some funky percussion).

(I am once again indebted to altrockchick for the quotation from Santoro.)

Pedal Point Blues

(This track onward are all bonus tracks, and not present on the original 1959 release.)

Here's a track that reminds me my knowledge of music theory is sorely underdeveloped: in general, a pedal point is when a single note is held or repeated while a dissonant melody plays over top: the pedal point is a niggling itch, a brooding background tension that demands to be resolved by a shift in the main harmony. Wikipedia is rife with examples, but the one most familiar to my ears is Chopin's "Raindrop Prelude," in which a single repeating A♭ contrasts quite differently with the two melodic sections. Alas, for all my straining, my undiscerning ears fail to find the same effect in "Pedal Point Blues:" there's certainly repetition in the lines of each individual instruments, but I can't find what's static amongst those lines—they all seem to be in motion at once—doesn't that definitionally exclude a "pedal point?"

GG Train

We've heard "Take the A Train" time and time again already, but this week we have a new challenger in the "NYC subway line cum jazz standard" smackdown: "GG Train."

If you're already rabidly composing an email to inform me that, in fact, NYC has no such GG train, you're in need of a history lesson—today's G train was indeed the GG train when Mingus composed this tune; the city bid "gg" to the first "G" in "GG" in 1985.³ Still, it's good to know that some things never change:

Mirroring the unreliable stop-and-go service of the New York City subway’s GG train (now simply known as the G train), this composition alternates between uptempo and ¼-time ballad sections.

Girl of My Dreams

This is the only track on the album not composed by Mingus himself; it comes to us by way of Sunny Clapp from all the way back in 1927. "Girl of My Dreams" was a big hit upon its first publication, and has been frequently covered since; here, Mingus's version dispenses with the vocals in favour of some sharp sax lines. Having also listened to some older recordings (e.g., this one), I really like Mingus's take: he maintains what makes the main melody so beautiful, but injects enough energy to move it from that sonorous, old-timey sound to something fresh and crisp. The tempo changes are a big part of that—we're treated to some dizzying bebop riffs, but everything slows right back down to really accentuate the chorus.

Conclusion

Whew. A long write-up isn't necessarily a positive one, but all the same—we're now at double what the previous longest article was; it should come as no surprise that I think this album is pretty special. I'm not sure there's any single element I can point out as being the secret sauce; perhaps it's all in the balance: this album is eclectic, but still grounded; it has high-minded compositions, but never forgets to also just be fun. Mingus was known as "the angry man of jazz," but it's clear from Mingus Ah Um that there was far more to him than that.

One of my goals with Fifty Weeks of Jazz was to try to find which parts of jazz would really speak to me. 31 weeks in, the two-word reply "Charles Mingus" turns out to be a pretty good answer to that question.

Favourite track: Better Git It in Your Soul