Jimmy Smith: Groovin' at Smalls Paradise (Blue Note)

Jimmy Smith (organ), Eddie McFadden (guitar), Donald Bailey (drums)

Reviewed by Robert J. Smith

It's so smoky, you can barely see the bandstand, but you know the band is there; there's no mistaking that sound - that presence. It's 1957 - November 15, to be exact - and you're in Harlem, 7th and 135th, at Ed Smalls' place, Smalls' Paradise, and tonight it's living up to its name. Jimmy Smith is onstage with his touring combo (Eddie McFadden on guitar and Donald Bailey on drums), and they're getting deep into "Imagination," the Jimmy Van Heusen tune you had in your head all last week (but that was Ella's version you were thinking of; this is something else entirely). Smith's spraying a frenetic solo, contrasting with the almost tender turn McFadden just took. Notes, notes, everywhere, then - calm; they close the song with one gorgeous, sustained chord, and suddenly you believe in telepathy. It's going to be a great night.

And you're correct to think that. This Smith kid - he's 31 or 32 - had practically burned down the Newport Festival earlier in the year. You know he's going to be huge - he's practically rewritten the rules, thrown wide open the possibilities presented by the Hammond organ; he can vamp through a blues or swing through a Monk tune, and he's liable to do either at any given time. He's recording for Blue Note - there is, in fact, someone recording the music tonight, the first time you've seen that in Small's.

It's a good thing, you think, and turn your attention back to the bandstand. You've heard of people doing field recordings in the Deep South, capturing backwoods bluesmen and hillbilly storytellers alike, playing their music, getting their own unique tongue down on tape, the language of their region, their land. You think, this could be a field recording of sorts, right here at Smalls'; this is the language of Harlem, 1957, and Smith's combo is in their natural environs, on the stage, digging deep into themselves, into each other.

You get a drink from the bar and sidle up toward the band just as they ease into "My Funny Valentine," and you marvel at how the trio have gelled so early in the set, giving the standard a luscious reading, interspersed with occasional bursts from Smith that sound like entire brass sections opening up for a chord, then settling back again. McFadden stretches out, riding the groove with liquid runs, then backing off to let Smith take over once more. They'll go back and forth like that all night, one man holding forth, telling stories, testifying, laughing, speaking truth, asking the other's opinion with a quick run or a trill, hanging back while the other answers with a solo of his own. It gets really interesting a little later in the set, when Smith and Bailey crank into "I Can't Give You Anything but Love," with McFadden, at least initially, comping in the background. Drums and organ, feeling out the rhythm, Bailey with brushes and skins, Smith by playing that walking bass line on the foot pedals, lightly grazing the melody on the keys. By the time McFadden comes in with his solo, you wonder how it is that none of them are exhausted. You certainly are.

But they play on - "Indiana," "Body and Soul," "Lover Man," even Dizzy's "The Champ" - they float from the band, through the air, into your head and heart, as if they were hanging out there all along, waiting for you to notice. Then Smith plays an odd-tempoed figure, a vamp that transforms itself into a kind of sideways melody, before Bailey and McFadden join in, rounding out the very Monk-like melody (somebody tells you later that it's a Smith original, something he calls "Slightly Monkish"). Again, the conversation is flying amongst the three - Bailey is weighing in more confidently now, punctuating the proceedings with rolls and the oddly placed bass hit, while guitar and keys trade off in short phrases, each completing the other's sentence. By the time Smith cuts loose, you have no idea where they're going with this, or where it will end, but you know you'll know it when they do, and not one moment before.

You recognize "After Hours," the Avery Parrish tune, from Smith's opening lines. He starts it out as a blues, but it very quickly opens up into something more - a cutting contest? Nah, couldn't be - these guys have appeared friendly all night. But Smith's first solo sounds serious, menacing, daring, as if he's trying to push the other guys around, just to see if they'll push back. McFadden's having none of this; he doesn't even wait until Smith's said his peace, upping the volume on his chording just a bit more each bar, until he has traded places with Smith in the spotlight. Now it is the guitar's turn to talk. Rather than try to slay Smith with chops, McFadden chooses instead to see how much blues he can ring out of a quiet phrase, and with each bent note, you can see right through him, see the argument he's making - it ain't the speed of the vehicle that counts, brother, but how far it takes you. He pours it on, bend after bend, run after run, until Smith cuts in again, sending chords shimmering out of the organ, bouncing off the walls, again out into the crowd. McFadden listens a while, then encourages Smith to take them out - a truce reached, with both men standing tall.

They close, fittingly enough, with "Just Friends," but you don't stay much longer than the first few bars; it's late, and there's much yet to do tonight. As you make your way out of the bar, the music still swinging behind you, it occurs to you to stop, to take it all in one last time - the room, the band, the smell of smokes, the taste of good gin, the visions of scenesters making deals in the back, or the lovers contemplating foreplay at the far table. Just relaxed, mellow - an evening among friends you don't even know. Harlem, 1957. You remember the guy recording the show, and you relax a bit yourself. Maybe someday they'll make a record out of it all.