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5 Minutes That Will Make You Love Jazz Bass

Writers, scholars, radio hosts and musicians, including the bassist Ron Carter, share songs that shine a light on an instrument that lays the foundation of jazz.

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CreditCredit...Dante Zaballa

By Marcus J. Moore

There’s a clip circulating on social media where Charles Mingus, arguably the most famous jazz bassist of all time, is asked what he’s saying through his instrument on the bandstand. His answer, profane and hilarious, isn’t fit to print here, but it’s fitting for the so-called “Angry Man of Jazz.” I’ve often wondered if Mingus’s attitude was just his way, or if he felt somewhat underrated compared with others from his era. By and large back then, bassists weren’t bandleaders; Mingus was an anomaly. And that had me thinking about jazz bass overall: While it might be the most unheralded of all the instruments, no composition resonates without it.

This month’s feature is all about jazz bass, and cornerstone musicians like Mingus, the “Maestro” Ron Carter and Israel Crosby, whose performance is highlighted twice below. They all made significant contributions to the evolution of jazz. Their work paved the way for newer voices to shine through, including some artists who have chosen a song this month. And because we’re talking about an instrument like the bass, whose trajectory through jazz has been a complicated one, it seemed best to have plenty of the experts — jazz bassists — talking about their favorites.

Enjoy listening to these songs highlighting the bass. You can find a playlist at the bottom of the article, and be sure to leave your own picks in the comments.

Coming in hard like a Just Blaze track, then settling into a simple but effective melody that takes you on an unexpected journey in itself. Abdul-Malik explored the “East Meets West” concept of fusing jazz and the music of the Middle East over the course of a couple of albums. This one, however, “Jazz Sahara,” is his most successful in my view, and the most potent musically. Johnny Griffin is a standout on this record, letting us know once again that he is the Little Giant, with his saxophone sound towering above the band as he creeps in with his own sample of a previous tune. Jamal Muhammad of WPFW 89.3FM in D.C. first introduced me to both the Johnny Griffin album “Change of Pace” and the Abdul-Malik album in question, blessing me with some insight into the musicians and to the not-so-subtle signifying on the song titles.

Ahmed Abdul-Malik, himself a sonic giant, commands the bass and the band with the imagination and the vision to create a truly fused collaboration of a typical U.S. jazz ensemble with an Egyptian one. This configuration, and this track in particular, does the best in my view. One of my favorite bass solos is his here on this track. Recorded a year after the classic “Night at the Village Vanguard” from Sonny Rollins, featuring Wilbur Ware’s bass solo on “Softly, as in a Morning Sunrise,” Abdul-Malik’s solo to me has felt like a response. This is where he was able to bring the Vanguard to the Pyramids.

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Israel Crosby’s bass lines on “At the Pershing,” in Chicago, are important not just because he’s on it, but because he made Ahmad play that way. He made the piano player not play. From then on, every bass player had to learn that bass line for the entire song — every Motel 6 player, every Birdland player, had to know it because it was so popular — including yours truly. And he made Ahmad Jamal even more important to the music community.

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Buster Williams’s sounds, feel, touch and ideas take me to a place where I repeatedly fall in love with the bass all over again. He is one of the innovators of modern jazz bass playing (the other being Ron Carter). His harmonic approach always pushes the boundaries, defying conventionality while giving a sense of freshness and emotional depth. Whether it’s listening to his original composition “Christina” (from “Something More,” featuring Herbie Hancock, Wayne Shorter, Al Foster and Shunzo Ohno) or his arrangement of “I Didn’t Know What Time It Was,” his playing is the epitome of limitless freedom, heart and drive. He makes the bass the band’s focal point, walking the hippest melodic bass lines while simultaneously providing the band’s solid rhythmic and harmonic foundation. His sound is like a giant hug: warm, rich and full. I smile in amazement every time I hear him play. You simply cannot get enough of Buster’s sound!

He weaves the most beautiful, eclectic, forward-thinking creative bass lines imaginable. You can hear this in “Christina.” From hearing the sound of the first note played, you instantly know that it’s Buster. He emotes elegance, beauty, grace, sophistication and sensitivity, taking listeners on an adventurous musical journey.

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There is one track on Stephen (Thundercat) Bruner’s tremendously progressive debut, “The Golden Age of Apocalypse,” that still enchants me. Listening on repeat, flying overnight from New York to Madrid on an almost empty aircraft, lying across the seats in the quiet darkness, it transported me far beyond the miles that spanned these two cities. Ironically, it’s the album’s lone cover, “For Love (I Come Your Friend),” written and recorded by the jazz fusion great George Duke. Thundercat’s interpretation, co-produced by Flying Lotus, augments the song’s beauty by luxuriating in its layers. The gorgeous harmony, fluctuating odd phrases (a unique rhythmic pattern of 14-10-12 phrasing) and sheets of spacey textures can almost get ahead of you when it’s moving at lightning speed, as it does on Duke’s 1975 original. What Thundercat does by pulling back the tempo in the first half is a sonic revelation.

It begins with an ethereal slow dance between bass and twinkling synths. Next, Thundercat’s Duke-inspired falsetto against the enormous tone of his bass creates a cosmos-meets-quiet storm meditation. They take another chorus, sans vocals, with every note choice he makes deepening the emotional resonance. When his vocals return, this time thickly harmonized, it builds, now honoring the pace of the original, but utilizing it as more of a climax. Over four instrumental choruses that now include effervescent drums, Thundercat plays one of the most melodic bass solos ever, excavating the structure of Duke’s masterpiece over and over, until finally floating us into eternity.

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Since childhood, I’ve admired bassists who skillfully navigate between the realms of vocal singing and singing with the bass. Stanley Clarke’s “Yesterday Princess” stands out as the sole song on his 1974 self-titled album where he lends his vocals. It’s one of the first jazz bass lines that comes to my mind. Clarke effortlessly transforms his bass into a melodic storyteller, conveying his love message to his Vulcan princess. The trebly tone enhances the bass’s character, acting as an additional voice, jumping between fifths.

In the ’70s, we witnessed the bass taking on a more prominent and gentle role in ensembles. It departed from its typical thumping, rough playing style that listeners were accustomed to hearing in earlier decades of jazz. This song to me represents the advent of electric bass technology where bass players gained more control over the instrument’s tone and timbre. This allowed melodies to not only be more audible but also more readily playable on the bass.

I appreciate how today’s jazz musicians pay homage to Stanley Clarke’s compositions and perform this tune. One of my favorite renditions is by Yussef Dayes, with Rocco Palladino adding his touch on the line with his octave pedal. I’ve even incorporated this song into my repertoire. The song goes crazy.

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I came across this recording while studying the history of Black American contrabassists many years ago. I was trying to look back as early as possible and the names of Alcide Pavageau, Wellman Braud or Walter Page quickly came up, along with Jimmy Blanton’s.

What shook me in Blanton’s story is that he had such a short time to develop professionally, from 1938 to 1941, before his death from tuberculosis at age 23 in 1942.

Here, Blanton is not only accompanying but also playing rhythmic melodic figures. When I first heard “Jive Rhapsody,” I remember thinking that it reminded me of what later Oscar Pettiford would play on the bridge of “Bohemia After Dark,” the same concept of rhythmic melodic figures but in a different strata this time. I love this intense feeling of groove and ostinato that, to me, brings back undeniable West African roots.

Jimmy Blanton’s path is very inspiring for a bass player like myself, from the fullness of his sound to his beautiful melodic and harmonic explorations and, of course, his major contribution to building the sound of one of the most important bands in history: the Duke Ellington Orchestra.

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It could be a throwaway scene in “Boomerang” (1992) were it not for the music. A silent and contemplative Marcus Graham (Eddie Murphy) — the playboy main character recently given his just deserts by an equally cunning playgirl — looks off camera. To where, we don’t know, but the song’s opening bass line over elongated synths pulls listeners in, leading one to assume that the scene will produce some dramatic play. And then it ends. At only 15 seconds, it’s not enough time to know what the music is telling us or to recover from what it’s done, but Marcus Miller, who scored the film, ensured that it would live on in two variations on his album “M²” (2001), which won the 2002 Grammy for best contemporary jazz album. A multi-instrumentalist, songwriter, and producer, Miller has worked with legends in jazz and popular music, including Herbie Hancock, Miles Davis and Luther Vandross, whose “Never Too Much” (1981) was touched by his iconic bass playing. The final track on “M²,” “Boomerang Reprise,” is also brief but affecting at 1:54, with multiple bass lines that groove and snap in a song that some may not immediately register as jazz. Nonetheless, it manifests a merger of styles and techniques that rise and return “just like a boomerang.”

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The pianist Bill Evans, bassist Scott LaFaro and drummer Paul Motian forever changed the rules of engagement in jazz trios by reimagining the roles of soloist and accompanist. Their unified harmonic approach brought the rhythm section out of the shadows and established a group equilibrium that expanded conversational and improvisational possibilities. “Gloria’s Step” is LaFaro’s ode to the footfalls of his girlfriend Gloria as she returns home to their upstairs apartment. His tone, technique and youthful exuberance deliver a master class in bass expression.

Even before LaFaro’s impressive bass solo, the music is the swinging, melodic sound of democracy in action. The traditional orientation of leader and supporting players transforms into a murmuration, akin to a flock of birds flying with intricately coordinated movements and directional shifts, operating as a hive mind. As Evans, LaFaro and Motian celebrate Gloria’s arrival, they create a breathtaking illusion of one musician in three bodies — a swinging, shimmering cascade of melodic brilliance. “Gloria’s Step” is the opening track on “Sunday at the Village Vanguard,” a landmark recording that belongs in every jazz library. A tragic automobile accident would claim LaFaro’s life 10 days after the Village Vanguard gigs, prematurely ending this trio’s arc of ascent and leaving this album (and its twin, “Waltz For Debby”) as the apex of their accomplishments.

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Knowing about Israel Crosby is almost like being part of some secret cool kids’ club. Those who know, know. And when people do find out, there’s really no going back. I know they say this about a lot of people, but I feel like it’s safe to say he was truly ahead of his time.

It’s hard for me to think of a bass player I consistently come back to the way I do with these Ahmad Jamal recordings, and this track in particular, no matter how much my taste in jazz shifts and changes. He is the definition of voice leading in a bass player’s book. It’s all there — the beat, the melody, the harmony and the element of surprise. He often sounds like he’s playing a bass solo throughout a whole song. The thing I find most beautiful and compelling about this track is the space that each musician gives one another, which allows for conversation and the bass lines to really shine through. I remember hearing this song for the first time, and it just blew my mind. I must’ve run the first A section during the piano solo back 20 times. We’re lucky to have witnessed his talent, even in his brief 43 years of life.

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I think the litmus test for any bassist — or any musician, really — is their ability to keep steady as things around them grow more chaotic. So I applaud Reggie Johnson’s performance on Harold Land’s “Choma (Burn),” the riotous title track of the saxophonist’s 1971 album. Johnson opens the song and sets the foundation for it, paving the way for Land’s ensemble (which included the frequent collaborator Bobby Hutcherson on vibraphone) to pile mounds of sound on top of it: volcanic drums, flutes and piano. Even as the composition ascends and spirals, Johnson’s bass line stays relatively static, holding together a track that threatens to jump the rails. But it never does. In moments when it borders on free jazz, Land brings it back down, giving Johnson space to resonate. And there he is, immovable still, plucking out the same bass line that brought me there in the first place.

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Many jazz bassists play the root movements of each chord and create beautifully nuanced walking bass lines, offering a foundation on which a band can fulfill its role and purpose within the music. Then there is Christian McBride, the Philadelphia-born jazz bass virtuoso, who lays that foundation with clarity and adds incredible wizardry that rivals the best pianists and horn players (including his former boss Freddie Hubbard).

On “Cherokee,” from his second album with his trio, “Live at the Village Vanguard,” McBride chooses to not play the melody on the A sections, unveiling fast-walking bass lines instead, then shifting to 3/4 time at the bridge, before returning to the fast-paced walking bass line at the last A section. McBride drives the song and never lets up, with perfect timing and no deviation.

For me, the highlight of McBride’s performance of “Cherokee” is the bassist’s blistering solo/trade with the drums that is full of innovative ideas and interplay. There is a moment in the solo where the drums break, and McBride shows the world why countless bassists are either puzzled, floored or both by his musical genius.

McBride delivers his sound, feel and intonation with ease and a big smile that’s become as much his trademark as his revolutionary playing. The man simply doesn’t play a wrong note.

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My thing is being able to feel you before I see you’re playing or someone announces who’s on the gig. This track does that for Art Davis. You just feel him from beginning to end. I felt him before I had confirmation he was on the track. Now that we know — shall we discuss the powerful way the bass wraps, signals and calls the wails and moans of everyone else around him? His harmonics — he lets them ring. The open strings he plays earlier on signal collective spiritual might. I love how the double stops of his solo meet a brief revisit by the haunting choir and he proceeds loftily above them, honoring with a continued harmonic ascension. Dynamics, width, culture all describe his presence. His approach mimics a voice saying, “It’s OK, let it out. We’re gonna say it together. We’re gonna be all right,” and he generously leaves space to do so. Listen through studio monitor headphones and you’ll hear a bit more of the fluttering joy and lightness of his swinging throughout the track — unencumbered by the gravity of the request to “take me back where I belong.” As apparent here, gravity and joy can belong within us at once.

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“Full Force” was the first LP I bought by the Art Ensemble of Chicago. It was 1980, I was 18 and trying to teach myself to play upright bass. Charles Mingus and Wilbur Ware had become my obsessions. When I heard “Charlie M,” the bassist Malachi Favors Maghostus caught my attention. Lester Bowie composed it in memory of Charles Mingus, and his mastery of the vocal effects of the trumpet are on full display. But Malachi takes command from the very first note, strutting — not just walking — lines in big, round tones. I imagined the ensemble collectively reacting to Malachi’s phrases and harmonic choices, which amount to variations on the melody. Joseph Jarman and Roscoe Mitchell deliver a soulful cacophony of saxophones and “little instruments” (whistles, bike horns, wood block), leaving ample space to hear the bass — especially when Roscoe and Joseph drop out, leaving Malachi, Lester and the drummer Famoudou Don Moye to their own intimate conversation. Malachi’s solo is melodic, funky and committed to the bass’s lower register, reminiscent of his fellow Chicagoan, neighbor and mentor, Wilbur Ware. Near the song’s end, the ensemble slows the tempo, becoming an occasion for Malachi to pull out his bow. Forty-four years of digging “Charlie M” and it remains an all-time favorite. A fitting tribute to Mingus. Great Black music — ancient to the future.

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