More jazz? Well if you insist.
Actually, if all the jazz albums I had to plough through were like this, I wouldn’t mind so much.
First things first. Thelonious Monk is cool. Even his name sounds cool. To my son, if one day I’ve been shot dead by Scarlett Johannson’s jealous husband then remember this, you have your name only because I didn’t think of Thelonious before you were born.
Thelonious Jones? Yeah, admit it, you all felt a tingle.
OK, so I’m getting off track here then, but from the first ten seconds, this album grabs your attention. That piano carves its way through your speakers, and by the time that raw clarinet kicks in with its bassy growl, you know that this is going to be interesting.
And it is. Like the forebear of the similarly tangy Miles Davis, Monk manages to put soulful brilliance and daring into his music, so it all feels warm and edgy at the same time.