Don Ellis – A Jazz Odyssey That Still Resonates (1995 Release)
If you’re a jazz fan who digs deep into the crates of history, Don Ellis’s self-titled album from 1995 is one of those hidden gems that sneaks up on you. Released in Spain and Italy via labels like Orbis-Fabbri, Fabbri Editori, and Giants Of Jazz, this record feels like a passport to another era—where improvisation ruled supreme and musicians weren’t afraid to take risks. With heavy hitters like Gary Peacock on bass, Paul Bley tickling the ivories, and Don Ellis himself blowing trumpet lines that could wake the dead, it’s no wonder this collection still holds its own decades later.
Let me break it down for ya: there are some tracks here that just stick with you. Take Indian Lady, for instance. Man, this tune has all the swagger of a street performer showing off their best tricks but somehow keeps it classy. The rhythm section—whether it’s Charlie Persip laying down tight drum patterns or Ron Carter grooving hard on bass—feels alive, unpredictable even. And then there’s Ellis himself, weaving these wild trumpet solos that sound like they’re dancing between joy and chaos. It’s not polished perfection; it’s raw energy bottled up in four minutes. You can almost picture smoky clubs filled with people nodding along, lost in the moment.
Then there’s How Time Passes. This one hits different—it’s slower, moodier, like staring out at rain-soaked streets while thinking about life choices. Paul Bley’s piano work here deserves a shoutout because he doesn’t just play notes; he tells stories. Each chord feels deliberate, pulling you deeper into the vibe. When Ellis comes in with his horn, it’s as if time itself slows down. There’s something haunting yet comforting about how everything blends together. By the end, you might find yourself wondering where the last five minutes went—and isn’t that what great music does? Makes you forget the clock exists?
Now, I gotta admit, part of the charm of this album lies in its quirks. Some songs repeat track titles (Angel Eyes shows up twice, for example), which makes me think maybe someone got lazy during mastering—or maybe it was intentional, like saying, “Hey, listen again! Hear it differently.” Either way, it adds character. Plus, the mix of players across tracks gives each piece its own personality. One minute you’ve got Jaki Byard throwing down quirky runs, and the next, Steve Swallow’s basslines are keeping things grounded.
Reflecting on this album, it strikes me how timeless jazz really is. Even though this release came out in ‘95, most of these recordings feel like they belong to an earlier age—a golden era when experimentation wasn’t just allowed but encouraged. Listening to Don Ellis today feels like stumbling upon an old photograph tucked inside a dusty book. Sure, the edges may be worn, but the memories captured within are vivid and unforgettable.
And hey, here’s a random thought to leave you with: If albums were people, this one would probably wear mismatched socks and quote poetry at parties. Not everyone would get it, but those who did would swear by its brilliance.
