Haven't you noticed how the contemporary scene in any domain is often tough on the old lion? Bud Powell was only 38 years old when he recorded with Dexter Gordon on Our Man in Paris. Powell endured a difficult, short life; he sustained serious head injuries during a police beating when he was only 20. So in a sense Powell got old very young.
Powell's playing could be erratic and he was near the end when he recorded with Gordon in Europe. At this time in the idiom's history, Thelonious Monk and Horace Silver and Bill Evans are probably among the most well-known piano players. McCoy Tyner and Herbie Hancock and Andrew Hill were among other rising stars. In the 60s Powell probably wasn't placing in any readers' or critics' polls, but there is a lot to enjoy about his contributions to the Gordon date. The remastered Rudy Van Gelder Edition released in 2007 includes a piano trio playing "Like Someone in Love."
It's hard to go back
Once you've tried really good coffee, it's hard to go back to everyday coffee. Isn't this true of a person's tastes in art too? Let me use Terry Adams as a case in point.
I've always liked the piano in popular forms of music; its roles include melody, rhythm, and percussion, and its sound or tone can have a great variety of qualities.
I was pretty satisfied with most piano players in rock until I heard Otis Spann playing the blues and Thelonious Monk playing jazz. They prepared me for the rich and rootsy piano playing of Terry Adams, first heard in NRBQ. Since then, I don't have a lot of patience for and interest in everyday rock or blues piano players.
Also, when I discover a piano player new to me, say George Russell from the late 50s and early 60s, I reflect, "Hmmm, I bet Terry Adams listened to this guy."
This doesn't mean Adams is my yardstick by which all others are measured; it simply means I might admire others for some of the same reasons I admire Adams. For example, Nina Simone or Mose Allison.
Here's Paul Weller, and where have I been?
I'm not a young man anymore, in fact, only a couple of years younger than Mr. Weller. So why was I not aware of his talent and body of work until about a year ago? There's no legitimate excuse. The Jam and Style Council—nope, because merely recognizing a band's name doesn't count.
An article in Uncut magazine introduced me to his solo work, and I have since picked up about five discs. All of them are good, and a couple are really good. Weller seems to be able to shake good tunes out of his sleeve, and his production is remarkably interesting—a variety of styles and instrumentations. And I get a lot of pleasure out of his singing.
So what? I can feel really good about new discoveries; I can flatter myself by genuinely liking music of such artistry. But my appreciation is also a kind of dying. I am on the downward slope of a trajectory, and Paul Weller's music won't save me. Instead, it is among the great music that accompanies me along a wandering hike to wherever the path ends. If you agree with me about my choices, fine. I'm not alone while it lasts?
Over time
Musicians and performers of popular music are acutely aware how short the window of time can be for their careers. Popular music is generally a youth music. Yet some artists are able to build remarkable bodies of work over time.
I find myself continually surprised by the longevity of artists to whom I was first attracted almost 40 years ago. Their music may no longer be youthful, naturally. And despite their use of forms and styles rooted in their youth, their expressions have changed, and they have remained relevant. In fact, one of the chief enjoyments of their music is how they have authentically blended marks of their youth with perspectives of time.
Among others, Bruce Cockburn, Peter Frampton, John Mellencamp, and Richard Thompson are producing work that is as strong or stronger than output from any time during their long careers. Frampton is perhaps the most interesting example. I remember first-hand how a popular mania pushed him too close to the sun with Frampton Comes Alive. At the time he even eclipsed McCartney's Wings over America live record. No fault of Frampton's that Comes Alive was so eminently likable. Following his blockbuster, expectations were unrealistic, and he became something of a teen idol, which wasn't who he was. His career ebbed for a while, but he recovered nicely, and the listener can gain much pleasure from his more recent output.