I usually don't listen to Monk's Columbia albums from the 60's, as by that point his repertoire had mostly run dry. He only wrote about 100 compositions in his life and very few new ones came about on his Columbia albums; most of his other pieces had already been recorded at that point. However, I thought I would give this one a chance because it has a cool cover design (because why not). When I first started playing the opening track, Hackensack, I instantly regretted any thoughts I had of such things. It's just so much fun! Other such gems on this album include the bright-sounding Eronel, the ecstatic Think of One, and the delightfully nutty anthem Rhythm-A-Ning.
Two standout pieces on this recording are Crepuscule with Nellie and the title track. The piece Criss Cross, while sounding jarringly modern and abstract, was actually written in the early 1940's. Along with Trinkle, Tinkle, this could be ranked as one of Monk's strangest tunes. The melody is jaunting and spare, using two basic motifs, and the bridge has six bars instead of the usual eight. Think of it as a Brothers Grimm nursery rhyme; pure, swinging fun with a slightly darker hue. Crepuscule with Nellie had been recorded multiple times before, but this proves to be one of the more creative renditions of it. The piece is often known as "Monk's concerto", written for his wife, Nellie. It's a through-composed piece with no solos, just the melody played once or twice. The creativity of this arrangement comes in who's playing what in the melody; drummer Frankie Dunlop also adds a nice crisp accompaniment, giving it a newly fresh and vibrant energy.
Of course, all the compositions are great. However, something I realized about this era of Monk's discography is that he was given a chance to assemble a working band; this way, these musicians could fully internalize the music like few had before. Bassist Larry Gales and drummer Ben Riley would form the band's better known incarnation, but John Ore and Frankie Dunlop provide fine accompaniment for this and other albums Monk first recorded for Columbia. Drummer Dunlop in particular provides a wonderful spark behind the proceedings and interacts particularly well with Monk's rhythmic clusters.
However, it was tenor saxophonist Charlie Rouse who would prove to have the most lasting effect in Monk's group, staying with him from 1959 to 1970. I didn't really mind Rouse's playing before, I just thought it wasn't anything special. Listening to this record, though, I realized it didn't need to be special or groundbreaking or anything like that. Rouse's solos perfectly complement the leader's compositions and don't stray too far into overindulgence, while still sounding individual and interesting. I further realized that many great bandleaders had someone who transcended the role of sideman to become more "partner" or "alter ego". Miles Davis had Wayne Shorter. John Coltrane had McCoy Tyner. Charles Mingus had multiple such collaborators, among them Jimmy Knepper and George Adams. With Rouse, Monk found a perfect interpreter and musical foil.
While Rouse's playing has been criticized for becoming too routine during this period, there are some gems in his playing, especially on earlier Columbia albums like this one. Generally, taking on one Monk composition is no mean feat, so Rouse should be commended for dedication alone. Some standout Rouse solos on this album (for me, anyway) include those on Hackensack, Think of One, and the genius interpretation of Criss Cross. In all these solos, he references the melody of the tune in some way (one of Monk's key musical virtues), but also adds interest beyond simply quoting the melody, while not drawing too much away from the compositions.
Interestingly, Rouse lays out for both of the covers on this album: Tea for Two and Don't Blame Me. The former is a delightfully disjointed romp, giving the old standard fresh energy. Despite the trio setting, we get a glimpse of Monk's stride piano roots (not unlike Erroll Garner in a trio setting); this might be part of what makes Monk's piano playing work so well on covers of standards. There's a certain timelessness in his playing, a contrast of futuristic and old-fashioned; something that can't be accurately described in words.
That leads me to probably the highlight of this set: Monk's solo rendition of the Jimmy McHugh-Dorothy Fields ballad Don't Blame Me. Ballads probably best showcased Monk the solo pianistic master, especially his own 'Round Midnight and Ruby, My Dear. However, this rendition of Don't Blame Me is just as grand; there is nothing sentimental about Monk's playing, and yet there's something wistful and nostalgic about it. Maybe that's just me, back in high school listening to Monk playing ballads on long car rides with my dad. I do think there's more to it than just plain nostalgia, though. Monk, while a playful and mischievous musician, was also open-minded enough to encompass more than just his tunes into his playing. When listening, I hear a reverence for the old stride masters like James P. Johnson, but also something cubist and disjointed that makes it distinctly Monk. More than anything though, there's an inviting quality and a real human warmth on this track. This is what I feel many people forget about Thelonious Monk: behind the weirdness he so often exhibited was genuine human honesty and excitement in everything he played.
Overall, while this album isn't all that groundbreaking, it doesn't need to be. It's a solid collection of some genius tunes, featuring a band who's really starting to get them down pat. Charlie Rouse offers some solid contributions, and of course, Monk himself is as inspiring as always, especially on his solo number. While very average, the presence of Monk and his tunes makes it feel like more, and the whole set has a very fun and inviting atmosphere. 7/10.
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