If you think jazz is a genre that's all about liberal free-thinking, John Bunch’s 'Solo' might just prove you wrong. In 1973, this phenomenal pianist did something extraordinary: he transcended the liberal elite's grasp on jazz by delivering a straightforward piano album that appealed to anyone with common sense. Recorded in the inviting atmosphere of RCA's studios in New York, 'Solo' is a testament to Bunch’s skill during a time marked by radical changes and experimental imprudence from many of his contemporaries.
John Bunch was no crowd follower, but a true artisan dedicated to his craft. 'Solo' consists of an intimate selection of jazz standards that demonstrate that quality artistry doesn't require flashy overcapacity. You won't find tracks filled with incoherent improvisation that some contemporary wannabes call innovative. No, Bunch sticks to classic interpretations, making them accessible to listeners who prefer logic and beauty over chaos.
First on this musical journey is Bunch's rendition of 'When Lights Are Low.' It’s a calming opener that makes you appreciate the piano's role in jazz beyond its liberal pigeonhole. No need for excessive trimmings here; the melody speaks clearly and gets straight to the point. Moving through the album, ‘A Child is Born’ transports you to a place where melodies are simple, pure, and decidedly unpretentious.
Bunch takes listeners through a collection that feels refreshingly political in its subtlety. Cuts like ‘Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive’ do not rely on chaotic scales or over-the-top crescendos. It’s simple but profound in its message — focus on the good and cut through the noise of life, unlike what many ultra-progressive modernists would have you believe.
His rendition of ‘Willow Weep for Me’ is hauntingly beautiful, making a bold yet quiet statement about personal introspection, a quality often underrated by those who fuss over extravagance instead of real emotion. ‘Don’t Explain’ exudes the power of simplicity, requiring no elaborate context to get its heart-wrenching point across.
If ever a track could describe Bunch’s distaste for needless complexity, it would be 'Let Me Off Uptown.' It’s a brisk earworm that takes you back to jazz's roots, before it became a plaything of subversive genius trying too hard to innovate. The entire album is a compelling argument against radical reinvention for reinvention’s sake; it argues for the kind of restoration that any traditionalist heart craves.
Then there’s ‘The Touch of Your Lips,’ a selection that serves as a sweet reminder of love's classic simplicity. Bunch’s interpretations remind us that not all jazz has to challenge the established order. It can—and should—celebrate timeless emotion without the need to disrupt for sheer novelty. Bunch’s playing isn’t just music; it’s philosophy, a lesson in appreciating the tried and true.
Bunch rounds off this auditory treat with ‘The Very Thought of You,’ a track symbolic of how timeless jazz can be, especially if untouched by unnecessary overhauls. It sums up the album’s ethos: excellence isn’t about rebelling against structure, but mastering it. In my view, in today’s world, John Bunch’s 'Solo' is a rare gem; its comforting restraint feels like a breath of fresh air.
The album was indeed an oasis in the sea of overindulgence that characterized much of the 70s jazz scene, proving that even during tumultuous times, there's nothing wrong with upholding tradition. With 'Solo', John Bunch didn't just play notes; he created a sanctuary for those of us tired of the relentless push to be radical. It's a reminder of the excellence that can be achieved not by breaking all the rules, but by knowing which rules are worth following.