Sun Ra
Nuclear War
[UMS/Atavistic]
Rating: 8.2
Sun Ra's music was, at its core, celebratory. In his 79 years on this earth,
he dedicated himself to communicating "the music of the cosmos," the whirling
joy of every atom in the universe. By expunging his birthname of Herman
Blount, his birthplace of Birmingham, Alabama, and the realities of living
with segregation and Ku Klux Klan threats, he denied all earthly matters to
concentrate on extraterrestrial things.
Ra's music is characterized by its freedom. Though he often wrote charts for
his musicians, he always encouraged unfettered expression. Of course, the
sound of several players soloing in different keys can resemble cacophony.
However, recently reissued albums such as 1978's Lanquidity and 1982's
Nuclear War, both recorded during his residence in Philadelphia, are
perfect introductions to Ra's universe. Lanquidity notionally tilts
towards Philly's Gamble and Huff sound, but I can't imagine that too many
aspiring Tony Maneros ever caught night fever from Ra's Jovian grooves.
Nuclear War, though as accessible as Lanquidity, is a much more
nostalgic album. Opening with the title track, Sun Ra's disconsolate chanting
of, "Nuclear war, it's a motherfucker/ If they push that button, your ass gotta
go," harkens back to the call-and-response routine that infused 1972's Space
is the Place. Ra's Arkestra is stripped down to probing chords on a piano,
a playful series of funky drum patterns, and a supporting bass. And all the
while, Ra's crew mutters, hollers, whispers and giggles through the motherfucker
mantra as though they're translating the chant into every human mood, lest
anyone escape the warning.
"Retrospect" continues the nostalgia trip; this time we're reminded of
"Springtime in Chicago," (from 1956's Supersonic Jazz) enhanced with
primitive synthesizer technology. Ra's horn section keeps an almost
Ellingtonian funereal swing going while Ra draws out a melancholic solo on
his Wurlitzer organ. Later, he cheers up with a loungy swing version of
Ellington's "Drop Me Off in Harlem." Here, Walter Miller's coursing trumpet
solo reminds us that, despite the lack of skronk, we are still listening to
Sun Ra. Meanwhile, Ra's faithful tenor sax sergeant, John Gilmore, sidles
up to Paul Gonsalves' style, but manages never to cut him.
Vocalist June Tyson's reading of "Sometimes I'm Happy" keeps us in Swingville,
and in keeping, Gilmore offers another homage of a solo before Ra lets loose
on a very muted electric piano. Ra's Wurlitzer returns as the accompaniment
for the spiraling blues of Gilmore and trombonist Tyrone Hill's solos that
both express Ra's chosen title for this song, "Celestial Love." Ra then
jumps to a Hammond and rips through a very Jimmy Smith jump-groove called
"Blue Intensity," amply aided by Gilmore once again.
According to the sleevenotes that accompany this disc, Sun Ra "thought very
highly of this recording" and approached Columbia Records to issue it.
Columbia, of course, rejected it. But rather than go back to sweatshop
tactics of producing artwork and packaging the records himself, Ra sold the
rights to the post-punk label Y Records. In 1982, Y Records founder Dick
O'Dell released Nuclear War as a twelve-inch with plans to issue the
full album two years later. Unfortunately, the label never gave the album
full distribution, forcing Ra back to the sweatshop route to release very
limited quantities of some of these tracks on his own homespun Saturn Gemini
imprint. And now, nearly 20 years later, Chicago-based art label Atavistic
has given it its first wide-scale release as part of their brilliant Unheard
Music Series, ensuring that we can all finally join in the celebration.
-Paul Cooper