#39 The Black Saint And The Sinner Lady by Charles Mingus

Why did I start this blog? Simple, to try and listen to as many different music genres in such a way as to broaden my horizons. It is also true that I knew from the offset that there would be both albums that gave me joy (Live At Harlem Square Club) as well as those that would give me unadulterated headaches (Palo Congo) but I ascertain that with every listen of every album I will gain a greater understanding in the evolution of music in such a way that I can pursue the dream of writing for a magazine such as Q or Rolling Stone. In a historical context the sheer number of jazz albums only goes to accentuate the role this genre had on music as a whole. It allowed a huge amount of experimentation and improvisation on the only platform who had their ears well and truly poised to listen. In my eyes it is the only art form that never flinches in it’s attempt to bring order and appreciation to music full to the brim with discord and as such I have a great deal of respect for what jazz artists try to undertake.

However, for me the world of avant-garde jazz appears more than just a gentlemen’s club that refuses me entry based on my appearance but one that barrages me until I reach for the Anadin. That’s right people, this is the first album which can be attributed the following three word phase:

I hated it.

Nothing works here for me. The music is a massive jumble of elements so entrenched on simultaneously juxtaposing itself with one element while complementing another that it leads to a mass confusion which makes me wonder if this is the musical equivalent of a Jackson Pollock painting. There is no denying that a lot of work must have gone into this album though. Charles Mingus and whoever produced this album went out of their way to add layer upon layer of instrumentation in order to make this a richly woven tapestry of a jazz experience. It therefore both annoys and saddens me that I am unable to partake in this as well as the other albums that I have listened to previously. Another thing that needs to be noteed is that towards the end of the final monster track I began to hyperventilate.

This review may appear to be a tad melodramatic, and you would be right. Having read back on what happened, since I usually make notes on the computer in order to aid the write-up, even now the way that my body actually reacted to this album is perplexing to say the least. Nevertheless this album needs a rating that shows how much I disliked it while still leaving wiggle room for the possibility of lesser albums to be encountered along my journey. Dear god no.

2.0/10

Fab Four:
You’re kidding right? Listen to Sam Cooke again.