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brooklyn blowoutA couple days late but dead is dead, right? Likewise, while Indiana-native Freddie Hubbard (1938-2008) was probably not the signal example of jazz genius, during his peak years, he demonstrated a still staggering ability to be there and do his inside pushing outwards thing for Art Blakey, John Coltrane, Eric Dolphy, Herbie Hancock, Hank Mobley, Ornette Coleman, Oliver Nelson, Wayne Shorter, Brooklyn hero Max Roach, my beloved Sam Rivers: the list is goes on, a roll call of American miracles. Being there the nights of April 9 and 10, 1965 meant  the Club La Marchal on Fulton Street. The lineup— including Freddie’s contemporary, Lee Morgan, drummer Pete LaRoca, percussionist Big Black— is more impressive than The Night of the Cookers albums, which are blurrily raucous but not so much more that I won’t recommend a dozen (two, three, four dozen) other albums with either Lee or Freddie first. Back in the winter of ’8blakey!2-’83 I had a girlfriend (let’s call her “Jackie”) in Fort Greene whose parents were big Freddie fans— that’s how I got turned on to the dude, in fact, although marijuana and Jackie’s crimson kimono helped. Cut open anyone hip to the early-mid ’70s African-American musical diaspora and you’ll almost certainly find of heavy layer of Freddie Hubbard’s Red Clay there. It don’t wash off! — The Music Director

The Music Director has more stories about the corner of Nostrand and Fulton than most yokels in the blogidad; so what?

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