Don't Miss It! July 13 Gabriel plays a tribute to Blue Mitchell at Frankie's

8:00pm   $17.50   rezzies recommended 778.727.0337 Frankie's Italian Kitchen  765 Beatty St. Vancouver, BC

Gabriel and his like-minded cadre of jazzers will perform a show comprised of material from the iconic midcentury trumpeter Blue Mitchell, including his well-known songs: Blue Soul, Blues On My Mind, Capers, Chick's Tune, Fungii Mama, I'll Close My Eyes, Mamacita, Mississippi Jump, Portrait of Jenny, Sir John, Step Lightly, Peace, Sweet & Lovely, &  Sweet Pumpkin.

Gabriel will be playing his newly acquired 1968 Martin trumpet and his Signature Wedge mouthpiece for that 'sound', and his band will bring along their classic vibe: w/ Craig Scott (d), Jason De Couto (p), Paul Rushka (b), and Cory Weeds (s).

Blue Mitchell has inspired Gabriel for many years, and some of this material has been recorded for Gabriel's 2018 record MidCentury Modern Vol. 1. Check them out:

Blue Soul

Blues On My Mind

Mississippi Jump 

Chick's Tune



CD Baby

Charlie Parker - the legend lives on

March 1, 1976 Issue of the New Yorker


The brilliance of Charlie Parker.

Photograph by Eliot Elisofon / The LIFE Picture Collection / Getty

Arista Records, a relatively new company that helps mind the avant-garde, has recently purchased the invaluable Savoy Records catalogue, and its first reissue is “Charles Christopher Parker, Jr.: Bird / The Savoy Recordings” (Savoy SJL 2201). The album includes the original masters of the thirty sides Parker recorded for Savoy between 1944 and 1948 (alternate takes, issued in a hopeless stew years ago, will be unscrambled for subsequent Arista reissues), and among them are the first small-band records he made (“Tiny’s Tempo,” “Red Cross,” “Romance Without Finance,” “I’ll Always Love You Just the Same”), all under the name of the guitarist Tiny Grimes, as well as the first, and still classic, numbers done under his own name (“Billie’s Bounce,” “Now’s the Time,” “Ko Ko,” “Thriving on a Riff,” “Warming Up a Riff,” and “Meandering”). Such later and equally imperishable efforts as “Parker’s Mood,” “Donna Lee,” “Barbados,” and “Blue Bird” are also present. The rest of the material tends to be uneven. Parker plays pale tenor saxophone on several tracks, and his accompanists, who generally include Miles Davis, John Lewis or Duke Jordan, a variety of bassists, and Max Roach, are sometimes leagues behind. Davis is dull, Lewis and Jordan don’t quite have themselves together yet, and the ensembles are smudged. But, by and large, Parker is fresh and searching, and the album serves as a singular reminder that Parker, who died at the age of thirty-four, in 1955, was one of the wonders of twentieth-century music. Like his spiritual brother Dylan Thomas, who died a year or so earlier, Parker was labyrinthine. He was a tragic figure who helplessly consumed himself, and at the same time he was a demon who presided gleefully over the wreckage of his life. He was an original and fertile musician who had reached the edge of self-parody. He was an irresistibly attractive man who bit almost every hand that fed him. He lived outside convention (he probably never voted or paid an income tax), yet, though totally apolitical, he presaged, in his drives and fierce independence, the coming of Malcolm X and Eldridge Cleaver. And he was, albeit succored by a cult, largely unknown during his life.

Parker was born in Kansas City, Kansas, to a knockabout vaudevillian, Charles Parker, and a local girl, Addie Boyley. When he was seven or eight, his parents moved to Kansas City, Missouri, and when he was eleven, his father, who had become a Pullman chef, disappeared from his life. Grammar school went well, but after he had spent three years in high school as a freshman he dropped out, and by the time he was sixteen his life was already accelerating dangerously. He had got married and had a child, he had become a professional, self-taught alto saxophonist, he was a member of the musicians’ union, he was a neophyte fixture of the teeming Kansas City night world, and he had begun using drugs. When he was eighteen, he went to Chicago and then to New York, where he became a dishwasher in a Harlem restaurant and fell under the sway of its pianist, Art Tatum. He also played in a taxi-dance-hall band, and jammed tentatively around Harlem. In 1940, he joined Jay McShann’s Kansas City band. In his biography of Parker, “Bird Lives! The High Life and Hard Times of Charlie (Yardbird) Parker,” Ross Russell notes the effect that McShann’s radio broadcasts from the Savoy Ballroom had on John Lewis, then a student at the University of New Mexico: “The alto solos on those broadcasts opened up a whole new world of music for me. I’d known Jay McShann from the time he used to barnstorm in the Southwest . . . but the alto saxophone was new and years ahead of anybody in jazz. He was into a whole new system of sound and time. The emcee didn’t even announce his name [and] I didn’t learn that it was Charlie Parker until after the war.” The effect of a McShann broadcast on the black members of Charlie Barnet’s band, backstage at a Newark theatre they were working, was no less electric. They heard somebody play ten spectacular choruses of “Cherokee,” and when their show was over they rushed to the Savoy, found out who the soloist was by asking McShann to play the tune again, and took Parker out to dinner. Parker quit McShann in 1942, and, after a period of rootlessness and semi-starvation in Harlem, joined Earl Hines’ big band, a crazy, warring group made up of old-line musicians and young beboppers. He then passed briefly through the short-lived big band led by Billy Eckstine, and by 1945 had settled down with the many small bands he would lead and/or record with until his death.

He had also settled into the role of Gargantua. At twenty-two, he had been divorced and remarried, and the new marriage was, as far as anyone knows, the last legal liaison of the four he had. He lived in hotels and boarding houses. He had become a baffling and extraordinary drug addict—one who, unlike most addicts, was also a glutton, an alcoholic, and a man of insatiable sexual needs. He would eat twenty hamburgers in a row, drink sixteen double whiskeys in a couple of hours, and go to bed with two women at once. At times, he went berserk, and would throw his saxophone out a hotel window or walk into the ocean in a brand-new suit. His sense of humor was equally askew. Early one morning, he took a cab to a friend’s apartment (Parker spent a good part of his life in cabs, using them as his office, as rendezvous, as places to sleep, as compact, mobile fortresses), got the friend out of bed, asked for a light, and went on his way. In 1946, he collapsed, and spent six months in a state mental hospital in California. He had gone to the Coast the year before with the first important bebop band to travel west of the Mississippi—it also included Dizzy Gillespie, Al Haig, Milt Jackson, and Ray Brown—and Russell’s book opens with a description of Parker’s behavior on opening night at Billy Berg’s, in Los Angeles. The first set has started, but Parker deliberately remains in the tacky dressing room, where he methodically eats two huge Mexican dinners, washing them down with several beers. The owner of the club appears. Parker sasses him and refuses to sign the chit. Parker switches to gin, which he drinks by the glassful, and raps with his Boswell, a strange, subterranean man named Dean Benedetti, who followed him all over the country and secretly took down his solos on a wire recorder. (Benedetti is dead, and although a Grail-like search continues, the spools have never been found.) Finally, Parker sends word out front to Gillespie to start “Cherokee,” and, hooking on his saxophone, he walks through the audience to the stage, playing at full force and at a numbing tempo. During his stay in the state hospital, where his astonishing recuperative powers soon became evident, Parker was looked out for by a doctor who was also a fan. Russell sets down the doctor’s thoughts about Parker: “A man living from moment to moment. A man living for the pleasure principle, music, food, sex, drugs, kicks, his personality arrested at an infantile level. A man with almost no feeling of guilt and only the smallest, most atrophied nub of conscience. One of the army of psychopaths supplying the populations of prisons and mental institutions. Except for his music, a potential member of that population. But with Charlie Parker it is the music factor that makes all the difference. That’s really the only reason we’re interested in him. . . . The reason we’re willing to stop our own lives and clean up his messes. People like Charlie require somebody like that.”

Astonishingly, Parker’s wild excesses never seemed—at least until the very end of his life—to interfere with his music. It is now generally agreed among jazz musicians that drugs dislocate and dilute their improvisations, but the reverse seemed true with Parker. The only times he could not function were when he was strung out and needed a fix. His style had matured completely by the time he began recording for Savoy. Parker’s playing did not spring magically into being. Other musicians had a hand in its creation. When he was a teen-ager, Parker bathed night after night in the unique, rocking music of Kansas City. No matter where he went, he heard the blues—the heavy, sad, windblown blues of Hot Lips Page, Pete Johnson, Big Joe Turner, Herschel Evans, and Buddy Tate, and the light, rolling, new-coin blues of Count Basie and Lester Young. Young became his idol, and when Parker first went on the road he took along all Young’s records and committed his solos to memory. Parker also worked with Buster Smith, a saxophonist whose style bears a speaking likeness to Parker’s early playing. Parker picked up technical advice from a well-trained local bandleader, Tommy Douglas, and when he got to New York he studied Art Tatum, who unwittingly showed him how to play at lightning speeds, how to peel off sixty-fourth-note arpeggios, and how to devise wholly new harmonies. Some of his early wingings into the unknown were disastrous. When he was sixteen or seventeen, he brazened his way onto the bandstand during one of the tough, endless Kansas City jam sessions, and, trying some fancy stuff in a roaring “I Got Rhythm,” lost his way. The drummer, Jo Jones, stopped playing, grabbed a cymbal, and threw it on the floor at Parker’s feet: he had been “gonged off” the stand. But it is from such embarrassing acorns that Parkers grow.

Parker had a unique tone; no other saxophonist has achieved as human a sound. It could be edgy, and even sharp. (He used the hardest and most technically difficult of the reeds.) It could be smooth and big and sombre. It could be soft and husky. Unlike most saxophonists of his time, who took their cue from Coleman Hawkins, he used almost no vibrato; when he did, it was only a flutter, a murmur. The blues lived in every room of his style, and he was one of the most striking and affecting blues improvisers we have had. His slow blues had a preaching, admonitory quality (“Parker’s Mood,” “Barbados,” and “Blue Bird”). He would begin a solo with a purposely stuttering four- or five-note announcement, pause for effect, repeat the phrase, bending its last note into silence, turn the phrase around backward and abruptly slip into double time, zigzag up the scale, circle around at the top, and plummet, the notes falling somewhere between silence and sound. (Parker was a master of dynamics and of the dramatic use of silence.) Another pause, and he would begin his second chorus with a dreaming, three-note figure, each of the notes running into the next and each held in prolonged, hymnlike fashion. He would shatter this brief spell by inserting two or three short arpeggios, disconnected and broken off, then he would float into a loafing half time and shoot into another climbing-and-falling double-time run, in which he would dart in and out of nearby keys. He would pause, then close the chorus with an amen figure resembling his opening announcement. Parker’s medium-tempo blues had a glittering, monolithic quality, and his fast blues were multiplications of his slow blues. All of them contained an extraordinary variety of emotion. He cajoled, he attacked, he mourned, he sang, he laughed, he cursed. Perhaps his reliance on drugs and booze was an instinctive attempt to replenish his creative well, for every solo was a free and wondrously articulated giving of himself.

But there was another, quite different Parker—the Parker who played slow ballads, such as “Embraceable You” and “Don’t Blame Me” and “White Christmas.” Here he went several steps further than he did with the blues. He literally dismantled a composer’s song and put together a structure ten times as complex. New chords and harmonies appeared, along with new melodic lines that moved high above the unsounded original. (He would, though, always inject pieces of the melody as signposts for the listener.) He could do anything he liked with time, and in his ballads he lagged behind the beat, floated easily along on it, or leapt ahead of it; he did things with time that no one had yet thought of and that no one has yet surpassed. His ballads were dense visions, glimpses into an unknown musical dimension. Although they were perfectly structured, they seemed to have no beginnings and no endings; each was simply another of the visions that stirred and maddened his mind. Thus his 1947 version of “Embraceable You,” which, so brief, so intense, so beautiful, remains one of the monuments of music. (There is just one Parker ballad of this sort on the Savoy reissue—“Meandering”—and it is incomplete.) Parker’s fast thirty-two-bar tunes were meteoric (“Ko Ko,” “Constellation”). He used multitudes of notes but never a superfluous one. His runs exploded like light spilling out an opened door. His rhythms had a muscled, chattering density. He crackled and poured and roared.

Parker turned the world of jazz around, and the effects are still felt. One hears him in the work of such saxophonists as Charles McPherson and Phil Woods and Sonny Stitt and Sonny Criss, and less openly in the playing of Sonny Rollins and John Coltrane and Ornette Coleman. One hears him in almost every guitarist, pianist, trumpeter, bassist, drummer, and trombonist over forty, and he is still audible in the instrumentalists of the present generation, although most of them may not know it. But Parker’s legion of admirers have, by and large, missed his main point. He widened the improvisational boundaries of time and harmony and melody, but he did not reject what had come before, for at bottom he was a conservative, who found new ways of expressing what King Oliver and Louis Armstrong and Sidney Bechet had said earlier. His admirers donned his form and ignored his content. Countless players appeared who used a thousand notes in every chorus, who had hard, smart tones, and who indulged in fancy rhythmic patterns. Yet they sidestepped the emotions that governed all that Parker played. The ironic results were the hard-boppers of the late fifties and the cul-de-sac avant-garde of the early sixties. Fortunately, most of this happened after he was dead, and he did not suffer the horrors that Lester Young endured during the last decade of his life—the musical claustrophobia of hearing yourself again and again in the work of almost every young saxophonist and of knowing, at the same time, that your own powers have shrunk to the point where the new men sound more like you than you do.

For a time after his release from the hospital in California, Parker cooled it. But the pace of his life quickened again, and by the early fifties it had gone completely out of control. He collapsed on the street, he got into horrendous fights, he tried to commit suicide. He slept, when he slept at all, on floors or in bathtubs or in the beds of friends. He cadged drinks, and he panhandled. His horn was usually in hock, and he missed gigs. And at last his playing faltered; he began to imitate himself. One reason was physical; he no longer had the stamina to sustain his extraordinary flights. The other was more subtle. Like Jackson Pollock, he felt that he had reached the end of his explorations. The blues and the thirty-two-bar song no longer were challenges. He had, he thought, discovered every chord change, every rhythmic turn, every adventurous harmony. He talked of writing big orchestral works, and he considered studying with the composers Stefan Wolpe and Edgard Varèse. But there were blazing exceptions to his faltering, and one of them was a concert given in May of 1953 in Massey Music Hall, in Toronto. (A recording of the entire evening has been reissued by Prestige as “The Greatest Jazz Concert Ever.”) On hand with Parker, who arrived without a horn and had to borrow one, were Dizzy Gillespie, Bud Powell, Charles Mingus, and Max Roach. Parker had long had ambivalent feelings about Gillespie. He admired him as a musician, but he resented Gillespie’s fame—the story in Life about Gillespie and bebop, in which Parker was not even mentioned; the Profile of Gillespie written for this magazine by Richard O. Boyer. In addition to being a handy businessman, Gillespie is an accessible, kind man. He has long had life in focus. Parker was the opposite—a closed, secret, stormy, misshapen figure who continually barricaded himself behind the put-on. (Using his deepest voice, he announces on the record that Gillespie’s “Salt Peanuts” is by “my worthy constituent.”) Gillespie was a challenge that night, and so was the rhythm section, which played with ferocity and precision. Parker responded, and in “Wee,” “Hot House,” and “Night in Tunisia” he soloed with a fire and a brilliance that match anything in his earlier work.

Parker’s death was an inevitable mixture of camp, irony, and melodrama. He had been befriended by the Baroness Pannonica de Koenigswarter, a wealthy, intelligent eccentric who lived in the Stanhope Hotel and drove herself to jazz clubs in a silver Rolls-Royce. Her apartment had become a salon for musicians. In March of 1955, Parker secured a gig at George Wein’s Storyville, in Boston, and on his way out of New York he stopped at the Stanhope to say hello. The Baroness offered Parker a drink. To her astonishment, he refused, and asked for ice water. His ulcer was acting up, and cold water would, he said, quench its fire. Suddenly he started vomiting blood. The Baroness’s doctor examined him and said that he would have to go to a hospital at once. He refused, so he was put to bed in her apartment and given antibiotics. Several days passed, and he seemed to improve. On a Saturday night, he was allowed to sit in the living room and watch Tommy Dorsey’s television show. He was in good spirits. During a juggling act involving bricks, which he remembered having seen in Kansas City as a child, he started laughing, choked, and slumped in his chair. He died a minute or two later. At that instant, according to the Baroness, she heard a single huge clap of thunder. The official cause of death was lobar pneumonia, but Parker had simply worn out.

The tenor saxophonist Buddy Tate had run into Parker not long before. “I first knew him in Kansas City in the thirties, when I was with Andy Kirk,” he said a while ago. “He hadn’t gotten himself together yet, but he was admiring Buster Smith, who always played Kansas City style. When he first came to New York, we’d hang out together some. He didn’t have any work, and nobody knew who he was yet, but he’d be up at Clark Monroe’s Uptown House every night. I’d have him over to the house, and my wife would put on a pot, but he would never eat. I tried at the time to get him into Basie’s band, but Basie wouldn’t have him, and he never forgot that. But he was always nice and kind and soft around me. I never saw him mad at anybody.

“One morning a week before he died, I was walking along Forty-second Street toward Grand Central. It was about ten o’clock, and I’d been on some sort of big-band record date, just playing clarinet. I saw this man way down the sidewalk, and it was Bird. He was hard to miss, with those out-of-style suits that didn’t fit, and those big old wide granddaddy suspenders he always wore. When I got close, I saw he was all swollen up. I knew he’d been very sick and in the psychiatric part of Bellevue.

“He said, ‘I’m so glad to see you. How you been?’

“I told him fine, and he said, ‘Take me for a taste.’

“We went into a bar, and I thought he’d settle down for a few, but he only had two shots. I’d heard he was so strung out he’d been sleeping on the stand at Birdland and that they’d had to fire him and that he owed the string section that had been backing him up twenty-five hundred dollars, which he didn’t have. We talked about an hour. He said he wished people would call him for record dates like the one I’d just been on, and I told him they probably didn’t because they’d think he’d want a thousand for a little old forty-two-dollar date, and he said no, he’d do it for free, just to sit in a section again and play with the other guys. Of course, he rarely had his own horn. He’d play anybody’s, any old Sears, Roebuck job, so long as it had a mouthpiece and a reed. I told him I was working up at the Savoy, and he said, ‘Oh, I been hearing about you, and I’m going up there to listen.’ Bird had played with Jay McShann at the Savoy one of the first times he came to New York. But he never came uptown, and I never saw him again.” ♦

I love NOLA: Summer in the Crescent City ☀


The Essence of Summer

ESSENCE Fest returns to NOLA with the best of R&B, hip-hop, jazz and more. Janet Jackson, Queen Latifah, The Roots and Snoop Dogg are just a few of the headliners that will be rocking the Superdome this July... [Read more]


New Orleans Pride

June 8-10, 2018

Celebrate the LGBT community in one of the most welcoming cities in the country. From parades to parties, the fun won’t stop in the French Quarter... [Read more]


Creole Tomato Fest

June 9-10, 2018

Celebrate NOLA’s favorite summer produce with everything from BLTs to Bloody Marys at this one-of-a-kind, French Market-based festival...[Read more]



June 21-24, 2018

Grab your girlfriends for a weekend full of female empowerment featuring celebrations from luncheons to second lines, seminars, and more... [Read more]


Cajun-Zydeco Fest

June 23-24, 2018

Grab your dance partner and two-step your way to Armstrong Park for a weekend full of one of Louisiana's most lively musical genres...[Read more]


Warehouse/Arts District Guide

With trendy restaurants, inspiring art galleries, award-winning museums, and booming nightlife, the Warehouse District is one neighborhood you just can't miss... [Read more]


Ultimate Budget Itinerary

Exploring New Orleans doesn’t have to break the bank! Follow along with our guide to inexpensive activities, hidden gems and steals to make the most of your vacation... [Read more]

View Full Calendar

15 Things to Do in June in NOLA
The Very Best of NOLA's Pools
Where to Hear Blues in NOLA 

July 4
Fourth of July Celebrations | Learn More...

July 13-15
Running of the Bulls | Learn More...

July 14
Bastille Day Fête | Learn More...

July 17-22
Tales of the Cocktail | Learn More...

August 1-31
COOLinary New Orleans | Learn More...

August 3-5
Satchmo SummerFest | Learn More...

August 4
Whitney White Linen Night | Learn More...

August 11
Red Dress Run | Learn More...
Dirty Linen Night | Learn More...

Copyright © 2018 New Orleans Tourism Marketing Corp, All rights reserved. 
You're receiving this message because you signed up for our e-newsletter on or through one of our partner sites. 

Our mailing address is: 
New Orleans Tourism Marketing Corp


From Gabriel Sent from Mobile

The Roots of Jazz Vespers: Blues and Jazz Lament and Improvisation

The Roots of Jazz Vespers, comments by Richard Rohr

The blues became public theology, communal inquiry, and a critique of the church.

Richard Rohr's Daily Meditation

From the Center for Action and Contemplation

Image credit Portrait of Dizzy Gillespie John Lewis Cecil Payne Miles Davis and Ray Brown detail by William P Gottlieb 1946-1948 Downbeat New York City New York
Week Twenty-one


Blues and Jazz: Lament and Improvisation
Thursday, May 24, 2018

Today’s meditation is drawn from Barbara Holmes’ book Joy Unspeakable: Contemplative Practices of the Black Church. She explores the blues—a musical form developed in the Deep South by African Americans in the late 19th century—and jazz—originating in New Orleans in the late 19th and early 20th centuries—as authentic expressions of life. In addition to reading her words, I invite you to listen (and perhaps dance?) to B. B. King or Miles Davis as a contemplative practice. [1]

Like the familiar laments in Psalms, blues artists forthrightly engaged the issues in life that the church would not discuss—such as sexuality, theodicy, and the unabated despair of the people. The lyrics were straightforward and sometimes raunchy, but they captured the life experiences of the listeners. While gospel music promised peace in the hereafter and the promise of God’s presence, the blues became public theology, communal inquiry, and a critique of the church. . . .

The contemplative moment comes as the cause of the blues is considered within the broader context of God’s inexplicable absence or startling intervention. Under every stanza is the silent and unspoken question, “How long, oh Lord, how long will your people continue to suffer?” . . .

No one thinks for one moment that when B. B. King sang, he was saying all that there was to be said about the subject. . . . One or two lines hold the portal open for listeners to mentally supply the rest. This is the contemplative turn. . . . Smoky nightclubs and juke joints become the spaces for contemplation that attends to the details of daily life and the potential for its enrichment and ultimate fulfillment. . . .

Jazz is a way of being in the world, a willingness to break away from rhetorical comfort zones and language hierarchies. When you know that you are “between a rock and a hard place,” then you must respond creatively to the situation. Jazz is the musical version of the communal response to displacement. This is not a black thing; the majority of Americans today are displaced in one way or another. However, the displacement of the African diaspora was sealed by skin color as a permanent social exile. Some amelioration of that exile has only now begun, but only because of the genius of the community for creativity and improvisation upon the main themes of oppression and marginalization.

The improvisational motif in jazz music refers to the spontaneous creation of melodic innovations that diverge and meld with the main tune. . . . When the contributions of the individual improvisations soar, the contemplative potential increases. For in the midst of unthinkable rhythmic and tonal combinations, we also hear the impossible being brought within our reach.

When Miles Davis blows the cacophony that can barely be contained by the word song, we come closest to the unimaginable, the potential of the future, and the source of our being.

Gateway to Presence:
If you want to go deeper with today’s meditation, take note of what word or phrase stands out to you. Come back to that word or phrase throughout the day, being present to its impact and invitation.

[1] Note that a “contemplative practice” can be anything we do with the intention of opening our hearts, minds, and bodies to God’s presence, to Love. Contemplation is the graced experience of union with Love, which is always a gift, never earned or achieved. We practice to be open to receive such a gift.

Barbara A. Holmes, Joy Unspeakable: Contemplative Practices of the Black Church, second edition (Fortress Press: 2017), 186-188.

Image credit: Portrait of Dizzy Gillespie, John Lewis, Cecil Payne, Miles Davis, and Ray Brown (detail), by William P. Gottlieb, 1946-1948, Downbeat, New York City, New York.

"Image and Likeness" 

2018 Daily Meditations Theme

God said, “Let us make humans in our image, according to our likeness.” —Genesis 1:26

Richard Rohr explores places in which God’s presence has often been ignored or assumed absent. God’s “image” is our inherent identity in and union with God, an eternal essence that cannot be destroyed. “Likeness” is our personal embodiment of that inner divine image that we have the freedom to develop—or not—throughout our lives. Though we differ in likeness, the imago Dei persists and shines through all created things.

Over the course of this year’s Daily Meditations, discover opportunities to incarnate love in your unique context by unveiling the Image and Likeness of God in all that you see and do. 

Each week builds on previous topics, but you can join at any time! Click the video to learn more about the theme and to find meditations you may have missed.

Richard Introduces the 2018 Daily Meditations

We hope that reading these messages is a contemplative, spiritual practice for you. Learn about contemplative prayer and other forms of meditation.

Center for Action and Contemplation

Feel free to share meditations on social media. Go to CAC’s Facebook page or Twitter feed and find today’s post. Or use the “Forward” button above to send via email.

Richard Rohr's Daily Meditations are made possible through the generosity of CAC's donors. Please consider making a tax-deductible donation.

Inspiration for this week's banner image: When Miles Davis blows the cacophony that can barely be contained by the word song, we come closest to the unimaginable, the potential of the future, and the source of our being. —Barbara Holmes

Facebook Twitter YouTube Instagram
© 2018 | Center for Action and Contemplation
1823 Five Points Road SW
Albuquerque, New Mexico, USA


New album review for MidCentury Modern Vol. 1

By Dee Dee McNeil/ L.A. Jazz Journalist

Windtunnel Records

Gabriel Mark Hasselbach, trumpet/flute/flugelhorn/valve ‘bone/vocals; Miles Black, piano; Laurence Mollerup, bass; Joel Fountain, drums; Ernie Watts & Cory Weeds, tenor saxophone; Mike Taylor, vocals; Olaf deShield, guitar.

Once again, Gabriel Mark Hasselbach has produced an album of fine jazz, combining the straight-ahead style with modern jazz and what he refers to as Mid-Century music, all woven together like the lovely, colorful threads of a Canadian poncho. You can wrap yourself up in his music and feel warm and satisfied. 

There is a beautiful vocal on “Nature Boy” sung by Mike Taylor. His voice is smooth and sweet as warmed caramel candy. It was a nice surprise to hear a vocal on Hasselbach’s normally all instrumental project.

The third tune, “Blues on My Mind,” features Cory Weeds on tenor saxophone. He swings hard, along with pianist Miles Black. This tune moves from a moderate blues into a straight-ahead double-time tempo. There’s a horn refrain that harmonically pulls the piece together, as a comfortable reference point throughout. “Terra Firma Irma” is another one of my favorite compositions on this album and it features the great Ernie Watts on tenor saxophone. However, it’s the fiery Gabriel Mark Hasselbach, on trumpet, (sometimes flute), that brings this project to a boil. He keeps the music alive and swinging throughout. Hasselbach always manages to insert bold funk and lovely melodies into productions that make you want to dance, sing and swing.

Gabriel Hasselbach


Mississippi Jump - On the Most Added List at Neilsen Charts, Week of May 14

Mississippi Jump is off and running!

Officially released April 26, after barely two weeks it has hit the Radio Waves as a Most Added track!

It features Miles Black on piano, Joel Fountain on drums, Laurence Mollerup on bass, Olaf deShield on guitar, and me on trumpet.

Have a listen HERE

I'm on a pretty good roll right now and finally getting some traction.

I have seven Billboard hits that open a few doors:

The week before I had my Canadian album release show (SOLD OUT) at the Blue Frog Concert Stage, which was live streamed: 

The week before that I was at the New Orleans Jazz Fest where I did 3 cd release shows (including the New Orleans Jazz Museum), and played on the bill with other stars.

Onward and upward!

New GabrielJazz Event Announcements

After the sold out CD release concert for MidCentury Modern at Blue Frog Studios Concert Stage on May 11, all heck broke loose. I was asked right away to bring a regular Wednesday Jazz Series to and also on a few other special nights. I hope you can make it out to beautiful White Rock for one of these shows- the patio and food are stellar and the drive is a joyous breeze. Head out before traffic gets thick and enjoy the waterfront and pier, too. 

On another note, if you wanted to catch my interview on Margaret Gallagher’s May 12 CBC Hot Air Show but missed it, there is a link to the podcast on my website

The interview touches on my recent series of shows during the New Orleans Jazz Fest (including the New Orleans Jazz Museum), and also my past history with Michael Buble, Powder Blues, and how I came to be here in Canada.

You can check out my new MCM recording on any digital provider, including CDBaby, or reach out to me for a nicely packaged CD. $16 ppd.

Lots of other new shows coming up,  always updated at:

Thanks for listening! Check out the new single for Mississippi Jump here: 

Gabriel Hasselbach