The essence of art often lies in its conciseness. I am handed this object, a record, titled „Hi Voltage“ by a gentleman named Hank Mobley. The year, I am told, is 1967. A time when the world was in a whirlwind of change, yet these sounds seem to emanate from another era, one that perhaps never truly passed. It’s like meeting an old friend whose presence brings comfort, even as the world around him reinvents itself. This „Hardbop,“ as it’s called, is not an avant-garde explosion, no shrill cry of modernity. No, it’s a deep, resonant murmur, a conversation between souls unfolding in the smoke of a jazz club. Mr. Mobley himself is a master of suggestion.

His tone is velvety and enveloping, yet frank and unmannered. It’s as if he tells stories with his saxophone, stories not shouted loudly but whispered gently into the ear. A warmth that spreads like a fine wine, a lyrical flow that caresses the soul, and a wit hidden in the subtle turns of his melodies. The blues, that eternal companion of human existence, pulsates in every note. And his companions! Blue Mitchell, whose trumpet sounds like a call from afar, and Jackie McLean, whose saxophone is a wonderful counterpart, a mirror reflecting Mobley’s playing yet revealing his own fiery soul.

They are not mere accompanists, but fellow travellers on this musical odyssey. One might say Mr. Mobley was not as „innovative“ as a SonnyRollins or a JohnColtrane. But innovation is not always the highest good. Sometimes it is authenticity, the personal touch, that makes a work immortal. Mr. Mobley’s music is deeply personal, an expression of his soul that does not cling to fads. „Hi Voltage“ is not a loud thunder, but a gentle glow that illuminates the darkness. It is art that does not impose itself but invites. A truly magical experience.

Stefan Mohr