The jazz scene is a wild jungle filled with lions who never make the headlines. It’s ironic—the famous bask in the spotlight while unsung heroes toil in shadows, crafting magic most will never hear. Jazz is a niche, an acquired taste not for the faint-hearted. In a master’s hands, it’s too polished and unpredictable for the average man who prefers sugary pop tunes over the uncertain waters of improvisation.
And the hustle—that’s where the real blood flows. You think it’s all cool riffs and smoky rooms? Not at all. The reality is a grind. Musicians scraping by, juggling three jobs, playing dives for tips, cutting albums on shoestring budgets with indie labels that can’t afford a billboard. The dream is alive, but it’s hard to pay the rent with dreams.
These are the ingredients that create the endless roster of unsung jazz warriors. They’ve poured their souls into the music, shaping the art in ways the world may never grasp, yet they remain buried in obscurity. Their contributions are undeniable, but recognition? That’s another matter. Imagine being a ghost among giants—present, vital, but unseen by the masses. The list of the forgotten grows longer every day, but their echoes in the music are eternal.
Black Jazz Records
Black Jazz Records was born in 1969, in the firestorm of Oakland, California, where revolution filled the air. Gene Russell believed it wasn’t just a jazz label—it was a battle cry, a defiance of the mainstream. Civil rights? Black Power? They weren’t on the sidelines; they were soundtracking the whole movement. Think demonstrations. The Black Panthers. Power to the People.
Russell didn’t want another cookie-cutter jazz label. He wanted a stage for Black musicians to unleash their creativity, to break free from a whitewashed industry and dive headfirst into the unknown. Avant-garde, soul jazz, spiritual jazz—they blended jazz with funk and soul. This wasn’t background music; it was a movement, a fusion of rhythm and rebellion. Black Jazz Records wasn’t just about notes and chords. It was about survival, about giving jazz back to its creators and using it to challenge a world gone mad.
Running an independent label back then was like playing Russian roulette in a dark alley. You weren’t just up against corporate giants who had distribution on lockdown; sometimes, you were wrestling with the mafia, fingers in every pie and eyes on every dime. Forget the internet—it didn’t exist. Your tools were mailing out vinyl and hustling live gigs, praying your sound would land in the right ears before the sharks swallowed you whole.
But the truly inspired find a way. By the early ’70s, Black Jazz Records had clawed its way onto New York airwaves and into record stores. I was drawn to three artists on the label. There was Rudolph Johnson, a saxophonist with a raw, Coltrane-like punch to his sound. Doug Carn, a keyboard wizard who, alongside his wife Jean, was blending jazz with spiritual fire and political bite. And Walter Bishop Jr., a bebop legend playing new music based on his theory of fourths. Bish etched his name into jazz history during his time with Charlie Parker, and not long after these recordings, we met and became fast friends.
Rudolph Johnson
Rudolph Johnson—tenor saxophonist, cosmic architect, underappreciated jazz warrior. He wasn’t just blowing notes; he was building soundscapes, crafting Coltrane-esque phrases that stretched like skyscrapers in your mind.
Rudy Johnson came from Columbus, Ohio, destined to tear through the jazz world like a storm—or at least, that’s how it should have gone. Insiders whispered he was the heir to Coltrane’s throne, the next to take the tenor and soprano sax to places even the gods hadn’t imagined. But fate was cruel. The industry never caught up. Johnson’s name should have been etched into the jazz pantheon, but instead, he barely left a ripple, criminally under-recorded, left to live as a myth among those in the know.
His execution was flawless, as if every note had been rehearsed in the fires of obsession. He wasn’t just playing sax; he was bending the universe with it. A player’s player, they called him—the kind of musician others stood in awe of, like witnessing a craftsman sculpt a masterpiece from thin air, carving up the atmosphere.
By the mid-‘60s, Rudy had landed in San Francisco. He found a home at Jack’s of Sutter, a gritty spot where Sutter and Fillmore streets collided in a swirl of smoke and sound. The real magic happened at six in the morning on Sundays, where early-morning jam sessions turned into gladiatorial combat. Johnson would square off against Norman “The Bishop” Williams, the alto sax dynamo, and together they’d nearly blow the roof off. It wasn’t a jam—it was a war, and the audience was lucky to survive it.
Rudolph Johnson was a jazz master. He wasn’t just a saxophonist; he was a warrior monk of sound. At five or six every morning, he was already deep in his trance—an hour or two of meditation to clear his mind, like he was communing with the gods of jazz themselves. And that was just the warm-up.
Then he’d hit the physical workout, meticulously designed to keep his body in sync with the horn. But then came the real grind: eight to ten hours of relentless scales, arpeggios, theory—pushing the boundaries of what a saxophone could do. It wasn’t practice; it was like watching a man attempt to merge with his instrument, one note at a time.
His tone was unreal. Like molten brass, thick and heavy, but capable of slicing through the air with precision. And his control? He owned every inch of that horn. Low, high, in between—it didn’t matter. He had it covered. And then there was the circular breathing, the magic trick that made it seem like he could play forever without coming up for air. Rudy wasn’t just playing sax—he was channeling something bigger.
Eventually, he moved to L.A. and kept pushing, leading his own groups while holding down a steady gig touring with Ray Charles’ big band, lending his massive sound to the Genius’s orchestra. By the time he passed in 2007, taken by complications from diabetes, he’d cemented himself as a player’s player—a jazz legend to those who were listening, but somehow still a secret to the world at large.
The Second Coming
The album titled The Second Coming is Rudolph Johnson’s second record for Black Jazz, but it’s also Johnson resurrecting the spirit of John Coltrane and setting it on fire. Johnson never got the fame his contemporaries snagged, but his fans know the deal: he was Coltrane’s spiritual heir, burning through improvisations with a ferocity that would make your head spin. And with Kirk Lightsey on piano, you knew things were going to explode.
Unlike the fusion and soul jazz wave everyone else was riding, The Second Coming ignores trends and digs deep into pure, expressive free jazz. It’s raw, intense, and beautifully captured by Gene Russell, the mastermind producer behind Black Jazz. The fact that this album didn’t blow up is a crime against jazz.
Take “The Highest Pleasure,” for example. It’s pure, unfiltered Johnson—a saxophone hurricane. His tenor rips through the air, bursting with rapid-fire notes, throat-shredding rasps, and wild howls, turning every breath into an inferno of sound. The rhythm section? These guys aren’t just keeping up—they’re right there with him, driving forward with modal bluesy grooves, propelled by Lightsey’s relentless, soulful playing. No passengers here, just a runaway jazz train. Better hang on tight.
Listen to Rudolph Johnson’s “The Highest Pleasure.” Rudolph Johnson on tenor saxophone; Kirk Lightsey on piano; Kent Brinkley on bass; and Doug Sides on drums.
Next time: Doug Carn.
And then, a few days later, Walter Bishop, Jr., aka Bish.
Nice lede!
Lightsey was a great choice for pianist on this date. Rudy needed a player who could do all the McCoy stuff, but chose not to.