Billboard : 02/17/1962
Four stars

Modern conceptions for jazz orchestra here by Gil Evans. The band is a highly cohesive group that plays avant-garde compositions by Cecil Taylor and John Carisi with distinction. There are six tracks in all, three by each composer which stretch the imaginations of both soloists and the band as a unit. Soloists include Bob Brookmeyer, Phil Woods, Eddie Costa, Clark Terry and Gene Quill. For those who like big band jazz a bit further out than usual.

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Charlotte News
Jerry Reece : 04/07/1962

Impulse Records, one of the newest labels, furnishes perfect examples of three current schools in jazz in three new albums.

The band of Gil Evans is showcased on Into the Hot. Featuring the music of John Carisi and Cecil Taylor it is modern jazz at its high-browest and hardest to understand. Of the six numbers presented, only Barry’s Tune, dedicated to guitarist Barry Galbraith, will be acceptable to the great mass of jazz fans. However a rhythm section of Osie Johnson on drums, Eddie Costa on piano and vibes and Milt Hinton on bass, furnishes bright spots on the five other numbers: Bulbs, Pots, Mixed, Moon Taj and Angkor Wat. In total the package can best be described as modern art in sound.

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HiFi / Stereo Review
Joe Goldberg : June, 1962

Interest: Contrasting jazz composers
Performance : Variable
Recording : Excellent

It takes some espionage work to determine what is happening on this album. The cover and song title listings are no help at all, but an extremely careful reading of the liner notes followed by a hearing of the record reveals that this is not Gil Evans at all, but only “Gil Evans Presents.” He has apparently functioned here in the capacity of an artists-and-repertoire man, and in doing so has brought together the work of two jazz composers whose work is in almost every way antithetical.

John Carisi, most noted for Israel, his contribution to the Evans-Miles Davis Nonet of 1949, offers three pieces that are almost completely written out, solos and all, but that are uncanny in their simulation of improvisation. Among the musicians are Phil Woods, Eddie Costa and Barry Galbraith. The result is structurally fascinating, but it carries little impact.

The remaining pieces are by Cecil Taylor. His work is all energy and emotion, and his own piano playing is some of the most demanding and rewarding we have. He seems, however, to have trouble finding a suitable group. He is generous in giving solo space to Ornette Coleman-inspired saxophonists like Jimmy Lyons and Archie Shepp, but as with Thelonious Monk, Taylor’s accompaniment is often more fascinating than the solos he assists. His brief solos on Pots and Bulbs are gems, among the most powerful he has played on record. As for his compositions, Bulbs bears a similarity to Coltrane‘s blues pieces, and the extended, programmatic Mixed, with its insistent repeated figure, contains elements of Anton Webern in the orchestration and Charlie Mingus in the execution. Taylor has yet to make a completely satisfying record, but everything he does contains moments that are among the most valuable in jazz.

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High Fidelity
John S. Wilson : June, 1962

Superficially, this title is rather misleading, since Evans does not seem to have had much to do with the session beyond opening the studio door for the musicians involved. More specifically, the program is split between Cecil Taylor‘s group and arranger John Carisi, using men who might conceivably be in Gil Evans’ orchestra if he had one. One of Carisi’s three selections is an exotic mood piece, another showcases a brightly swinging guitar solo by Barry Galbraith, while the third is a neat, dancing tune that focuses first on Harvey Phillips‘ agile tuba and then on Phil Woods‘ strong, flowing alto saxophone. Taylor and a quartet play two pieces, one of which, Bulbs, is an extremely effective bit of organized fury in which the two saxophonists (Jimmy Lyons and Archie Shepp) achieve a Mingus-like ensemble effect over Taylor’s relentlessly churning piano. A trumpet and trombone are added for his third selection, a long development of melodic lines which are slowly built up and pulled apart. The styles of the two groups range from middle- to far-out and, within that area, are often stimulating.

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Down Beat : 05/14/1962
Frank Kofsky : 4.5 stars

It is somewhat misleading to issue this album under the sole name of Gil Evans (the subtitle reads: The Gil Evans Orchestra), for apparently Evans himself does not function at all on it. What is here are two different ensembles, one playing three compositions of John Carisi (the odd-numbered tracks) and another performing an equal number of works by Cecil Taylor. Evans’ role, apparently, is that of sponsoring the other two musicians, presumably hoping to call public attention to their work by linking their names with his.

Assuming this is the case, the project is meritorious. The music is challenging and perhaps as refreshing as anything heard of late.

It is logical to deal with each composer separately, making comparisons where fruitful. Carisi, it will be recalled, was the author of Israel, one of the compositions Miles Davis made famous on his Birth of the Cool LP for Capitol and which subsequently was analyzed in André Hodeir‘s Jazz: Its Evolution and Essence.

Like Gunther Schuller, Cecil Taylor, and others, Carisi has acquired an extensive legitimate background that he his not adverse to exploiting in the context of jazz writing. He would probably reject any such categories. “If you would need a term to describe what I compose,” he once told Nat Hentoff, “you can simply call it American music.”

Of course, what is of interest is the value of the music as music, not what it is labeled. On this ground there can be no faulting Carisi. Whether, as in Moon Taj and Angkor Wat, he is dealing with the development of relatively complex themes or, as in Barry’s Tune, providing a seemingly simple framework for blowing, he is superlative. There is continuity and the sense of inexorable logic in his writing, so that everything not only moves ahead but, in retrospect, appears to have evolved in the only possible way.

Listen to what he does on Barry’s Tune, a quite ordinary melody and harmony, but developed contrapuntally in such a way as to give the illusion of constantly accelerating tempo with a swing that is genuinely vital, though achieved through none of the conventional devices.

On a more profound level there are Taj and Angkor. The latter is in three sections, the second being both the longest and the most important. This portion is based on a two-bar call-and-response phrase common in blues and Gospel music. It is introduced by the rhythm instruments over a prolonged tuba note that also serves to conclude the first section. A dialog begins between rhythm section and tuba, rhythm “calling,” tuba “responding”; a contrapuntal trombone voice is superimposed on the dialog, and the remainder of the orchestra is brought in to develop the phrase harmonically and to color it. Piano and alto solos follow, the latter partially written, still based on the same two-bar theme. As the alto concludes its statement, the orchestra withdraws, leaving the rhythm section to restate the phrase as it did at the outset, thus leading into the final section.

Perhaps this brief example gives some idea of the tightly knit structure Carisi can develop (and this section is by no means atypical). I know, however, that it is hopeless to attempt to convey in words the over-all coherence and unity his pieces reflect or, to mention another attribute, the ever-present humor that graces his work. For these, one must have recourse to the music itself.

I don’t know if there is a “new thing” or, if there is, that Cecil Taylor’s music is representative thereof. I am less uncertain about his merits. He is one of the outstanding young piano players of the day, although it is too much to expect that he will find easy acceptance with his fellows, the public, or the critical fraternity.

He easily merits five stars on the basis of his three performances. They bristle with fire, energy, and a weird logic that obeys rules all its own. Consider his statement in the middle section of Pots, a blues in 5/4. When he begins, it seems as if Taylor is going off in all directions at once; yet, within a few choruses, the structure is pulled together, tightened up, and a direction clearly indicated.

Although their styles are poles apart, Taylor, as a player, and Carisi, as a composer, share the ability to keep the listener mystified as to the destination until it is reached. Then one wonders how one could have been so dense as to miss what was all along obvious.

Taylor is funny too – and no in just the broad slapstick of the burlesque-blues ending of Pots. The way his solo on this started had me laughing, though I couldn’t tell why. Just his over-all sense of humor, I suppose, but it happened every time I heard the track.

In his writing Taylor utilizes legitimate techniques abundantly. The parts of the theme of the first and last section of Mixed, Taylor’s tour de force in four sections, are distributed among the instruments in a manner that suggests serial composition.

In both Taylor’s and Carisi’s work I was struck by the fact that certain facets of contemporary European music are often handled with greater forcefulness and dynamism by writers with a jazz background than by the musician whose training is strictly conservatory. Too often the latter writes what is merely ethereal, even downright wimpy. Taylor’s style of writing also owes something to Charlie Mingus and Thelonious Monk; this is most apparent on Mixed and Bulbs.

Taylor now has as his problem finding – more probably, developing – horn men who are not overwhelmed by his playing. Lyons simply seems out of place for the most part, not relating to what is going on behind him. He does produce an acceptable solo on Mixed, however.

Shepp, perhaps because of a longer association with the pianist, is able to assert himself, as on Bulbs, where he forces Taylor into the background. He is much improved from his earlier appearance on Candid with Taylor; at times he and the pianist come off as a genius partnership – sort of a latter-day Monk and Coleman Hawkins (who Shepp much suggests). He is a man to watch, especially in association with Taylor.

A word of advice: Do not attempt to listen to this record all at a sitting. You will probably obtain a better insight if you listen to a single track two or three times before going on to the next. The extra effort will be amply repaid.

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Liner Notes by Nat Hentoff

Like all musicians who have developed distinctively personal styles, Gil Evans is a persistent listener. He listens to all manner of records – jazz, folk, and classical – and his attendance at a jazz club indicates that something substantial, or at least different, is occurring there. It is, therefore, entirely in character for him to decide to devote this album to two strongly individual jazz composers who were invited to function here on their own terms under Gil’s aegis.

John Carisi has had long, diversified experience as a trumpeter but he has made his most striking jazz impact through his writing, most notably for a Miles Davis nine-piece session in 1949 that included Carisi’s Israel. In recent years, although Carisi has continued playing, he has concentrated largely on composition. In addition to his jazz background, Carisi has studied writing with Stephan Wolphe, and has developed his own style which incorporates in varying degrees jazz elements and classical techniques. Although the three Carisi originals in this album are clearly jazz to this listener, Carisi has little patience with categories. “If you need a term to describe what I compose,” he says, “you can simply call it American music.” Currently, Carisi is forming a workshop in which he will play but which will function primarily as a context for further developments in his composing career.

On all three of the Carisi tracks – Moon Taj, Angkor Wat, and Barry’s Tune – three-fourths of the rhythm section consists of Barry Galbraith, guitar; Osie Johnson, drums; and Eddie Costa, piano and vibes. Milt Hinton is on bass in Angkor Wat and is replaced by Art Davis on the other two. John Glasel plays trumpet on all three with Joe Wilder on Moon Taj, Doc Severinsen on Angkor Wat, and Clark Terry on Barry’s Tune. Trombonist Urbie Green is heard in all three with Jim Buffington, French horn, on Angkor Wat, and trombonist Bob Brookmeyer on Moon Taj and Barry’s Tune. Throughout Harvey Phillips is on tuba; Phil Woods on alto; and Gene Quill on alto and saxophone. Woods has all the alto solos.

The stimuli for Moon Taj and Angkor Wat came to Carisi as a result of a 1960 State Department tour by a dance troupe for which he was one of the musicians. “We not only got to see the Taj Mahal,” he explains, “but we saw it in a full moon and that one big, stretched-out chord that keeps recurring in Moon Taj was one I actually played inside that mausoleum with a flute player in the orchestra. You’re not supposed to play alien music there, but we couldn’t resist.” Angkor Wat is in Cambodia, and both that place and the Taj Mahal stayed so firmly in Carisi’s mind that he felt he had to express through music the feelings and colors his memories evoked.

Among other intriguing elements in his scores in this album, there is Carisi’s achievement in writing improvisatory-sounding parts. He has long felt that making a religion out of pure improvisation can lead to its own rigidities and he is more concerned with the final result – the overall feeling – of a work than with counting up how many bars were improvised and how many were written. In Moon Taj, for example, only Eddie Costa’s piano solo is improvised. In Angkor Wat, only Eddie Costa’s solo and the second half of Phil Woods’ solo are improvised. “When I write in this way,” Carisi points out, “I keep changing parts around until they play well, until they play naturally. Then musicians like these can breathe new life into it, and it sounds spontaneous. Listen, for example, to Phil’s opening on Angkor Wat – it has the spirit and the impact of off-the-cuff blowing.”

By contrast, Barry Galbraith’s work on Barry’s Tune is almost entirely improvised. In that piece, Carisi was trying for the feeling of the Benny Goodman–Charlie Christian era, although he also uses voicings and harmonies that are decidedly contemporary. Galbraith, who has been concentrating on studio playing for some years, was at first reluctant to take a full-scale jazz solo on record, but after Carisi reminded him of his experience and capacity, Galbraith returned to the score and, as Carisi puts it, “he charged into it as if it were his own piece.”

As for Carisi’s scoring of Moon Taj and Angkor Wat, his style incorporates both the use of a twelve-tone system and tonal areas. “It is possible to do both and satisfy the requirements of both,” he emphasizes. “I find that approaching some material from the twelve-tone angle produces a fresh perspective. I may find some things I’ve been using all my life suddenly turned around so that they’re new again.”

Also worth noting about Carisi’s writing is what Gil Evans terms its “colossal unity, particularly in Moon Taj.” Everything ties together through the shifting colors and plateaus of intensity. Unlike some composers who become intrigued with exploring textural shadings in detail, Carisi’s work is always unified by a strong sense of structure. Carisi, moreover, has a skilled sense of drama, so that on additional hearings, it’s absorbing to become aware of the interesting preparations for what later turn out to be high points of tension and release. The playing on all is exceptionally exact and flexible from Johnny Glasel’s trumpet lead in Moon Taj through the playing by the other soloists and the supple ensemble execution.

As for Cecil Taylor’s contributions, on Pots and Bulbs he is heard on piano with Jimmy Lyons, alto; Archie Shepp, tenor; Henry Grimes, bass; and Jimmy Murray, drums. “All I can say about Cecil as a pianist and composer,” says Gil Evans, “is that when I hear him I burst out laughing in pleasure because his work is so full of things. There’s so much going on and he is such a wizard that whatever he does bristles with all kinds of possibilities.”

Cecil Taylor calls his approach “constructivist” and explains that “the emphasis in each piece is on building a whole, totally integrated structure. In doing this, we try to carry on – in ensemble as well as solo sections – the mood of a jazz soloist. I mean that principle of kinetic energy that keeps a jazz solo building. What makes jazz unique is the compression of that energy into a short period of time, and that, in turn is a reflection of what the machine has done to our lives in metropolitan areas in America.”

Also applicable to the three Taylor performances here is this expansion of Taylor’s point by Whitney Balliett in The New Yorker in the course of a review of a previous Taylor album: “…his present approach… is a visionary attempt to fashion each number into an indivisible whole, just as older jazz musicians constructed an invisible chorus. … Each of his numbers is a true orchestral composition pivoted on one or more climaxes, which may occur at the end, in the middle, or even at the start… Each step of the way is an equal mixture of passion and thought, which, in catharsis fashion, is virtually forced on the listener – an exhilarating if bone-trying experience.”

And with respect to the orchestral nature of these Taylor tracks, it’s useful to cite Taylor’s statement in a Down Beat interview concerning his way of accompanying: “I try to provide a full orchestral background. That causes a horn player to really play. He’ll respond, if he can.” Since Taylor is extremely stern in his criteria of his sidemen’s musicianship and alertness, his associates here do indeed respond. Shepp, originally from Florida, spent most of his early life in Philadelphia, and is now based in New York, where he teaches in the public schools. Jimmy Lyons, a New Yorker, has worked with Taylor at the Five Spot and earlier at a coffee house. Jimmy Murray comes from Oklahoma, lived in Philadelphia for some five years and, like Shepp, has previously recoded with Taylor. Henry Grimes, a Philadelphian by birth, has had varied experience with Charlie Mingus, Gerry Mulligan, and Sonny Rollins, among others. Two more musicians join Taylor in Mixed – trumpeter Ted Curson and trombonist Roswell Rudd.

With regard to the significance of the three Taylor titles, Pots is a personal tribute to a “culinary magician who spread light while I searched for musical tones.” Cecil Taylor explains Bulbs graphically: “If you stand at the northwest corner of a certain park in New York City and look toward the southeast, you will see – particularly in the evening – reflections of multiple-shaped cubes in the distance when you look into the water below and through the mist in the trees above. And if it’s raining or foggy, there is an iridescence that comes out of the cubes.”

Mixed, says Taylor, “is an expression of my feelings of love at the moment. It’s really about a love relationship and what happens to it, and it’s divided into a nascent section, recognition, and moves on through travail and descent.”