Trix is my favorite band. I can't buy their CDs in China, so I'm really happy to be able to get most of their albums here.

Trix is my favorite band. I can't buy their CDs in China, so I'm really happy to be able to get most of their albums here.

Trix is my favorite band. I can't buy their CDs in China, so I'm really happy to be able to get most of their albums here.

Trix is my favorite band. I can't buy their CDs in China, so I'm really happy to be able to get most of their albums here.

Akira Wada is very talented and I like him a lot. Also his band is very good. I recommend to others as well.

Very good album and I like it a lot. I decided to buy the SACD. The sound is very good and I recommend to others.

I prefer this 2SACD version as it seamlessly includes the songs from the live recordings. Turn the volume up as much as you can and listen.

It’s an album that can be returned to again and again, either as engaging background music or absorbing foreground music. In short, this is one of those rare albums it is impossible to dislike.

This was Masaru Imada’s first album for Three Blind Mice and only the second release for the label. It’s an all acoustic album. The music consists of four beautiful modal jazz pieces. It has long been an audiophile reference album. The music is stunning.

The 11 tracks are flawlessly executed — practically airbrushed — and as mainstream as can be, but darned if they don't raise a few goosebumps.

Really recommend checking this out and grabbing a copy if you can. Fantastic all around, and a great reminder that jazz is everywhere.

Everytime I play this record, I hear things in a clarity and richness that I’m not used from most modern records I own. Musically it is also just very pleasant. Can't get tired of it. If you like bluesy jazz piano with amazingly dynamic sound, you can’t go wrong here.

Love or hate the music of Pharoah Sanders, you cannot deny the man's vision after hearing this record. His is an absolute genius approach to arrangement and performance. Though Sanders would release many great records and even mellow his distinctive tenor sound down, Karma is a record that deserves to be heard by any serious jazz fan.

The Brahms Project is a compelling model for jazz as it offers a case study in stylistic integrity and how to innovate without distortion, to translate without flattening nuance. For listeners of both idioms, it reveals how deeply jazz and classical share common ground: voice-leading, motivic development, rhythmic complexity, and emotional colors through harmonic movements.

The self-titled Paul Jeffrey album (Mainstream Records, 1974, catalog MRL 406) is a groovy, funky-leaning jazz session from tenor saxophonist Paul Jeffrey, who was better known for his big-band work (including stints with Thelonious Monk and Dizzy Gillespie) than for his relatively sparse leader dates. This one lands in the heart of Mainstream's early-'70s phase, when the label was leaning hard into soul-jazz, funk, and electric-tinged crossover sounds—think Bob Porter's production style with a big ensemble and a rhythm section that doesn't mind getting a little greasy. The lineup here is stacked with West Coast heavy hitters: Jeffrey on tenor sax, backed by players like Jay Migliori (baritone), Blue Mitchell (trumpet), and a rhythm section featuring folks who could swing or funk on command. Sonically, it's classic Mainstream: the bass can feel a tad rubbery and upfront (a frequent complaint about the label's engineering), but the horns cut through nicely, and Jeffrey's tone is warm and full without being overly aggressive. It's not revolutionary—more like a solid, enjoyable entry in the soul-jazz/funk-jazz bag of the era—but it grooves consistently and avoids the cheesier pitfalls that some contemporaries fell into. If you're into the likes of Rusty Bryant, Charles Earland's funkier sides, or even early-'70s Prestige dates, this fits right in. In a world where every other 1974 jazz album seemed obligated to include at least one wah-wah guitar solo, Paul Jeffrey keeps it relatively restrained—bless him for not turning this into "Funkocalypse Now." The result is listenable without requiring a PhD in fusion tolerance. Overall, a solid 7.5/10 (or 3.5 stars if you're feeling vinyl-traditionalist). Underrated in Jeffrey's small discography, definitely worth a spin if you dig that funky Mainstream vibe, but don't expect mind-bending innovation—just good, toe-tapping fun from a player who knew his way around a tenor. If it ever pops up in a reissue bin, snag it; the original vinyl has that nice early-'70s gatefold charm.

O'Donel Levy's Windows (Groove Merchant, 1976, GM-3313) is a late-period gem from the Baltimore-born guitarist who could make his axe sound like it was dipped in butter and then rolled through a funk factory. This was Levy's sixth (and final) album for Groove Merchant before the label faded, and it's a prime slice of mid-'70s jazz-funk that sits comfortably between George Benson's smoother fusion moves and the grittier, street-level grooves of folks like Grant Green or early Grover Washington Jr. The lineup features Levy's clean, melodic guitar front and center, backed by a tight crew including his brother Stafford Levy on drums (family business!), Gary Grainger on bass, and production/engineering that gives it that warm, analog punch (Tony Bongiovi at the boards—yes, that Bongiovi). Clocking in around 35 minutes across six tracks, it's concise and doesn't overstay its welcome. Track rundown: It's classic '70s jazz-funk: bold string arrangements add a cinematic, almost blaxploitation flair at points, the bass is fat and forward, and Levy's tone is warm and singing without ever dipping into fusion excess. Comparisons to Benson are inevitable (they toured together), but Levy has a bluesier, earthier edge—less polished yacht, more street-corner soul. In an era when every guitarist seemed contractually obligated to unleash a 12-minute solo odyssey about inner space, Levy keeps his solos concise and melodic. It's like he showed up to the fusion party, had one drink, played some gorgeous lines, and left before anyone started arguing about modes. Respect. Underrated even among Groove Merchant devotees, it's a great entry point to Levy's catalog if you dig that sweet spot where jazz meets funk without losing either soul. Spin it on a sunny afternoon with the windows open... appropriately enough.

O'Donel Levy's Time Has Changed (LRC Records, 1977, LRC-9319; also tied to Groove Merchant/Lester Radio vibes) is the guitarist's slick late-'70s pivot into smoother, more produced jazz-funk territory—think the era when disco was creeping into every corner and even jazz cats were told to add a little gloss. This was Levy's final major statement before stepping back, and it's got that big-studio sheen: strings, punchy rhythms, occasional vocals, and O'Donel's always-melodic guitar holding the center like a cool uncle at the family reunion who still knows how to dance. The core band includes Levy on guitar (of course), with Stafford Levy (his brother) likely involved in the drum chair somewhere in the family network, plus pros like Jimmy Maelen on percussion, George Young on flute/saxes, Aleta Green adding vocal touches, and engineering that aims for radio-friendly polish. Bigger production than Levy's earlier Groove Merchant rawness, with a touch more fusion gloss and disco-adjacent beats, but Levy's tone stays warm, bluesy, and never overly slick. It's smoother than Windows but still has that earthy Baltimore soul underneath. Comparisons to George Benson's commercial turn or early Pat Metheny come up, but Levy keeps a funkier, less yachty edge. By 1977, "sophisticated disco" was basically code for "we added strings and a click track so the kids will buy it." Levy delivers without fully selling out—it's like he showed up to the disco in a tuxedo jacket over his usual jeans, played a few tasteful solos, then politely excused himself before the mirror ball dropped. It's his most polished album, sometimes criticized for being too slick compared to his grittier earlier work, but if you dig that transitional jazz-funk-disco sweet spot (think Benson's Breezin' era with a bit more street). Play it loud on a summer night; time may have changed, but good grooves haven't.

Wendell Harrison and Phil Ranelin's A Message From The Tribe is the spiritual jazz cornerstone from Detroit's Tribe collective—co-founders Harrison (tenor sax, clarinet, vibes) and Ranelin (trombone) teaming up for what was essentially the label's launch statement. This "Complete Edition" gathers the original split-LP material (Harrison's side, Ranelin's side), plus extended/full takes, alternate mixes, and bonus tracks pulled from the multitrack masters—often remixed/remastered under the artists' supervision in recent years for that crisp, deep-groove clarity. True Detroit underground: conscious, modal, Afro-centric spiritual jazz with heavy percussion, righteous horns, and a revolutionary undercurrent that nods to the Black Power era without preaching. The core lineup features Tribe heavyweights like Charles Moore (trumpet/flugelhorn), Marcus Belgrave (trumpet), Harold McKinney or others on keys/percussion, and a rhythm section that locks in like family. Around 40-50+ minutes depending on the edition, but the expanded versions add depth without filler. remixed from original tapes (shoutout Bernie Grundman cuts on some vinyl), the bass is thunderous, horns have bite, and the spiritual percussion (congas, bells) floats in the mix without mud. It's rawer than mainstream fusion of the era—less electric gloss, more acoustic fire and message. Think Strata-East or early Black Jazz, but with Detroit's gritty soul. In the '70s, while everyone else was chasing disco or fusion fireworks, Tribe dropped this like a manifesto whispered in a basement cipher—deep, committed, and zero interest in crossing over to the Top 40. It's the jazz equivalent of showing up to the party with a pamphlet instead of a disco ball. And somehow, it grooves harder for it. One of the greatest Tribe releases, now fully realized in these complete editions—underrated no more, thanks to Now-Again and reissue waves. If you're into Pharoah Sanders' spiritual side, Doug Carn, or the Motor City's jazz underground, this is holy grail stuff.

1976 jazz fusion gem from the mysteriously short-lived band Mixed Bag on the legendary Tribe label out of Detroit. This was their debut... and spoiler alert: also their finale. One and done, like a musical mic drop that nobody quite caught. Picture this: It's the mid-70s, the air is thick with post-bop ambition and Herbie Hancock-style electric dreams. Eddie Russ (the keyboard wizard who also produced) rounds up a crew of lesser-known but seriously talented players, and they cook up six tracks of funky, soulful, Latin-tinged fusion that somehow manages to sound both dated-in-the-best-way and timelessly groovy. Standouts? "La Margarita" kicks things off like a cocktail party that got way too funky — 8 minutes of percolating percussion, buttery keys, and horns that strut like they own the block. It's the kind of opener that makes you wonder why this band didn't conquer the world (or at least Detroit's better lounges). "I Wish" brings the dreamy side — smooth as melted chocolate, with solos that float like they're on vacation. Then there's "Ziaus" and "Shark", which lean harder into that righteous soul-jazz pocket. Imagine if Weather Report chilled out, invited some Motown vibes, and forgot to take themselves too seriously. The whole thing is a perfect "mixed bag" — some upbeat Latin flavors, some mellow post-bop ballads, a dash of funk. Not revolutionary, but deliciously competent and warm. Collectors and jazz fusion crate-diggers lost their minds when it got a nice reissue treatment around 2021 (shoutout to those limited pressings that look gorgeous and sound crisp). This album is the musical equivalent of showing up to a potluck with an incredible dish... and then never coming back to another one. "Hey guys, we nailed it on take one—peace out forever!" The band name is hilariously on-the-nose: it's literally a mixed bag of styles, and they only bothered to drop one bag before vanishing into obscurity. Respect the commitment to the bit, I guess. If you're into 70s jazz fusion that's more about vibe than virtuosic fireworks, hunt this down. It's obscure enough to make you feel cool when you play it, but good enough that your friends won't mock you (much). Solid 4/5 stars — loses a point only because they teased us with greatness and then ghosted like a bad Tinder date.

It’s arguable whether an essential record like Belonging (ECM, 1974) by the great pianist Keith Jarrett truly needs a full reinterpretation, but saxophonist Branford Marsalis takes on the challenge without straying far from the original themes and feel. If anyone is equipped to explore Jarrett’s legacy, it’s certainly Marsalis, joined here by his stellar working quartet—pianist Joey Calderazzo, bassist Eric Revis, and drummer Justin Faulkner. This sharply focused quartet brings ample vision and improvisatory flair to every track, making for a bold yet rewarding venture. In a record that carries undeniable risk, Marsalis and his band ultimately pull off a gutsy triumph.