Chicapah Sometimes I just like to take a wild, blindfolded shot in the dark and listen to a jazz artist that I’ve never heard of to see if, by chance, I can hit anything of note. In the case of The Charlie Hunter Trio they were included in a sizeable cache of music I’ve come into possession of and I had to “go to the Google” just to find out if they were even jazz-related or not. They could’ve been a Hip Hop Polka outfit for all I knew. Anyway, I gave this, their 1993 debut, a fair listen and found it to be pleasant enough but the thing that really stood out for me was the fact that Mr. Hunter’s only cohorts were drummer Jay Lane and tenor saxophonist Dave Ellis, inferring that Charlie played both rhythm and lead guitar as well as the bass lines. No easy feat, that. Yet the stunning kicker was when I read that he plays all three SIMULTANEOUSLY. Say what? The skeptic in me immediately consulted You Tube for verification and, lo and behold, I witnessed him doing it with my own eyes. The man is a freak, manhandling a specially-made eight-stringed instrument with such dexterity as to strain description, much less belief. How he does this is beyond me but that awe-instilling talent certainly puts him in a category all his own, regardless.

But you gotta admit, even a one-man band is practically useless if all he can produce is a cacophony of noise so no matter if in addition Hunter played piano with his tongue and blew a trombone with his butt hole at the same time I would still have to judge his trio by the quality of the music they made. As far as this album goes, I deem it to be a good, engaging start to a recording career and nothing more. It begins with “Fred’s Life,” a very dry yet very funky slice of jazz fare that inevitably causes me to wonder if Charlie, Dave and Jay put these songs down on tape as a unit or if Hunter added the bass and/or guitar parts later as overdubs. However they did it, the result is a remarkably tight track. “Live Oak” sports a slinky groove in 6/4 time that’s anything but predictable. Charlie is obviously an extremely gifted guitar virtuoso who’s incorporated a lot of classic jazz techniques into his style. I hear everyone from Wes Montgomery to Chet Atkins in his playing and that’s fine company to keep. On “20,30,40,50,60,Dead” the song’s zippy pacing highlights their individual acumen and confidence. Ellis shows off his more abstract side while Hunter flies and bounces all over his fretboard like a workaholic bee hopped up on diet pills. “Funky Niblets” owns a hard rock foundation that supports Charlie’s “watery” guitar effect that indelibly sets it apart from the other cuts due to his imaginative exploitation of that sound. Hunter goes solo for his interpretation of Mingus’ “Fables of Faubus,” a short tune that he travels across nicely.

Sidemen Scott Jensen on trumpet and Scotty Roberts on congas spice up the Brazilian samba rhythm of “Dance of the Jazz Fascists,” providing the disc with a welcome change of pace at this juncture. One can’t help but be impressed by the cohesiveness the musicians achieve without help from a keyboard of any sort. The apex of the album comes in the form of “The Telephone’s a’Ringin’.” It’s a strange little number with a whimsical atmosphere swirling about it that keeps you constantly on your toes. I admire their playful attitude that assures me they don’t take themselves too seriously (always a self-defeating trait). Charlie allowed guest Miles Perkins to do the upright bass honors (Physical logistics demanded outside assistance, I’m sure. Otherwise visions of Octoped Man are in order.) on “Rhythm Comes in 12 Tones,” an up-tempo song with a trotting bass line over which Lane’s drums and Hunter’s guitar sizzle like butter in a hot skillet. The razor-sharp stops and accents they include are clever and inventive. “Mule” is another of Charlie’s I-can-do-this-all-by-myself-if-you-don’t-mind ditties wherein dense jazz chording and extraordinary guitar licks layered over structurally sound bass runs create a very moody aura. The record ends with “Faffer Time,” a melodically simple but nonetheless complex tune that manages to convey a deceptively carefree mien.

Much emphasis must be placed on this album being their first. I have no doubt that their label and producer had no idea what to expect from this anomaly of nature once they corralled Mr. Hunter and his partners in crime in the studio environment. As an initial collection of jazz numbers it merits a slightly above average rating. It neither singes one’s eyebrows nor transports one to a sleepy dreamland. However, as I remarked the time I heard a one-armed blues guitarist rip some primo riffs on the stage of the Palomino Club in L.A. on a particular amateur night in ’78, “If you can pull it off, by all means, do it!” Charlie Hunter is a phenomenon whether I buddy up to his stuff or not. No one releases 17 records in less than two decades unless they have something to contribute that’s more than worthwhile. I recommend you check him out.