In 2010, ECM released Jasmine, an informal archival recording of standards between old friends who hadn't worked together in over three decades. The recordings were made at Keith Jarrett's Cavelight home studio in 2007. The nine tunes on Last Dance are taken from those same sessions. There are two alternate takes of tracks from the earlier album. "Where Can I Go Without You" is played at a similar tempo, yet offers more lyricism from Charlie Haden. Gordon Jenkins' "Goodbye," a well-known Benny Goodman theme, closes the set, but it's slower here, more emotionally resonant; almost poignant in the way it reveals something deeper than its articulation on the earlier volume. Thelonious Monk's "'Round Midnight" has been done by Jarrett before, but here it is offered with a curious, almost strange intro. As it unfolds, it reveals an affection for its melody that he's not previously displayed. Haden's confident ability to assert the correct note for each phrase has long been a trademark in his playing, but the warmth he offers to it here is remarkable. He remains open and inquisitive about its lyric rather than engaging in a nostalgic presentation. He knows there are still possibilities inside its framework. "Everything Happens to Me" is more uptempo, but far from quick. Haden's woody tone and impeccable swing add dimension to Jarrett's songlike pianism in the melody and solo. Bud Powell's "Dance of the Infidels" is not played with breakneck athleticism, but is sprightly and fluid. Jarrett digs with delight into the intricate melody, offering a punchy sense of reflexiveness in his solo, while Haden strides along. In his own solo, the bassist once more peels back the skin in the harmony and finds hints of several other melodies all placed within different sections of the tune's body. The elegance in the presentation of Cole Porter's "Everytime We Say Goodbye" reveals the pair's confidence in their interplay. They don't overstate anything; the music provides meaning all on its own. They relax into its beauty playing toward one another as hints, suggestions, and references to popular music history bridge the space between. Last Dance is a necessary addendum to Jasmine; it fleshes out the confident, mature, amiable, and eloquent speech in the canonical language these two jazz masters share.© Thom Jurek /TiVo

It's an open secret that Sting's interest in songwriting waned after 2003's Sacred Love, an undistinguished collection of mature pop that passed with barely a ripple despite winning a Grammy for its Mary J. Blige duet "Whenever I Say Your Name." Sting spent the next decade wandering -- writing classical albums for lute, recording the frostiest Christmas album in memory, rearranging his old hits for symphony, then finally, inevitably, reuniting the Police -- before finding inspiration within the confines of a musical. The Last Ship tells the tale of a British shipyard in the '80s, one laid low by changing times, so there's naturally an elegiac undertow to Sting's originals, a sensibility underscored by his decision to ground nearly all these songs in the folk of the British Isles. Dockworkers in the '80s may not have been singing folk songs, but the genre is elastic, allowing for single-spotlight soliloquies along with rousing all-cast showcases, like the boisterous "What Have We Got?" Also, by having the bones of his songs belong to folk, Sting can put together a credible album of his own, as the songs from The Last Ship feel intimate in a way he's rarely attempted in his career. He brings in a few guests -- Jimmy Nail and Becky Unthank show up on the standard edition, AC/DC's Brian Johnson, a rock & roll dockworker if there ever was one, shows up on the deluxe -- but the focus is entirely on the songwriter. Occasionally, Sting's desire to inhabit roles within the musical is a little too strong -- not long into the album he adopts either a Scottish or Irish brogue, elsewhere he affects a workingman's vernacular, all the while sounding like nobody else but the posh Gordon Sumner -- but his songs are precise and cannily crafted, bearing the work of a songwriter who is intent on sculpting every line and every melodic progression. Unlike Sacred Love, The Last Ship isn't listless; even when the album is quiet -- which it often is -- Sting is engaged, relishing the different characters that inhabit his musical and seizing the challenge of writing in the longform. It's easy to sling arrows at The Last Ship -- there is a whiff of condescension to some of the blue-collar anthems, the air is often haughty ("The Night the Pugilist Learned How to Dance") -- but this is Sting's tightest collection of songs in ages, and they all play off each other, adding up to a cohesive whole that is surely one of his best latter-day records.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

This three-disc box set is what Dylanphiles have been waiting for, sitting patiently for years, even decades. And, even after its 1991 release, it retains the feeling of being a special, shared secret among the hardcore, since -- no matter the acclaim -- it's the kind of record that only the hardcore will seek out. Of course, the great irony is that even casual Dylan fans will find much to treasure in this three-disc set of unreleased material. They'll find songs as good as anything that made the records (sometimes surpassing the official releases, especially on the last disc), plus alternate versions (including original versions of songs on Blood on the Tracks) and long-fabled songs, from the incomplete "She's Your Lover Now" to songs cut from The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan. This doesn't just function as an alternate history of Dylan, but as an expansion of Dylan's history, enriching what is already known about the greatest songwriter of his era -- after all, every song here would qualify as the best song on anybody else's album. And that's no exaggeration.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

Idris Ackamoor & The Pyramids all have long histories prior to the groups initial formation in Yellow Springs, Ohio in 1972. The inspired playing of the lead saxophonist and Margo Simmons’ flute, as well as the Pyramids’ libertarian grooves, detail the freedom and unification of black people. With their American afro-jazz roots and support since the beginning from poet and pianist (and pioneer of free-jazz) Cecil Taylor, to whom they pay homage in Theme for Cecil, the group champions a joyous Pan-Africanism. With timeless jazz, Funk Noir, a nod towards Fela Afrobeat (Shaman !), an allusion to Ethio-Jazz (Eternity), and a mention of the Dogon people (Dogon Mysteries), their music traverses oceans and consciousness with serenity. Separated for thirty-five years, they resumed their mission in 2012. Shaman ! is the third episode since their rebirth and, as shown in The Last Slave Ship which addresses the transportation of their ancestors on the last slave ship from Africa, their message hasn’t changed. Their quest for identity translates to music that is eternally current, frank and melodic, nostalgic and joyous, but always free and liberating. © Benjamin MiNiMuM/Qobuz

Calling an end to their career in 2018 after some 45 years, Runrig headed out on a final tour culminating with a show at City Park, Stirling. The Last Dance: Farewell Concert features 31 tracks from across their career and shows why they became one of the most popular Celtic rock acts on the circuit.© Rich Wilson /TiVo

It's an open secret that Sting's interest in songwriting waned after 2003's Sacred Love, an undistinguished collection of mature pop that passed with barely a ripple despite winning a Grammy for its Mary J. Blige duet "Whenever I Say Your Name." Sting spent the next decade wandering -- writing classical albums for lute, recording the frostiest Christmas album in memory, rearranging his old hits for symphony, then finally, inevitably, reuniting the Police -- before finding inspiration within the confines of a musical. The Last Ship tells the tale of a British shipyard in the '80s, one laid low by changing times, so there's naturally an elegiac undertow to Sting's originals, a sensibility underscored by his decision to ground nearly all these songs in the folk of the British Isles. Dockworkers in the '80s may not have been singing folk songs, but the genre is elastic, allowing for single-spotlight soliloquies along with rousing all-cast showcases, like the boisterous "What Have We Got?" Also, by having the bones of his songs belong to folk, Sting can put together a credible album of his own, as the songs from The Last Ship feel intimate in a way he's rarely attempted in his career. He brings in a few guests -- Jimmy Nail and Becky Unthank show up on the standard edition, AC/DC's Brian Johnson, a rock & roll dockworker if there ever was one, shows up on the deluxe -- but the focus is entirely on the songwriter. Occasionally, Sting's desire to inhabit roles within the musical is a little too strong -- not long into the album he adopts either a Scottish or Irish brogue, elsewhere he affects a workingman's vernacular, all the while sounding like nobody else but the posh Gordon Sumner -- but his songs are precise and cannily crafted, bearing the work of a songwriter who is intent on sculpting every line and every melodic progression. Unlike Sacred Love, The Last Ship isn't listless; even when the album is quiet -- which it often is -- Sting is engaged, relishing the different characters that inhabit his musical and seizing the challenge of writing in the longform. It's easy to sling arrows at The Last Ship -- there is a whiff of condescension to some of the blue-collar anthems, the air is often haughty ("The Night the Pugilist Learned How to Dance") -- but this is Sting's tightest collection of songs in ages, and they all play off each other, adding up to a cohesive whole that is surely one of his best latter-day records.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

It's an open secret that Sting's interest in songwriting waned after 2003's Sacred Love, an undistinguished collection of mature pop that passed with barely a ripple despite winning a Grammy for its Mary J. Blige duet "Whenever I Say Your Name." Sting spent the next decade wandering -- writing classical albums for lute, recording the frostiest Christmas album in memory, rearranging his old hits for symphony, then finally, inevitably, reuniting the Police -- before finding inspiration within the confines of a musical. The Last Ship tells the tale of a British shipyard in the '80s, one laid low by changing times, so there's naturally an elegiac undertow to Sting's originals, a sensibility underscored by his decision to ground nearly all these songs in the folk of the British Isles. Dockworkers in the '80s may not have been singing folk songs, but the genre is elastic, allowing for single-spotlight soliloquies along with rousing all-cast showcases, like the boisterous "What Have We Got?" Also, by having the bones of his songs belong to folk, Sting can put together a credible album of his own, as the songs from The Last Ship feel intimate in a way he's rarely attempted in his career. He brings in a few guests -- Jimmy Nail and Becky Unthank show up on the standard edition, AC/DC's Brian Johnson, a rock & roll dockworker if there ever was one, shows up on the deluxe -- but the focus is entirely on the songwriter. Occasionally, Sting's desire to inhabit roles within the musical is a little too strong -- not long into the album he adopts either a Scottish or Irish brogue, elsewhere he affects a workingman's vernacular, all the while sounding like nobody else but the posh Gordon Sumner -- but his songs are precise and cannily crafted, bearing the work of a songwriter who is intent on sculpting every line and every melodic progression. Unlike Sacred Love, The Last Ship isn't listless; even when the album is quiet -- which it often is -- Sting is engaged, relishing the different characters that inhabit his musical and seizing the challenge of writing in the longform. It's easy to sling arrows at The Last Ship -- there is a whiff of condescension to some of the blue-collar anthems, the air is often haughty ("The Night the Pugilist Learned How to Dance") -- but this is Sting's tightest collection of songs in ages, and they all play off each other, adding up to a cohesive whole that is surely one of his best latter-day records.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

There never was a supergroup more super than the Traveling Wilburys. They had Jeff Lynne, the leader of ELO; they had Roy Orbison, the best pop singer of the '60s; they had Tom Petty, the best roots rocker this side of Bruce Springsteen; they had a Beatle and Bob Dylan, for crying out loud! It's impossible to picture a supergroup with a stronger pedigree than that (all that's missing is a Rolling Stone), but in another sense it's hard to call the Wilburys a true supergroup, since they arrived nearly two decades after the all-star craze of the '70s peaked, and they never had the self-important air of nearly all the other supergroups. That, of course, was the key to their charm: they were a group of friends who fell together easily, almost effortlessly, to record a B-side for a single for George Harrison; they had such a good time they stuck around to record a full album, which became a hit upon its 1988 release. The Traveling Wilburys was big enough to convince the group to record a second album, cheerfully and incongruously titled Vol. 3, two years later despite the death of Orbison. Like most sequels, the second didn't live up to expectations, and by the time it and its predecessor drifted out of print in the mid-'90s, with the rights reverting to Harrison, nobody much noticed. A few years later, though, it soon became apparent that the Wilburys' records -- mainly, the debut, widely beloved thanks to its two hits, "Handle with Care" and "End of the Line" -- were out of print, and they soon became valuable items as the Harrison estate dragged its heels on a reissue. Finally, the two albums were bundled up as a two-CD set simply called The Traveling Wilburys and reissued with a DVD/digital download containing a documentary and all the videos in the summer of 2007.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

It's widely acknowledged that Johnny Cash's time at Mercury didn't find the Man in Black at either his commercial or creative peak. Cash moved to the label in 1986, just after he departed his longtime home of Columbia, and he stayed there through 1991, a half-decade stint that resulted in only one Country Top 40 hit (1988's "That Old Wheel," which charted thanks to the momentum of Cash's duet partner, Hank Williams, Jr.) and has subsequently been framed as the wilderness years before he righted himself on Rick Rubin's American Recordings. The 2020 box set The Complete Mercury Albums 1986-1991 is the first opportunity to challenge this conventional wisdom, a place where it's possible to concentrate on the relative merits of the handful of LPs he recorded for the label. The box expands upon the original five records for Mercury by adding a bunch of bonus tracks, plus a full album's worth of alternate mixes of the 1988 covers collection Classic Cash: Hall of Fame Series and the 1986 collaborative set Class of 55, where he was joined by fellow Sun Records survivors Carl Perkins, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Roy Orbison for a set of new songs written in the style of the oldies. Class of 55 opens this chronological set on a shaky note, thanks to freeze-dried Chips Moman production that steers each of these greats toward their worst instincts. It's one of the worst LPs credited to any of the four, and having it open the set suggests that Cash's Mercury stint is as bad as its rep, but 1987's Johnny Cash Is Coming to Town is a better yardstick to gauge this era by. Produced by Jack Clements, Coming to Town opens with a careening version of Elvis Costello's "The Big Light" and then proceeds to run through covers, cornball novelties, sincere ballads, and story songs. It's a dynamic, entertaining record and Cash returned to its formula often on Mercury to admittedly varied but often entertaining results. Clement also helmed 1988's Water from the Wells of Home, a record that gets weighed down by its cameos, but the guests can also conjure some unexpected delights, such as Paul McCartney's appearance on "New Moon Over Jamaica." Producer Bob Moore kept 1990's Boom Chicka Boom tight and focused. The 1991 set The Mystery of Life comprised cobbled-together leftovers from Johnny Cash Is Coming to Town and sessions for a new album that didn't quite come to fruition; it's uneven but has more than its share of moments, including a new version of Bob Dylan's "Wanted Man." Listened to collectively, these records sound much better than their reputation suggests. Even Classic Cash: Hall of Fame Series, a collection of re-recordings of his old hits, is livelier than its description suggests, benefitting from Cash sounding spry and invested in the material. That none of these LPs generated hit singles at the time can be chalked up to a matter of age. Cash was on the other side of 50 when he made this music and he'd been a hitmaker for 30 years. He was a known property who couldn't fit into the sound of modern country radio, which happened to be running away from veterans like Cash in the first place. All these personal and cultural changes doomed Cash's Mercury records to commercial failure, and while the albums still have a distinct gloss endemic to the '80s, each of them has its share of moments, and Comes to Town and Boom Chicka Boom are strong records in their own right. © Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

The Great American Songbook has many top-drawer interpreters, but Nancy Wilson is rarely spoken of in the same breath as Ella Fitzgerald or Dinah Washington or Frank Sinatra or Mel Tormé. The reason lies less with her talents, which are sizeable, and more with her orientation, which fits the show tunes concept of putting the song across with precise diction as well as emotion instead of the jazz vocal tradition of personalizing a song. Those who know only Wilson's crossover work and think she intrudes in the field of vocal jazz should simply listen to her 1959 performance of "On the Street Where You Live," where she often varies notes and tempo but preserves the essential ebullience of the song intact -- an excellent musical performance combined with an excellent reading of a classic standard. That song is only one of the treasures present on the two-disc set The Great American Songbook, one in a loose series of three Capitol compilations to compile Wilson's late-'50s and early-'60s prime, the others focusing on blues ballads and lost love. There is a lot of music to wade through (more than twice as much as the other volumes in the series), but the compilers ably mix up the proceedings, balancing small-group performances that have a loose touch from all involved with large-band spectaculars featuring impeccable arrangements (often by masters of the form Billy May or Gerald Wilson).© John Bush /TiVo