One Flight Up (1964)

Artist: Dexter Gordon

Label: Blue Note

Edition: Remaster 2015

Format: Roon, Tidal FLAC (24/96)

Year: 1964

Rating: ★★★★ ☆ 4.5

Equipment

DAC: PS Audio PerfectWave DirectStream
Streamer: PS Audio AirLens
Amp: Audio Research I/50
Speakers: DeVore Fidelity O/96
Sub: REL T/5x SE Powered Subwoofer
Interconnects: Morrow MA3
Speaker Cables: Tellurium Q Black II

This one wasn’t planned.

The I/50 was still warming up when Dexter Gordon’s “Tanya” drifted in, following a Freddie Hubbard track I’d half-listened to while settling in. And then suddenly I was listening. Really listening. Some nights work that way: the music chooses you before you’ve chosen it.

Right away, the sound caught my attention. The bass—Niels-Henning Ørsted Pedersen—wasn’t glued to the center of the stage like it so often is. Instead, it sat rear-left in the mix, present and physical, where a bassist might actually stand. Thank you. Seriously. Why so many engineers insist on pinning the bass dead center, even when it makes no spatial sense, is beyond me. I’ve made peace with off-center drums; bass deserves the same courtesy.

The engineering here is excellent—deep, clear, and dimensional—and hats off to Jacques Lubin, who clearly absorbed lessons from the Van Gelder school without merely copying its tricks. Everything has air around it. Nothing is flattened.

Donald Byrd’s trumpet is unmistakable. He doesn’t sound like Morgan. He doesn’t sound like Dorham. He grunts, stretches notes, lets phrases sag a little. At first blush it can feel lazy or imprecise—but listen longer and it becomes obvious this is expression, not sloppiness. Byrd plays like he’s talking rather than declaring, like he’s letting you overhear something instead of making a speech.

“Tanya” unfolds as a journey. There’s depth and clarity in the recording, but also movement in the composition. It begins with a traditional swing feel, then gradually slips into something less orthodox. The melody is cool, slightly melancholy, and then suddenly there’s fire. Walking through a neighborhood at night, you see all kinds. Some corners glow; others stay dark. Are we following Tanya, or are we traveling with her?

The outro feels almost like a refined jam session—the rhythm section stretching its legs, enjoying the moment rather than racing to the finish. By the time it ended, I knew I wasn’t stopping there.

“Coppin’ the Haven” continues the sense of motion. Gordon and Byrd play the melody together—not quite in unison, but close enough to create a kind of stylistic parallax. Their voices are distinct, even contrasting, yet the pairing works. Eclectic décor, but somehow harmonious.

Gordon’s solo is classic Dexter: insistent without being aggressive, more about feel than precision. He laments, struts, laughs, and tells stories all in one breath. The rhythm section follows him like a wake behind a boat—always there, always moving, never crowding.

Byrd’s solo enters with a shout and then lifts off into something sunlit and buoyant, almost Venetian in feel. There’s motion, a hint of trouble, but no clouds allowed. Art Taylor punctuates the whole thing beautifully—not just keeping time, but commenting, nudging Byrd forward phrase by phrase.

Then Kenny Drew steps in, light on his feet, dancing and tripping through the harmony. For a moment I swear I heard a Keith Jarrett yelp echo through time. A joyful track.

“Darn That Dream” strips things down. Byrd exits, and Gordon takes center stage. The tempo slows. The room dims. Gordon’s tone is sharp and present without being overbearing—the same kind of physical presence Sonny Rollins has on his best recordings. It’s romantic, but sad. Noir-adjacent. Nostalgic in that Blade Runner way, where the past feels both distant and painfully close.

When Drew takes his solo, the mood brightens slightly, and then Art Taylor switches to brushes—that scratchy, whispering texture I never get tired of. It feels like being tucked in at the end of the night. Goodnight, indeed.

I listened at 25 on the I/50’s volume LEDs—a notch lower than some of the other records this month—and it felt exactly right. Intimate. Dimensional. Unforced.

Aside: Nat King Cole

Before shutting everything down, I played Nat King Cole’s “Stardust,” a recommendation I’d picked up on Reddit. His voice appeared dead center, large and unmissable—smoky baritone, perfectly scaled, right there in the room. Sweet, effortless, timeless.

A reminder that sometimes the shortest detours lead straight to the heart.