Demon's Dance

By the time Demon’s Dance finally saw daylight in 1970, Jackie McLean’s sound had already broken free of its hard bop roots and was flirting with the avant-garde. But this 1967 session, shelved for three years by Blue Note, captures the altoist in a fascinating transitional moment—still melodic, still swinging, but tugging at the edges of structure.

The album leans away from the freer terrain of New and Old Gospel or ’Bout Soul, instead channelling that restless energy into angular, modal forms. There’s tension in that restraint. McLean’s phrasing remains urgent and sharp, but the compositions—particularly those from a young Woody Shaw—keep pulling things back toward discipline. That push and pull makes Demon’s Dance crackle.

Shaw is a revelation here. Just 22 at the time, his playing is luminous, peppered with flares of dissonance that hint at the path he’d blaze in the 70s. Behind him, LaMont Johnson’s piano is cool and darting, while Jack DeJohnette lays down a rhythmic bed that’s more whisper than wallop—fluid, unpredictable, and never overpowering.

There’s an air of precision to the chaos, a kind of poised exploration. While it doesn’t unmoor itself the way McLean had done in his more out-there sessions, Demon’s Dance doesn’t coast either. It’s restless, clipped, and quietly radical. A document of a band—and a bandleader—dancing at the edges of change.