Pitchfork

Sun Ra's music was, at its core, celebratory. In his 79 years on this earth, he dedicated himself to communicating "the music of the cosmos," the whirling joy of every atom in the universe. By expunging his birthname of Herman Blount, his birthplace of Birmingham, Alabama, and the realities of living with segregation and Ku Klux Klan threats, he denied all earthly matters to concentrate on extraterrestrial things.

Ra's music is characterized by its freedom. Though he often wrote charts for his musicians, he always encouraged unfettered expression. Of course, the sound of several players soloing in different keys can resemble cacophony. However, recently reissued albums such as 1978's Lanquidity and 1982's Nuclear War, both recorded during his residence in Philadelphia, are perfect introductions to Ra's universe. Lanquidity notionally tilts towards Philly's Gamble and Huff sound, but I can't imagine that too many aspiring Tony Maneros ever caught night fever from Ra's Jovian grooves.

Nuclear War, though as accessible as Lanquidity, is a much more nostalgic album. Opening with the title track, Sun Ra's disconsolate chanting of, "Nuclear war, it's a motherfucker/ If they push that button, your ass gotta go," harkens back to the call-and-response routine that infused 1972's Space is the Place. Ra's Arkestra is stripped down to probing chords on a piano, a playful series of funky drum patterns, and a supporting bass. And all the while, Ra's crew mutters, hollers, whispers and giggles through the motherfucker mantra as though they're translating the chant into every human mood, lest anyone escape the warning.

"Retrospect" continues the nostalgia trip; this time we're reminded of "Springtime in Chicago," (from 1956's Supersonic Jazz) enhanced with primitive synthesizer technology. Ra's horn section keeps an almost Ellingtonian funereal swing going while Ra draws out a melancholic solo on his Wurlitzer organ. Later, he cheers up with a loungy swing version of Ellington's "Drop Me Off in Harlem." Here, Walter Miller's coursing trumpet solo reminds us that, despite the lack of skronk, we are still listening to Sun Ra. Meanwhile, Ra's faithful tenor sax sergeant, John Gilmore, sidles up to Paul Gonsalves' style, but manages never to cut him.

Vocalist June Tyson's reading of "Sometimes I'm Happy" keeps us in Swingville, and in keeping, Gilmore offers another homage of a solo before Ra lets loose on a very muted electric piano. Ra's Wurlitzer returns as the accompaniment for the spiraling blues of Gilmore and trombonist Tyrone Hill's solos that both express Ra's chosen title for this song, "Celestial Love." Ra then jumps to a Hammond and rips through a very Jimmy Smith jump-groove called "Blue Intensity," amply aided by Gilmore once again.

According to the sleevenotes that accompany this disc, Sun Ra "thought very highly of this recording" and approached Columbia Records to issue it. Columbia, of course, rejected it. But rather than go back to sweatshop tactics of producing artwork and packaging the records himself, Ra sold the rights to the post-punk label Y Records. In 1982, Y Records founder Dick O'Dell released Nuclear War as a twelve-inch with plans to issue the full album two years later. Unfortunately, the label never gave the album full distribution, forcing Ra back to the sweatshop route to release very limited quantities of some of these tracks on his own homespun Saturn Gemini imprint. And now, nearly 20 years later, Chicago-based art label Atavistic has given it its first wide-scale release as part of their brilliant Unheard Music Series, ensuring that we can all finally join in the celebration.