Counted as one of the bop pioneers on piano alongside teacher and friend Thelonious Monk, Bud Powell remains a relatively low key figure in the movement. His personality wasn’t as bubbly as that of Dizzy, as studios as Charlie Parker (although his theories did impact Powell’s playing) or extreme as Miles. But Powell quickly convinced anyone he performed with as to his musical acuity.

Growing up in a musical family, Powell was imbued with the spirit of performance and the enjoyment of creating or interpreting new works. The pianist isn’t credited with recasting the piano in a new musical idiom – that would be reserved for the aforementioned Monk. But Powell, like Oscar Peterson, would impact every ensemble he performed with while not necessarily becoming the focal point of its music.

In his personal life, though, Powell suffered from schizophrenia. To combat the affliction, he was prescribed Thorazine. And if you listen to the Ramones, you know that that downer doesn’t do wonders for professional lives. But Powell persisted through the trips to the hospital, a near encounter with jail as a result of marijuana possession and an industry that needed the next big thing – a thing Powell wasn’t a part of.

As many other black jazz players did during earlier decades, Powell high tailed it outta the States and headed for Europe – France specifically. While there, he struck up any number of relationships. But the one with Francis Paudras, a photographer, resulted in Strictly Confidential, issued in 1964.

The date – mostly solo reckonings of well known tunes – included a few tracks on which Powell was accompanied by simplistic drummer. That was all perhaps due to the fact that he album was recorded in Paudras’ apartment.

Opening with “Cherokee,” Powell immediately summons Parker’s playing, but quickly moves on to embrace elements of Monk’s work, covering his “Ruby, My Dear.” There’s been a great deal figured about Powell’s performances after the proper bop thing seemed to have died out – this album counting as one of those. And while there’s supposedly a drop of in quality amongst Powell’s latter career efforts, a great deal of this album comes off like one of Monk’s solo albums.

The two pianists weren’t stylistically very similar, but understood each other and each other’s work pretty well. Powell’s side of that’s displayed on “All God's Children Got Rhythm,” which references Harlem stride players, but does so in a manner that should make listeners toss on Monk’s Plays Ellington. That’s how good Powell was.