In talking to well informed jazzbos, it’ll be relatively easy to strike up a conversation concerning the neglect that Charlie Rouse suffered during the bop thing in the ‘50s and ‘60s. Playing in an ensemble led by Thelonious ‘Sphere’ Monk probably didn’t make matters any easier as being overshadowed by such a commanding performer and personality must have been a constant for anyone performing alongside the pianist. But Rouse was tapped to be a part of Monk’s ensembles for a pretty sensible reason: his immense talent. His solo works, regardless of the acumen possessed on the alto sax, weren’t (and still aren’t) generally thought of too highly, though.

Being initiated into Monk’s group, Rouse still found time to record a couple of dates during the early years of his association with the pianist, which ended in 1970. Of these six discs, the one that’s received not only the most attention, but the most respect is easily Rouse’s ’62 Bossa Nova Bacchanal. The title might be a bit misleading, there’ aren’t any tremendously freewheeling sections of this work to report, but the album is all inspired from places outside of the jazz community – well apart from the fey west coast sax players that should be relegated to obscurity or your grandfathers record collection.

For Bossa Nova Bacchanal Rouse wrangled the assistance of not just guitarist Kenny Burrell, but also the aid of a three part percussion team comprised of Carlos "Patato" Valdes on congos, Garvin Masseaux on chekere, and Willie Bobo on set. Each of those percussionists, perhaps Bobo more than others, had taken part in any number of jazz sessions and represented the vanguard in merging the genre with Latin sounds. So, with those players in place, it would seem that the saxophonist would be primed to turn in a relatively strong disc.

Being of the impression that the Latin thing was just a way in which to ingratiate himself to some part of an American audience not naturally inclined to purchase jazz discs, some folks panned Rouse upon the release of the album. Fairly or not, it affected the perception of not just the album, but Rouse’s work as a date leader. It might not have sullied his career, but considering that of the seven tracks represented on this work, none of them were composed by Rouse, it’s at least understandable as to why this was seen as commercialized nonsense.

“Un Dia” still possesses some knotty soloing from Rouse amidst the same tempo that’s found most everywhere else on the album. But it’s on “Samba De Orfeu” that hints of the sax players talents are sounded. There’s nothing drastic here, but a few shrill notes and key changes signal that there was something more than expected going on.  

The date isn’t a total loss, but for anyone expecting something akin to Rouse’s work with Monk, the catalog of the sax player probably isn’t the place to look. It again points to the fact that in tandem some folks work better than in other settings. Rouse and Monk are surely proof of that.