Paul Desmond — Take Ten (1963)

The sound of discovering Brazil without ever leaving New York

By Rafi Mercer

Sometimes an album arrives through research. Sometimes through memory. And sometimes through a strange little thread your mind follows without fully understanding why.

A rhythm. A word. A feeling.

I found Take Ten while thinking about Salvador.

Not directly. Not intentionally. I had been thinking about the streets there — the percussion, the movement, the openness of Brazilian rhythm itself. Salvador has a way of changing how you hear repetition. The drums aren't simply keeping time; they seem to create atmosphere from motion. Everything feels connected to the body. Walking becomes rhythmic. Conversation becomes rhythmic. Even silence feels placed carefully between pulses.

And somehow that line of thought led me here — to Paul Desmond and Take Ten.

Which is odd, really.

Because this album was recorded in New York in 1963 by one of the coolest and most restrained alto saxophone players jazz ever produced. Yet beneath its tailored American elegance is the unmistakable influence of Brazil beginning to drift into jazz culture like warm air through an open window.

You hear it immediately.

Not in a loud or theatrical way. Desmond was too subtle for that. But in the movement of the rhythm, the looseness of the phrasing, the softness around the edges. The record feels less interested in performing for you than inviting you somewhere calmer.

The title track alone explains why this album matters.

"Take Ten" was, in some ways, a playful continuation of Desmond's earlier success writing "Take Five" with the Dave Brubeck Quartet. But where "Take Five" had tension and angularity, "Take Ten" feels fluid. Relaxed. The unusual time signature almost disappears beneath the elegance of the playing. That's one of Desmond's greatest gifts: complexity hidden inside ease.

And then there is Jim Hall.

Without Jim Hall, this record does not become what it became.

Hall plays guitar like an architect of empty space. Tiny voicings. Delicate harmonic shadows. Notes that arrive, then vanish before you fully grasp them. Modern musicians often mistake sophistication for density, but Hall understood the opposite. He leaves room for thought. Room for air. Room for Desmond's alto to hover above the arrangements like late-evening smoke in a half-lit room. It is the same quality that defines the finest listening spaces — the act of listening given its full dignity, where silence is not emptiness but structure.

Listening to this album now, you realise how contemporary that restraint feels.

In a world where almost everything competes for attention, Take Ten never raises its voice.

That may be why it feels so emotionally rich today.

The Brazilian influence becomes even clearer on "Theme from Black Orpheus" and "Samba de Orfeu." These tracks matter because they capture the precise moment American jazz musicians began falling in love with bossa nova and samba rhythms — not simply borrowing them, but softening themselves through them.

That is the deeper story underneath Take Ten.

Jazz in the early 1960s was changing. Hard bop still carried urgency and velocity, but another path was opening: music that breathed differently. Music built around atmosphere, intimacy, conversation and lightness of touch. Brazil offered jazz musicians a new emotional temperature.

And perhaps that is why this record connected back to Salvador in my own mind.

Because Brazil changes your relationship with rhythm itself.

Not everything needs to push forward aggressively. Sometimes rhythm can sway instead of drive. Sometimes sophistication can feel sunlit rather than intellectual. Sometimes music can hold joy and melancholy in the same breath.

Desmond understood that instinctively.

His alto saxophone tone has often been described as sounding like a dry martini — cool, elegant, refined — but there is warmth underneath it too. A kind of thoughtful distance. He sounds less like someone trying to impress you and more like someone quietly observing the world from the corner of the room.

That quality gives Take Ten extraordinary longevity.

It ages beautifully because it never chased trend or spectacle. Even the recording itself feels understated. Recorded at Webster Hall in New York in 1963, the sound has clarity without sharpness. Connie Kay's drumming is delicate and deeply musical throughout, while the arrangements avoid clutter entirely. Pat Metheny understood the same principle a decade later — that the guitar's real gift is not what it plays, but what it chooses to leave out.

There is confidence in how little the album needs.

And perhaps that is what stays with me most after listening.

Not the technicality. Not the jazz history. Not even the samba connection.

It is the feeling of ease.

The sense that listening itself can become lighter.

You put this record on expecting background music and gradually realise it has altered the pace of your thinking. The room slows slightly. Your breathing changes. Your attention returns to itself.

That is rare.

And maybe that strange journey from thoughts of Salvador to Paul Desmond was not strange at all in the end. Music does this sometimes. One rhythm opens another door. One city echoes quietly inside another. A samba pulse in Brazil somehow finding its way into a cool New York jazz session from 1963.

The best listening works exactly like that.

Not as information.

As association. As feeling. As atmosphere carried across time.

Quick Questions

What makes Take Ten special?
Its elegance and restraint. Paul Desmond and Jim Hall create a spacious, deeply atmospheric jazz record that blends cool jazz sophistication with Brazilian rhythmic influence.

Is this a samba or bossa nova album?
Not entirely, but Brazilian music strongly shapes parts of the album, especially tracks like “Samba de Orfeu” and “Theme from Black Orpheus.”

Why does the album still feel modern?
Because it avoids excess. The spacious production, subtle playing, and emotional restraint align perfectly with modern listeners seeking calm, intentional listening experiences.

Rafi Mercer writes about the spaces where music matters.
For more stories from Tracks & Tales, subscribe, or click here to read more.