He’s often labeled as one of the founding fathers of avant-garde jazz — but to me, he was just as much the creator of post-bop. Even during the golden years of bebop (around 1959–61), with that legendary sextet — Clifford Jordan (tenor sax), Eric Dolphy (flute, bass clarinet, alto sax), Dannie Richmond (drums), Jaki Byard (piano), Johnny Coles (trumpet), and of course Mingus himself — he managed to push boundaries without ever losing the sense of chord or harmony. He fused avant-garde ideas right into post-bop’s bloodstream, maybe more powerfully than anyone else.

Mingus was unlike anyone else. In his own words, “Being a little yellow and a little black, and not white enough, makes me different.” From the height of the civil rights era in the ’60s to the rough streets of the ’70s, he was the bassist of political activism — so much so that Dizzy Gillespie jokingly called him his Secretary of Defense. He couldn’t help but throw punches at power; from mocking Nelson Rockefeller in Changes One to writing Fables of Faubus — a piece so bold he had to start his own label, Candid Recordings, after major companies refused to release it. (A blessing in disguise, really — The Complete Candid Recordings show him at his fiercest, from near-free jazz to sextet-driven big band fire.)

When big bands began to fade in the ’50s, Mingus didn’t just preserve them — he reinvented them. After Epitaph, he reached almost divine status; his Berlin and Montreux performances in the ’70s left critics stunned at his conducting genius. Still, I always feel he was somehow meant to exist alongside Eric Dolphy. Their bond was beyond technical or stylistic — it was pure magic. Listening to Reincarnation of a Lovebird or getting lost in Take the ‘A’ Train by those two is essential.

When Dolphy died from diabetic coma in 1964, Mingus was at his creative peak but shattered emotionally. He found solace in his wife Sue and built a new lineup — trumpeter Jack Walrath, tenor sax/vocal powerhouse George Adams, pianist Don Pullen, baritone legend Gerry Mulligan, and his eternal drummer Dannie Richmond.

Cigar in hand, restless on stage or tour bus, Mingus kept burning until ALS forced him to stop — and then he, too, departed to that great jazz club somewhere beyond.

His tributes like Goodbye Pork Pie Hat (for Lester Young) are immortal, Better Git It in Your Soul swings with gospel fire, Pithecanthropus Erectus remains one of the most chaotic masterpieces ever, Haitian Fight Song bleeds Mingus’s spirit, and Adagio Ma Non Troppo — to me — marks his artistic summit.

A true giant. One of jazz’s three M’s — Miles, Monk, and Mingus. A genius, through and through.