In jazz, there remains a strong lineage between performers and their instruments when taking into consideration the theory and vision passed down by previous innovators. For every staple of the canon, there exists a plethora of transcriptions, instructive guides and method books in their name.

Perhaps it is due to the saxophone’s portability and stylistic range that players so willingly indulge in the chance to further their own discipline, often reinventing themselves whilst paying homage to the former greats. Simon Spillet, the authoritative voice on Tubby Hayes, routinely evokes the memory of the British tenorist both in the studio and onstage. Last year, Shabaka Hutchings retired from the instrument following his farewell performance of A Love Supreme. And Tony Kofi, whose life shifted towards the direction of music following a seemingly pre-destined accident at work, has recently been painting his portrait of Cannonball Adderley. But before all this, the Nottingham-born sax player had already begun to explore his fascination with another enigmatic figure in bebop: Thelonious Sphere Monk. 

With a quartet in 2005, Kofi released All is Know, his first recording as leader that quickly rose to receive Album of the Year at the BBC Jazz Awards. Two decades on, the since-deleted recording has been reissued on CD, digital and, for the first time, double vinyl under the title Plays Monk.

 It has to be said that Kofi leads this project with the affection of any driven student, even if he never learnt from the master directly. Picking up what hidden clues may have been left for him in amongst the lead sheets (which, to a less thoughtful musician, could appear too fiddlesome a task), he offers up his own playful interpretations of this densely-layered oeuvre, recalling the spritely, unconventional and care-free essence of Monk’s saxophonist and right-hand man, Charlie Rouse. You must remember, aside from the composer himself, melodies in the Monk quartet would typically fall under the remit of the sax. When he wasn’t dancing around the piano, the perambulating Monk rarely strayed from this lineup during his Columbia years — which saw the release of classics including Monk’s Dream (1963) and Underground (1968) — and you can hear why. Monk was never one to sacrifice the harmonic complexity of his compositions for the technical comfort of his fellow instrumentalists. Imagine his luck to find a musician who could effortlessly hold their own as they dodged around the bandleader’s peculiar-sounding charts. 

Of course, whilst a labour of love, it was never Kofi’s job to present Monk’s compositions in the same way that we’ve heard them ten times before. The magic of the composer’s mysterious skill (and in many ways the thrill of performing his music) comes from his open-ended work’s potential to be constantly reimagined and negotiated. In certain moments, this expedition is landmarked by the inclusion of elements foreign to Monk’s original style. For instance, a tune like ‘Ugly Beauty’ is given a lift by Philip Clark’s string arrangement that manages to blend the tender and morose, lending the quartet a mood-enhancing backdrop. Elsewhere, 'Brilliant Corners' is handled with controlling suspense — more than can be said for Monk's original recording, which had to pieced together from twenty-five separate takes due to the overwhelming frustration it caused his sidemen. 

The album’s pacing is superb (you can tell a lot of thought has gone into its track selection), and we are treated to a whistle-stop tour of the overall Monk flavour — including some lesser-visited regions — with Kofi acting as our competent guide each step of the way. What was once only apparent to the quirky pianist is now plain for all to see. Over forty years on from his death, the beautiful music in his troubled head is laid out in an accessible and engaging way, every bit as fresh as the day it was first recorded.