Fontana · 1968
The summit of British hard bop — a home-grown answer to Blue Note, recorded a short walk from Soho. Note: the original exists in stereo only (SFJL 911).
For decades the British believed their jazz was a footnote to the Americans' — polite, provincial, not quite to be taken seriously. Mexican Green is the record that proves how wrong that was. Cut for Fontana in 1968 by the Tubby Hayes Quartet, it is the summit of British hard bop: a home-grown answer to Blue Note, recorded a short walk from the Soho clubs where it was forged.
Hayes was the finest tenor Britain produced — "the Little Giant," small, ferocious, technically dazzling, the one British player the visiting Americans respected without a hint of condescension. By 1968 he was leading a quartet of the country's best: Mike Pyne on piano, Ron Mathewson on bass, Tony Levin on drums, a band tight enough to follow him anywhere. And here he pushed further than the polite British jazz of the era dared. The title track is a long, restless, modal-tinged piece that moves through moods and tempos like a suite; elsewhere the quartet swings hard, but it's the ambition of the writing and the fearlessness of the playing that set the record apart. This is not a British band imitating America. It's a British band standing level with it.
The Fontana engineers caught the group warm and close, and the album rewards a good system: Hayes's tone is huge and burnished, Pyne comps with real harmonic daring, Levin's cymbals shimmer at the edges. Across the record you hear a band unafraid of space and of risk — soloing that reaches rather than settles, arrangements that leave room for the music to breathe. For all the talk of its collectability, the reason it endures is simpler: it's a genuinely great jazz album, one that would be canonical anywhere.
Hayes was more than a soloist, too — a bandleader, vibraphonist and composer who wrote much of his own book, and Mexican Green shows that breadth: the pieces are his, the arrangements ambitious, the quartet drilled without ever sounding stiff. He had toured the United States and traded fours with the best of them, and he came home determined to prove British jazz could be as adventurous as anything from New York. This record is the argument he was making, in sound.
The Soho that made it was a specific world — Ronnie Scott's club, the after-hours sessions, the small circuit of players who lived for the music and mostly died poor. Hayes was its brightest star and its cautionary tale: heroin and a weak heart killed him in 1973, at thirty-eight, cutting off a career that should have run for decades. Mexican Green, made near his peak, is the sound of everything he could do, captured just before the decline.
For years the record was exactly the undervalued British jazz the country had taught itself to ignore — the kind of thing that sat unloved in the racks while everyone chased American originals. Then the diggers caught up. Sixties British jazz became one of the most sought-after corners of the market, prices climbed, and Mexican Green became the record London collectors hunt hardest: the crown of a scene the city had spent decades underrating.
Play it now and the neglect seems incomprehensible. The tone, the invention, the sheer drive — this is world-class jazz that happened to be made in London, and the only reason it isn't spoken of alongside the great American records of its year is an old cultural cringe the record itself demolishes. More than half a century on, Mexican Green stands as the essential document of British jazz at its height, and the album that, more than any other, made collectors take the whole tradition seriously.
The peak of British hard bop — Tubby Hayes level with the Americans, made a short walk from Soho. The 1968 Fontana original (SFJL 911) is the London jazz grail; note it exists in stereo only, so there's no original mono to chase.
Mexican Green on Vinyl — Which Pressing?
cat. SFJL 911 — and the first thing to know saves you a wasted hunt: it exists in stereo only. The "SFJL" prefix is Fontana's stereo jazz series, and there was no original mono pressing — so any dealer offering you a "rare mono original" is mistaken or worse. Stop looking for one; the stereo is the original
genuine copies are stamped 886500 1Y△1 on side one and 886500 2Y△1 on side two, where the △ triangle is the Philips mark — Philips being Fontana's parent company, whose pressing plant cut the record. That triangle, alongside the 886500 machine numbers, ties the disc to the original Philips/Fontana cut rather than a later or foreign pressing
British jazz was ignored for so long that there was never a flood of reissues to muddy the early market, but the record's steep rise in value has since drawn later pressings and reissues, so the run-out check matters. Confirm the SFJL 911 catalogue, the stereo-only status and the 886500 / △ stampings together, and don't rely on the sleeve alone
clean originals run from roughly €45 to €175, with a median around €95. That's substantial but not stratospheric — which, for the finest British jazz album of its era, makes it one of the more rewarding grails going: a genuine masterpiece of the London scene that a committed collector can still realistically own. Treat the figure as an order of magnitude; condition moves it
Groov-illa participates in the Amazon, eBay Partner Network and CDandLP affiliate programmes, among others. Purchasing through our links may earn us a small commission at no extra cost to you. The Discogs link is not an affiliate link: we earn nothing from it.
Is there an original mono pressing of Mexican Green?
No — and this is the key thing to know. The 1968 Fontana original exists in stereo only, catalogue SFJL 911 (the 'SFJL' prefix is Fontana's stereo jazz series). There was no original mono, so don't waste time chasing one; the stereo is the original.
How do I authenticate an original in the shop?
Check the run-out grooves: genuine copies are stamped 886500 1Y△1 (side one) and 886500 2Y△1 (side two). The △ triangle is the Philips mark — Philips being Fontana's parent — which ties the disc to the original cut. Confirm that together with the SFJL 911 catalogue and the stereo-only status.
What does an original cost?
Clean originals run roughly €45–175, with a median around €95. It's substantial but attainable for what many consider the finest British jazz album of its era. Prices move, so treat that as an order of magnitude.
Where might I find one in London?
London's specialist jazz and second-hand shops, and the city's record fairs, are the natural hunting ground — this is a hometown record for the Soho scene. Buying in person lets you read the run-out for the 886500 / △ stampings before you pay.
