WHEN the great man came to New York in the early '50s, they called him Charlie Mingus. A few years later he announced that Charlie was a name for a boy or a horse--and Charles he has remained. Or simply Mingus, the name as distinctive as its bearer. Given a career that is a case study in the plight of the black American artist, it's not hard to see why the musical importance of Charles Mingus has so often been eclipsed by the drama of his troubled life. Even as he first established his unique and revolutionary talent as a bassist, Mingus seemed bent upon becoming one of the great and tragic characters of jazz.

Mingus was a man of giant appetites and violent passions, and he elevated these traits to mythic proportions in his autobiographical Beneath the Underdog, published in 1972. He shouted, he threw things, he stormed out of clubs. At times he became obsessed with the (probably justified) fear that other musicians were capitalizing on ideas stolen from him, and he refused to solo if he suspected that spies were present. He quit performing in the late '60s, boarded himself up in an East Village apartment, and spent years fighting illnesses, poverty, and severe depression. The '70s found him back on the scene, leading some exciting bands and experiencing unprecedented popularity; his Three or Four Shades of Blues (1977) sold over 50,000 records. But Charles Mingus had seen too much to become the grinning elder statesman of post-war jazz--he was far too scarred and too bitter to become America's darling in the manner of a Louis Armstrong.

ME MYSELF AN EYE was recorded in January 1978, not long after a nerve disease had ended Mingus's playing career by forcing him into a wheelchair for the rest of his life. It was recorded hastily by a 25-piece ensemble consisting largely of white studio musicians who have little or no previous association with Mingus. The album confirms Mingus's pervasive musical personality precisely because of these limitations. Lacking the leader's enormous presence on bass, as well as the discipline of the handpicked, carefully trained small workshops for which he is best known, Me Myself An Eye remains distinctly Mingus from start to finish.

The foremost contribution of Mingus as musical thinker is surely his imaginative rethinking of traditional ideas. He gave modern jazz what it needed most--a link to its own past. The music on Me Myself An Eye expresses Mingus's interest and sympathetic understanding of the sources of black American music. The blues, gospel, church music, the spiritual ballad--these are the wellsprings of Mingus's musical heritage, and all are represented here. Side One is "Three Worlds of Drums," a 30-minute suite in which Mingus uses black music's most elemental instrument as a figure for the history of his music. This work is more ambitious than successful; Joe Chambers and Steve Gadd join longtime Mingus drummer Dannie Richmond in the title roles, but even these skilled musicians are not up to the task Mingus has set for them The personalities of the three drummers do not come across in the dynamic way that the piece demands. Still, the composition is strong; the dark, winding ensemble sections are executed with great panache, and the rotating half-dozen horn soloists maintain a tension that rises from the moody to the outright schizophrenic.

Side Two consists of two thoughtfully reworked Mingus standards and a poignant new ballad that surely ranks among his best. "Devil Woman" was first recorded in 1961; it is basically a slow blues, but this arrangement takes so many unexpected rhythmic turns that the performance required the composer's help in counting off the choruses. Guitarist Larry Coryell shines among the soloists, reaching way back into blues history for a solo that matches the spirit of the piece. "Wednesday Night Prayer Meeting" goes back to 1959, when Mingus recorded it on his Blues and Roots album. This arrangement begins and ends with singing and handclapping, which set a tone of unrestrained fervor. The climax of this rough and rambling church shout is a flaming tenor solo by Ricky Ford, the last in a long line of great saxophonists who discovered themselves in Mingus's Jazz Workshops. In "Caroline 'Keki' Mingus," a ballad, altoist Lee Konitz lovingly introduces a theme which is then caressed by the ensemble with a grace that can only recall Mingus's one-time collaborator, Duke Ellington.

The individual performances on the album are all sound, but Mingus has in his day inspired better solos. The rock-associated Brecker brothers sound good here, but are probably over-represented. As on Three or Four Shades of Blues, maverick Coryell shows considerable understanding of Mingus's music in a number of excellent solos. Bassists Eddie Gomez and George Mraz wisely shy away from the spotlight, the obvious comparison with Mingus being overwhelming. Trumpeter Jack Walrath and saxophonist George Coleman each step forth briefly but decisively, while musicians of the caliber of Pepper Adams, Slide Hampton, Jimmy Knepper and Konitz take part without ever really asserting themselves.

The sound that Mingus gets out of his large and motley horn section is, for want of a much better word, "sloppy" in just the way he must have wanted it. He often spoke longingly of the days when the music was less complex and the musicians less literate, when he would teach each player his part by rote--he said that that music swung more than written music ever could. At its best, this band is free and sensitive; Mingus's rhythms and harmonies are felt as well as understood. At times, the sound is thick with instruments, over-reaching, trying to do so much; the disc's 56 minutes of playing time suggest that both players and leader sensed the importance of getting out as much of this music as was humanly possible.

One of Mingus's more alarming habits during the Jazz Workshop days was to stop his band in the middle of a performance in order to correct a mistake, rehearse a phrase, or simply berate his musicians. This probably accounted for much of his reputation as a fiery madman, but it made perfect sense to a man who saw jazz as a creative process rather than a finished product. Me Myself An Eye is hardly a climax to Mingus's long and valuable career, but, appropriately, it is ambitious enough to leave much work to be done. They say that Mingus died a few weeks ago. Newsweek said so, but they called him names, called him Charlie. Welcome back, Charles. We love you madly.