There was a feather on the brim of my hat. Laughing, with gentle fingers, Sarah picked it off putting it in her pocket as she said something about a fallen angel.
Its origin was from the girl who once the party had started had tried by way of facilitating a pillow fight to get noticed after pretending to be drunk had failed.
Had the feather come to rest on the lapel of my jacket instead, it merely would have looked slovenly. I want to be alone, but I do not say it like someone whose real ambition is to be noticed. The curse is that I could achieve this but also realize that it would be a mistake. I drag myself out fur cameo appearances now and then, taking in humanity the way one would a homeopathic cure.
The last thing that she needs is the first thing that she tries for. What will she pretend that she is in dire need of the retrieving from my place tonight? No one is looking except me and that is only because I have a near on mania for watching people when they are unaware that I am doing so. The coast is clear and so she lets all boho pretensions drop away, putting her empty glass in the sink, even turning on the faucet for a moment to clean it, jutting out her bottom lip to blow a strand of hair out of her eye before turning off the stream.
She finds me in the thinning crowd. I had been bad and merely let my empty glass come to rest on the clutter table. What had she told me? Had she even mentioned the thing, or did we just look at each other and exchange nods pretending to have played out the scene so that we could cut to my capitulation. Two actors who know their lines by heart but are told to practice the scene while cameras are being set up for the next.
“That party wasn’t too bad, huh?”
Although I had my back to her to as I fixed us some nightcaps, she could still feel the face I had made.
“You didn’t like it? Why?”
“Everyone was too self-same, same point of references and opinions, or at least they pretended to be.”
These had been the friends which she introduced into the mix, the ones which she would get custody of where we to ever part ways and so, although it was not how I intended it, she took my comments as personal criticism.
Bad moments can not, are not to be avoided. This is the basic mistake most people make, in putting in the time to skirt around one they extend its lifespan. Wade through it as if something bad on the sidewalk that can’t be gone around.
Usually, I drove the turntable. Our tastes intersected with certain albums and although she enjoyed hearing these records, technically it was still me having chosen the moment’s soundtrack; a softer bone of contention between us.
“Why don’t you put something on?”
She waited for what she felt would inevitably be me giving her three titles to choose from, but I remained silent. I padded into the kitchen for some cheese and crackers which I hoped had not merely been dream wished for earlier in the evening.
My tablet was on the desk at the far left of the start of all the shelves of music. It was perfect, she could peek at the screen in hopes of seeing something good or at least gleaming some information more than what my always close to the vest allowed out. Aside from checking my terrible spelling:
There was nothing to be seen on the front tabs. I was taking my time, having been unable to fight the urge to arrange the crackers fan like on the plate, seats at an amphitheater there to watch the performance of a block of comte. She decided to click the back tab. It was the home page for Out of Your Head Records. A black background with a white skull possessing the look of if Keith Harring had designed a day of the Dead part invitation.
She clicks on the newest release, which is by composer/bassist Nick Dunston. I return with my carefully arranged plate whose cracker pattern we both quickly mess up. I flick on the Bluetooth speakers as to be able to fully appreciate the music.
This new(ish) artist run label eschews pigeonholing themselves or their mission via an overly specific description of what they are about. In general, it is all genre defying being of whatever turns the musicians/composers on, which is how it should be in this era of limitless exploration.
Jazz is always in flux. A component of this is generational, more so than any other contemporaneous music. With rock, regardless of era, certain touchstones such as Robert Johnson, The Beatles, will always be utilized. Having been a jazz fan for many a year with a fervor that verged on obsessive, I have noticed this generational effect with jazz. Of course, there are and will be exceptions to every rule but more often than not one can get a rough idea of a player’s age by cited main influences.
There will always remain the list of holy names, Miles, Coltrane, Ornette, Bird. And although even more abstract, the stones of the foundation; Duke, Satchmo, Fats. But rarely for instance will a young sax player list first Chu Berry or Coleman Hawkins as major influence. The further forward in time that we move, the more pushed up the decade ladder the list of influences becomes.
This is combined with the fact that a lot of if not most of the more recent generation of players have grown up on a not strictly listening to jazz diet. If nothing more interesting, rock was also in this early mix. This is not a bad thing as jazz briefly was in danger of becoming trapped under museum glass, losing that important in the moment aspect. Little snippets of improvised sonic vernacular Sonny or Trane had done, a showtune quote, suddenly being rigidly executed with the same unwavering uniformity of someone playing a Bach score.
Jazz should forever be in flux as to keep it in the moment. Now it can absorb influences from rock, modern classical and world music. There is also a worthwhile cross pollination with certain sub genres of hip hop (Yasiin Bey, Adrian Younge et al).
This entire album is evidence of someone who grew up with big ears. It is not just songs from outside of jazz which are then “jazzed” up nor is it outside of genre stylings Frankensteined on.
“S.S Nemesis” starts as a growing frenzy. It is all city dissonance, but one of the initial big cities which first sprang up from blood, dreams and ambitions. This is all caffeinated discord as heard through the open doors of the subway trains during their brief stops and the open windows of cars deadlocked in rush hour traffic. Further frenzied, pneumatic tubes pulse and spurt their message canisters into the office pool while out the windows cranes take a moment from picking at girders to swing their long necks to and fro to all the cacophony of near on Carl Stalling disturbance. It combines with Krupa-Rich pounding whose frenzy ignites a fire that’s all pre-Disney Time Square neon.
It quotes “Oh Susannah”, the unofficial song of the forty-niners. This guitar is the factotum of the dreamers rushing to California to pan for gold as to buy imagined lives, a paradise vaguely promised by someone further back the branches on the family tree.
It is akin to when Mingus would quote “Shortnin’ Bread”. A seemingly harmless piece of Americana that everyone sort of knows part of. Lightly scratch the surface and there are darker undertones. It’s the American can-do attitude, the self-made man trading up rags to riches. Behind the railroad tycoons and owners of the big apple skyline were all the men who swung hammers and never got invited to the table.
Also prominent in the song is a whistle. It is revelatory workers come to town on a Saturday night to spend a little hard-earned cash. It becomes shriller. The crowd secretly suspecting that they will never be allowed to live in the skyscrapers which they spend all day building, that the rivers had long ago given up their gold. Music and song for the man in any miserable position work wise was a brief respite and also a permissible lament.
The guitar sounds as if over flanged. The leering barstool vulture, hellbent on everyone noticing that at least he’s having a good time. The shrillness of the whistle, shriller still. If they can’t have these dreams, then they at least want distraction, blood.
“Vicuna”. The flute is short piquant bursts of a bird who is attempting to claim the entire fog shrouded forest of a Kurosawa film by landing on everything. The melody reoccurs by violin and guitar. The last part of the piece has percussion to the fore and the feel of a soundtrack for a Noh play.
“A Rolling Wave of Nothing” features in a dream vocals by Nick. The violin murmurs made sharp for their passion. Don’t call it sawing but rather a rough kiss. A soundtrack to a Warhol factory happening by someone trying on nihilism for a night. There is poetic use of space, the percussion, the song’s heartbeat which remains steady from the knowledge that anything said tonight can be taken back at breakfast.
The album has an overall urgency. It is someone’s train of thought made conversational all the while being cognizant of not coming on too strong just because it is night.
Maxwell Chandler Oct,2019
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