Archive for category Review
All night long the cat had loudly improvised games. Batting and chasing things across the hardwood floor, the hunt accompanied by little cries.
In the morning, she sweetly looked at me from the edge of the bed, the effect akin to a naughty child dressed up for a party or church.
All artists up to a certain (fame/power) level, we walk a razor’s edge. The lifestyle requires that we walk a razor’s edge. Stoicism, which increases with age, kicks in during lulls of activity or contemplation. It reminds us that while not every possession is now gold plated and Kanye still hasn’t called, on the other hand, neither are you chained to the oars in some office cubicle galley.
Still, there is the periodic bubbles of ambition. Ambition is good when it facilitates evolution. It only becomes a problem when as happens occasionally, it creates an inner churning. Then the stoic voice must raise up, for some reason now and then taking on the accent of my grandfather:
“It is raining out, hard. What time do you have to catch the train to work? That’s right, you don’t.”
I go downstairs to start the coffee. Mae gets back from her run just as I am pouring. I normally do not check my email at the table as it signals the start of the day, but it had been left on to do updates overnight. I caught myself stealing a peek. Hit parade. If not what some would consider “fame”, then exposure eventually brings out some of the ghosts.
It is a generational thing, I do not feel compelled to be on Facebook et al but I am easy enough to find.
“You are not going to believe who dropped me a line.”
“The coffee is good, who?”
“The trick is to make it heavy like a stilted thought, then pour a little in each cup so that they both get some crema before proceeding to fill them. Wendy. How long has it been?”
She smiled, having already savant like finished the math.
“It was another lifetime ago, when everything, fooling around, cooking, taking a bath had to be paired to the perfect soundtrack.”
The letter was temporarily forgotten as my mind cast back, at first to see if her math was right, which of course it was, then in general remembrances.
Music has always been important to me. With the passage of time, it is not so much that our relationship has undergone a sea-change so much as that layers have been added. A big pleasure for me used to be the exploration and when things worked out, discovery of new artists and works. I reached a point though where for a while it became almost solely about the hunt and capture. The goal of embracing and drawing newfound discoveries into what constitutes my taste dropped by the wayside in favor of a type of constant perusing motion.
I think that for any non-musician whose life revolves in some manner around music that there is an obsessive hunt phase. An equally prevalent variation on this is seeking out the new, not just to oneself, but in general. Having blinders on to all but the novel has its own built in limitations.
Needing a constant nouveau fix, it is misconstrued that being linked even tenuously to the past lessens a work’s power. Originality is important but novelty for novelty’s sake leaves very few places to go:
“Now I am into a guy who plays pieces of metal that he mined from the scrap yard himself. He is so out there-original that he doesn’t even record his works.”
Tradition is not nostalgia which can definitely at times allow for a loss of intensity. Artistically, it should never be anathema to draw or build off of the past. Some early modernist’s work cast a quick glance back while striding forward towards their own thing. Stravinsky incorporated snatches of folk melodies and pagan rhythms, Jean Cocteau with his Greek myths turned out in chic couture buzzing around the right bank in the back of chauffeured Mercedes.
The past presents a navigational point, to draw inspiration from or reject and build something new in response to. With his oil paint stick, Basquiat would riff on the moodiness of Ajax (Aias) after not winning Achille’s armor with a tiny winged Charlie Parker looking on from above, but he ran out of time.
Continuing to explore while not rejecting a foundation presents more options for enjoyment than merely chasing the latest thing. An analogy which comes to mind would be one of my other passions, gastronomy. While it is great to discover new dishes, spices and flavor combinations, without the tradition of established things that work, what can it be measured against? While it is exciting to discover something new, there can be an equally satisfying experience digging into a long-established dish such as a simple spot on roasted chicken or sole meunière. This is especially important to recognize as sometimes the new gets some of its power just from existing in uncharted territory, the shock of the new which will eventually have diminished returns with increased familiarity.
While something which does not reject or radically depart from its artistic precedents may not have the convulsive beauty of something radically unfamiliar, it can offer up pleasure which is steady and lasting. This is the case with the new album “This World” by pianist/composer Mike Nock (Lionsharecords)
The album consists of all original compositions penned either by Nock or other members of the quartet. In its cadence and stylings, it has the feel of early to mid-sixties Wayne Shorter Blue Note dates mixed with a sort of ECM label vibe.
Written by bassist Jonathan Zwartz, “And in the Night Comes Rain” is one of my favorite tracks. It starts with lone piano which is rich and stark. The intro verges on being programmatic as it conjures up precipitive feelings, even were one to not be aware of the title. The drums enter initially as a cymbal(ed) hiss, the rain hitting atop every surface of the city caught unawares. The appearance of the horn, legato murmuring of nocturnal hours, its companion, softly knocked bass percussion, the brief slowed down flirtation of a samba. A terminal beauty. The lifespan of a bouquet of flowers, the laughter at a party, Tchaikovsky contemplating that glass of water. A melancholy moment universally recognized but pictured differently for each of us.
There used to be an Italian restaurant that I often walked by. Their sandwich board sign proclaimed, “Eighty-Seven Sauces”, which had to be about eighty too many. There was no way they could all be good, the best-case scenario being that they were not that terribly different from one another. This World offers pieces in various styles but rather than seeming an over extended hodge-podge, it comes across as displaying various aspects of the band cohesively.
“Riverside” by tenor saxophonist Julien Wilson is gospel tinged without trying to over emphasize that it is so. I do not know if the ensemble is a road-working unit nor if they had each other in mind when writing the songs but throughout the album is a naturally occurring interplay. Julien’s sax plays long declamations without losing articulation. It is the sustained notes of a good idea that pops into one’s head naturally. There is a piano break that alternates between bright percussive single notes and chords, the snappy back and forth of perfect repartee.
“Aftermath”, written by Mike Nook is a freebop soundtrack for something ethereal. The nine tracks average about seven minutes in length. This is one of the longer tracks and its length allows it to become an elemental song. Little jetties of piano extend their fingers out into an ocean of contemplative sound. The saxophone see-saws between earth and sky all in rich mid-range tone.
To say that the ensemble is steeped in (modern) tradition would be to oversimplify the case. The past is not rejected but avoided is the effect of an old house with merely a new coat of paint. This album has staying power since there is no importance placed on shock of the new or gimmick/novelty. Everything unfolds with an organicness where emotion is not sacrificed for technique. It will be great fun to see what this ensemble offers up to the ears of listeners in the future.
Mike Nock Piano
Hamish Stuart Drums
Julien Wilson Tenor Saxophone
Jonathan Zwartz Double Bass
Maxwell Chandler Dec 2019
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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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To be a part of Paris is to have to occasionally deal with tourists. They go to the monuments and the museums to look at what they are supposed to.
Pre-internet and tablets, children would be given paints or colored paper as to amuse themselves in a constructive way. There was no demarcation line between (burgeoning) artist and “regular” child. Every child could paint and draw because there is an inherent freedom in that early age. The child artist practices their craft with a seriousness and ease. There is no need to give thought about how to earn one’s daily bread, only the creative process at hand is of importance.
It is said that a baby can swim, even in the deep end of the pool. There is the theory that this is because it still instinctually remembers the small floating world it had just left. Shortly after the nine-month mark, around the same amount of time it took to gestate, babies lose this ability. This is the start of limitations slowly learned.
In both cases, early age, children are tapped into that “other place” that true artists are able to have one-foot in. This is why artists like Picasso and Matisse realized the importance of trying to bring to the fore seemingly basic (crude) aspects of the visual as practiced by children. It was a method that could allow for a longer travel visa to that other place.
Picasso once said:
“It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child.”
Tourists go to the museums. They look at some of the great modern pieces by names familiar to them, even though the theories behind the work often are not.
Once back home, held in secret, sometimes even to themselves, is a slight disappointment with these great modern works. Mondrian looked like a bunch of colored squares anyone with a ruler could have done, Picasso, Modigliani like scribbles of a child.
We lost God to the gleaming lights of the city. A quick look around, a shrug of the shoulders and then, the ritualized ordering of the first round of drinks. The warm weather and the first friends in from out of town.
Despite everybody, to some degree, now listening to their music via a digital device, Paris still has some great record stores. I am asked for recommendations of things to pick up. There is a tactile pleasure to poking around a record store, making chance discoveries. It is different than stateside where music is downloaded or arrives at the front door in a smiling box.
When I was younger, I would recommend things that I felt were 100% indictive of me, who I was. In my enthusiasm and earnestness, I gave no thought to tempering my selections. Someone who was just delving into jazz or classical music must enter into it as one does a pool, a little at a time. To the uninitiated, Cecil Taylor or Milton Babbitt may very well sound like a child letting loose with percussive fury upon a Fisher Price toy instrument.
I have learned to keep these things in mind when jotting down a list with my ever-present Parker on a napkin for guests.
Each artist utilizes or spends time to varying degrees in that other place. Not every modernist is all discordance nor anthems from the tower of babel which one must learn to appreciate like oysters or fernet. Put a little time in to develop a palette and what initially might have seemed the childlike disruptions of noise is actually highly advanced art. The child hits his toy xylophone three times in quick succession with a plastic mallet, Morton Feldman allows the briefest smile to lift up his heavy black framed glasses. Both are trying to articulate what they had seen and been inspired by there.
Multi-instrumentalist Michael Attias has clearly had his passport for the other place stamped many times. His new album Echoes la Nuit excites with its murmuring of dreams. The album is a solo affair with the musician/composer playing alto and piano, impressively, with no overdubs nor studio wizardry.
It is that genre of modern jazz which is basically (modern) classical. To listen to this or Elliot Carter, Morton Feldman, Penderecki et al is to know that there is no huge leap necessary to see similarities. Not necessarily in all sounding the same but rather encompassing like all the best modern art, components of both the spiritual and cerebral. The slow trance like concentration gives way to moments of the ecstatic which can sometimes best be expressed by aural waves of dissonance.
“Echoes 1: Mauve” starts with a brief piano statement. The saxophone runs ascend in see-saw fashion upwards. The migration of something meant to live its life mostly in the air but is reluctant initially to do so. The piano is contemplation of flight and the blue silvered air itself. The natural reverb and warmth of the horn’s cadence is joy. While the piano at times has a pedaled echo, which adds a chime like delicacy.
“Sea in Dark” has a piano intro which are block like chunks of stygian thought, birthed at a march’s pace. The horn is elongated notes akin to steam escaping from the machine birthing the dense slabs. The horn’s cadence becomes warmer, the piano murmurs its consent. It’s all legato mystery. In this land, we will all dream different things but of the same emotional makeup. An aural metamorphism as the sea is likely to produce, the horn a reed-tongued pagan call. Then the piano, a fragile dissipation of the tangible.
There have been plenty of other multi instrumentalists who recorded themselves speaking in multiple voices simultaneously. Here, Michael does it to please himself giving no forethought to showing off his chops. This lends an organic feel which then in turn bolsters the emotional resonance. With the casual jazz listener or one whose journey into the artform is in its nascence, there is an apprehension towards or dislike for post-bop genres as they are felt (to them) as potentially “overly noodle(y)”. Given the nature of this recording, it never feels as if you are listening to someone with amazing skill merely practicing or showing off.
The best recordings solicit multiple listens, each time offering up some new little gift. With the music which has become most compelling to me, I can not listen to any album at any time (Kind of Blue being the exception to the rule). However, when the situation is right, the correct music being played is a joy. This album is a new favorite to which I will find myself going back to when I need what it offers. Always the right music for the right time.
The rain is hitting against the window in a series of hard knocks. I like sleeping when it rains but not out here on the couch as that can never be a celebration of happy to be alone, happy to be blue.
I open my eyes. It is not rain but the needle hitting against the last groove in the record which I had fallen asleep listening to.
Maxwell Chandler April’19
I travel a lot and I find myself in the same cities, always at the same times of year. I look out the window of my temporary studio. The day is ending and although I am shortly to be among others for drinks and shop talk, here in this city during this hour I always choose solitude.
Soon it will be dark and the city will wrap the delicate sheen of snow around itself, a thin veil put on in the false hope of a little warmth. I stand at the oversized window with my hands clasped behind my back in a painterly pose.
Now it comes, the hiss of the sun as it sinks down into the encroaching shadows on the outskirts of town, it is a requiem of sorts. I should think less in terms tinged with a finality. If I must stay within the parameters of a fatalisim, then perhaps it should be more akin to Strauss’ “Transfiguration” as to combine the beauty of finishes with poetics that never truly cease.
I had read an article once, the gist of which was that by the time one was old enough to appreciate things such as oysters, chanterelles and good single malts our taste buds are on the decline, not as vibrant as in our youth. An irony of taste, when we could more dynamically physically appreciate certain gastronomical sensualities we do not feel the appealing call of such things.
Age not only fosters culinary sophistication though. A much younger me in Vienna was going to the Zentralfriedhof cemetery in Vienna to see Beethoven’s grave which I thought the height of sophistication.
In my tunnel vision rush to see Herr Beethoven I tripped over the somber balanced cube of Schoenberg’s grave. Lifting my knee up, I shook the injured foot the way a cat does when first trying to walk after being given a bath. I did not take a moment to contemplate Schoenberg’s grave, not knowing then that down the corridor of time he would be far more important to me than Beethoven.
Youth or just starting out in one’s raison d’être does not automatically connotate lack of depth or substance however. Twenty-five years ago, in the nascence of his career bandleader/musician/composer Patrick Zimmerli created Shores Against Silence.
The album originally was passed around without any kind of official release ala variation on the migration of a bootleg. Now twenty-five years later Songlines Recordings has released it commercially as a companion piece to its current musical sibling, Clockworks.
It is a young work, an artist at the start of their career. However, Patrick eschews the inherent dangers of many works created during such a phase, the over fecundity of ideas which can slacken a work’s tension. There is the element of him wearing some of his influences on his sleeve but this is not meant as a pejorative statement.
Such 20th century composers as Elliot Carter and Charles Ives are easily seen to be Patrick’s artistic forefathers. The liner notes, which are informative in relaying the works’ genesis and history mention Carter. This is no mere lip service in putting forth one of the artistic banners under which he rallied. Many of the pieces would not be out of place on a program which included Carter (“Night Fantasy”, “Piano Concerto” or “Variations for Orchestra”).
The first five of the six tracks are programmatic. The album’s centerpiece is “The Paw” whose name was inspired by a slightly misconstrued concept of artist Marcel Duchamp (1887-1968). Duchamp had started out as a traditional canvas painter but quickly grew bored with the restrictions and expectations of the medium. He steadily shed what it meant to be an artist, how an artist was viewed and the definition of what was “art”. Concept and perception became key components of his work as he shed what in French is colloquially known as la patte (the paw, the discernable touch and voice of an artist). It was not about ridding the individual in art so much as fostering an inexhaustible freedom brought forth by abandoning long established precepts. This proves to be an apt title for the track as the music is genre defying, bursting forth Juno like from forward thinking jazz’s head.
“The Paw” begins with a lone descending bass, the piano merges into the introspection, both picking up the tempo, cajoled by the drummer’s cymbals. When the saxophone appears, it does not so much join in as with its long ethereal lines rise out of the contemplative air of the piece. The aspects of the piece changes but never feel Frankenstein(ed).
Patrick’s sax varies delivery of its emotional cadence via initially changing to rapid clusters of notes and then towards the end of the piece collaborative dissonance with the piano. The piece ends with the horn fluttering away on murmured breath and the soft chime of some final piano notes.
“Conceptualysis” was inspired by Pierre Boulez who stateside became better known as a conductor. Initially though he was one of the young lion composers though who took a cue from the freedom first hard won by the likes of Schoenberg and Stravinsky.
Boulez’s early work was dense and contemplative, aspects of which are utilized in Patrick’s composition. Percussion heralds the piece’s start, the sound of something tumbling, animating everything that it comes into contact with as it slowly tumbles downward.
There are frequent tempo changes which lend a protean air to the piece. The bass is the steady purple-blue of a night sky over a city whose ambient source of illumination is not visible. The luminescence is mirrored by the jagged angular slashes of saxophone.
Within all of this teetering on the verge or discordance the piece leaps in and out of aspects of what would more traditionally be thought of as a jazz piece.
The bright rapid chime of piano is the path dissolving under one’s feet regardless of whether they wish to go up or downtown.
The middle section features a rolling effect percussion punctuated by ringing of piano. Cresting atop this pattern is the saxophone which eventually finds itself left alone to murmur of its journey. The piece ends with a sudden sped up tempo and shout of finish from the saxophone.
A compliment and endorsement which I can give Patrick, and his works, is the fact that this early work makes me want to seek out his recent ones to see how he has built off of these ideas; what has been added to and what has been dropped.
The sessions were originally recorded on DAT tapes, copies of which made the rounds or New York downtown/loft scene. While getting hold of them back then must have been exciting as it would feel to be a membership into a secret club Songline Records has done a great job with issuing it officially. The sound has warmth and intimacy. The liner notes are informative in explaining the ideas behind the works. The cover image looks like a Rothko slowly moving through a light fog.
In my last few articles I have delved into artists whose works are genre defying. With a possible encroaching zeitgeist which could look down upon or even curtail freedom it is important that we foster it where and whenever we encounter it. While also not forgetting that freedom is not necessarily about rebelling but equally about taking advantage of all of the things which are available to us.
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There is a whisper in my heart, echoing down a dead end street full of disregarded desires. The brief moments in which we allow ourselves to enjoy the small pleasures of life are akin to a treasure that is never accrued. I had not been intent upon anything other than dipping my toe, swimming in the stream of life for a few hours before once again taking up the pen.
She sat a few stools down from me with no other strangers between us serving as a buffer zone. I watched her absent mindedly in much the same way one would contemplate a painting in an empty museum. The ice in my drink was the priceless gem that I wanted to give her.
We talked. Our taste in literature was too different for one of us to not appear as judgmental. Switching to music, I nearly appeared more closed minded than I am by thumbing my nose at the mention of certain standards that she enjoyed.
Collecting our glasses with a smile, the bartender found a good luck charm for the night. Eventually though, the empty glass will look like all the others. The velocity of her kiss made me dizzy, carrying me home quicker than she could hold me.
I lay on my side, looking at the elongated reflection of myself in the goldfish bowl which I kept on the night table for emptying my change into. In these fleeting hours before dawn I am made pure once again by my solitude, an encroaching ecstasy as experienced by the lonely.
The sun rises and I walk on the first few pale rays which pierce through the window into the kitchen to make some coffee.
I sit at my desk since my stomach is not yet ready for toast. The coffee is strong and hot, its seeming perfection making me feel that it should be accompanied by some music. I reach for the new release by Greg Murphy, Summer Breeze. I do sometimes miss records with their soft pop, a fire about to start that would precede the music, regardless of genre.
In thinking of our conversation last night, I had known from the get-go that she was right but had been interested in hearing her defense of standards and covers.
Regardless of how far afield one goes in life or geographically, we carry our homes in the music that we listen to and the food that we cook. There can be a favorite dish, cooked over the course of traveling or a lengthy stay somewhere. The ingredients and equipment used to execute the dish may vary but the essence remains the same. Songs too are like that, whether by the original artist played over the span of a career or their peer(s) for whom it provided inspiration.
The inspiration emanating from one artist to another. When not used as a lazy shorthand, this is what is meant when an artist’s name is used to describe another’s tone or way of playing.
Greg over the course of his career has played in all different types of ensembles. Some of his influences are detectable but in a way which makes him an artistic “son of” as opposed to mere stylistic parroting. For his new release his choice of material is a mix of originals along with some covers whose style resonates simpatico with the program of music.
The players on the CD are his regular band along with some guest stars to expand the ensemble’s sonic possibilities.
‘Fall”, a great Wayne Shorter tune, retains the spirit of the original while letting his bands’ identity shine through. I have always been a fan of Greg’s playing on slower pieces as it really gives one a feel for his cadence, his crystalline tink-plink. For this piece he utilizes space in a way that it is as important as what he is actually playing. An intentional stutter of beauty. This is one of the pieces which features Josh Evans on trumpet. His tone is mid ranged and round. There is an unhurried elegance to it, all soft angles of a night where no matter what happens, it will be good.
“Tsk” is an original, written by Greg. It starts off as a sort of sanctified lament that slowly unfurls into a three-way conversation, murmured by keyboard, bowed bass and trumpet. The piece if not suite like in construction, is so in intent with its shifting moods and tempos all; revolving around an established aural theme. A beautiful mid-section showcases Eric Wheeler’s vociferous bass pulses and drones over Kush Abadey’s brush and cymbal work. When Greg returns to the song his keyboard serves as punctuation marks for sentences of varying length exclaimed by trumpet and staccato bass. Elements of fusion when it was not overblown are incorporated into the second half of the song. All the sonic forward motion is brought to an end by the squeak of a trumpet and piano strings being caressed so that they sigh akin to a hand dulcimer.
“Cedar Salad” is another original written by Greg. It has late era hard bop in its DNA. Eric Wyatt sits in on saxophone and the interplay among the musicians never betrays that he is not a regular member of the band. It is a cooker without having to resort to merely playing off of (blues) heads. There are some great lines played in unison by trumpet and saxophone. A fullness of sound exists on this piece which despite a quicker tempo, never lapses into mere cacophony.
Malou Beauvoir does guest vocals on several tracks including the cd’s namesake. The most successful track is a cover of Duke Ellington’s “Sophisticated Lady“. This song has been often recorded both as an instrumental and with vocals. While there are many amazing versions, it is a standard that does not have the one definitive singer/version. Despite familiarity with the song, part of its unending brilliance is to serve as fertile ground for each singer to make to it what they will, a sonic Rorschach test.
The song starts at a slow tempo with muted trumpet shadowing the vocal lines. Malou has a strong voice which never lapses into an over showy dinner theater cadence. It is lower and warm, sometimes verging on horn-like. Both the ability of the band and the singer make it an organically perfect fit.
Rather than trying to make the song her own or sing it in the manner of one of her predecessors had, her approach is to do a highly enjoyable execution.
The last half of the song has a quicker tempo accompanied by a latin tinged feel. Some may feel it an odd choice to what is often interpreted as a paean to melancholy, however the original version was instrumental (1932) and had a sunnier program having been inspired by three of Duke’s teachers that would summer in Europe. The song ends with Malou who splits her time between Belgium, Paris and New York murmuring in French.
Summer Breeze is Greg’s debut for the label Whaling City Sound. The sonics are spot on with nice ambient warmth throughout.
I drink coffee, the ink flows the music plays. Each sentence is a kingdom. Those things left unsaid, the words which lay in wait, the space between the heavens to be revisited again and again like a good song.
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Coming in from lunch as always, unless it is nighttime and I have finished working, I am alone. In my solitude I remain silent, not feeling the need to make a show of how tired I am after my long walk back on a full stomach.
A plump fly sits on the edge of the bed, perhaps confusing the brown duvet for soil. Like me, he wants only to take an hour or two to sleep in the warm sun. When I stir, no matter how fast he flies away, later on I will still manage to capture him with my prose.
I must be careful though, to not metamorphose him into a type of insect which could bite and make me sick.
Not too long with my head down and I wake up having left my food stupor behind. I work for a few hours, the words mount up in pleasant cascades which make me giddy until everything seems to be covered in ink and one would have to lie on their belly to write on what remained of the whiteness of the wall.
Now I can go out and work up an appetite, accompanied depending upon what pattern of people the city is wearing, by the heat of desire.
I grab my book bag from its place by the door. Locking up I take the stairs and pat my pocket three times for luck. Once I own a home I will keep the keys on an oval brass keychain as would have been handed to any gumshoe in an old film.
I will still travel the world and even though I would not need it again until I was once more home, no matter where I was, I would keep it in my pocket letting it weigh my coat down on the left side. After becoming used to the weight and learning to keep my pen in my right pocket as to prevent any knocking together with the brass, I would not even need to go home. I would carry it with me, embodied by the brass in my pocket.
Amy did not understand why I did not merely buy the so often described keyring instead of the ordeal of working towards becoming a home owner of which she suspected contributed to my moodiness. No, no. It was a phony faith which I feared. An act, such as just totting around the keychain, was a pantomime of satiated ambition.
The poet in me once said during a party by way of dramatically filling in a dull silence that we carry our homes in our hearts, particularly with the food we cook and the songs we sing.
A correlation between cooking and music, specifically jazz is that one can have a recipe but then depending upon location, available ingredients and even mood there are changes or improvisations made from the established conception. Just as a musician may improvise off of “Melancholy Baby” so too can it occur with a pot of gumbo or Coq Au Vin.
Stylistically, whether it is food or music sometimes there is a sea change within the creator which is not about rejecting the familiar ancestry but building off of it to create something new but still containing recognizable components.
The debut of John Schott’s new album and trio Actual Trio travels along such lines. The trio’s set up is that of a classic guitar trio, this familiar ground serves as a sort of jumping off point. The material on the album is all original compositions. While not a radical stylistic departure from its trio forefathers neither is there any museum glass stagnation.
“Frequently asked Questions” has a laconic strolling quality to its structure. There is an almost programmatic feel to the piece. Me, someone, flapping madly the lapels of my raincoat as I hit the street. Daydreams and inspirations as befitting a flaneur. Within the DNA of the piece are elements of Grant Green and Wes Montgomery combined within a generation also equally exposed to rock, blues and modernist composers such as Babbitt, Berio and Schoenberg.
John’s tone is a clean sound akin to the cadence of those from vintage Fender Guitars. Throughout the album he eschews use of effects to alter or gild his instruments voice. The interplay among the musicians is immediately apparent and made more impressive by the fact that the entire album was recorded live in the studio in one session, without overdubbing. All the playing is top notch yet there is never the distraction of overly fussy to mire things down.
“Hold On Sheldon” is a sort of samba as if done by James Brown late at night when a good portion of the band has gone home. The varying components within the piece show what big ears the trio has. The bright punch of John’s guitar declaiming single note runs, a Morse code to get funky morphs into bent string chiming; the mission bell in the land of the blues calling people in for catharsis or to dance. John Hanes drums do not merely keep time nor add density to the piece but provide a sort of forward thrust feeling. Especially starting at the midway point to the song. He incorporates intricate polyrhythms and touches of louder rock leaning heaviness, underscoring that is not merely a lead voice being backed by two others.
“Egyptians” starts off with the guitar peppering Dan Seaman’s rich bass pattern. The initial tempo suggests an air of slinky contemplation. A descending guitar pattern followed by a brief series of volcanic rumblings and the tempo and general feel of the song drastically changes. The funk of a Saturday night circa the late seventies. The trio lock into a deep groove. If we are not fighting or crying then we should be dancing said a neo-Greek chorus from atop their barstools. The trio show an inherent taste regardless of the tempo or tempo changes in a song. Absent is any kind of stylistic Achilles’ heel in regards to performance ability.
The entire CD finds great interplay among the musicians. With the manner in which the CD was recorded, it has a great organic, warm sound. Who these musicians are may change down the line with time or travel. This CD offers a compelling snapshot of their here and now, well worthwhile.
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She told me to always shake everything out, towels, clothes and shoes, before using them as the spiders made temporary homes in the creases of things at night attracted by the warmth. I did not know how much veracity there was in this but the other morning while shaving I had seen a spider crawl out of the skirt that she had left on the bathroom floor.
Her sister was sick and she had to go and help her out. Occasionally it is good to sweetly suffer the blues induced by finding oneself alone. The rawness makes all sensations both good and bad more acute and the inherent poetics of everything rise to the fore.
Late at night, two empty bottles clang. It is the pantomime of an amour as the bag that they are in comes to rest on some side street next to a dumpster. Footfalls like applause, the last man left in the theater who refuses to leave until he is sure that he has seen everything.
I wondered if thoughts could have a sound. And if they did, would they vary from person to person? To be even more specific, did the type of thought dictate its sound? For the erotic, a breeze like sigh, work, the metallic clang of a steam driven piston.
While just a cerebral meandering to while away what hours remained until dawn, it did present the concept of the personal/universal aspects of a thing. This concept could easily be applied to art. The best art in any medium shares this property. It is embraced and treasured by many over the course of generations yet for each person, it has somewhat of an individualized meaning which resonates in a personal way.
Miles Davis (May 26, 1926 – September 28, 1991) is one artist whose oeuvre has touched many people deeply and personally. His many fans can all agree on his greatness yet the reason why varies for each person. Blues for Miles by pianist/arranger Greg Murphy offers up evidence of this personal/universal effect.
The album is no mere stylistic homage but a way in which to show some of what Miles meant to him not via the work’s structure but rather in mood and spirit. The album’s program is a mix of standards and originals which along with the band’s interplay keeps things interesting.
“My Shinning Hour” starts the album off. This standard from the pen of perennial Great American Songbook scribes Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer was originally for the film “The Sky’s the Limit” (1943) but is probably best known to jazz fans through the John Coltrane cover. John Coltrane’s version from the album Coltrane Jazz (Atlantic Records 1961) marked the first appearance on record of his classic quartet.
Greg eschews any comparison by injecting heavy Bossa Nova inflections. With a fat mid-range tone the trumpet maintains the familiar melody while all around him dances percussion and drum flourishes. The perfect foil which meshes with the horn while not becoming merely a twin is the low end bass groove. The piano breaks are lyrical and like the rest of the song, fun. Punctuated with whistle and percussion breaks one finds themselves suddenly thinking of carnival and the softly murmured innuendos of the sun.
“Brother Can You Spare a Dime?” is taken as a solo piece. It shows the contemplative aspect of Greg’s playing. Written by E.Y Harburg and Jay Gorney (1930) for the musical Americana it was in the vernacular of the depression, portraying the broken possibilities of the once seemingly limitless potential for every American. Despite the Republican right thinking it “Red” propaganda and trying to have it cut from the show it remained and continued on well after the depression in the lexicon of great standards.
Greg is no stranger to this song having previously (2012) recorded it as the theme song for the HBO documentary “Redemption”. We all get down but not every musician can play the blues. Greg displays an authenticity not in any specific blues-based structure but in an organic soulfulness.
There is a power to the performance deriving from simplicity which is not meant in a pejorative way. Any attempt at doing a deconstruction or re-imagining are avoided in favor of a straight reading which allows the song’s inherent power and Greg’s voice to come through unadorned and without any distraction. Tinged with melancholy but bearable on account of its beauty, it is a rainy day with all the leaves of the trees dripping silvered jewels.
“Hat Trick” is another original. It is free jazz not in the genre sense but in the band allowing different components from several genres to meld without concern of adhering to any specific formula. The band on this album is comprised of musicians with whom Greg has a history, having played together in various incarnations. This song has a slow burn, offering up permanent evidence of how much fun the ensemble would be in a live situation.
The start of the song finds the bass releasing deep drone like pulses. The brush and cymbal work on the percussion is the whispered encouragement to do something interesting and in nocturnal colors. When the piano initially enters, softly, it sounds almost akin to an older model keyboard so valued by today’s turnbulists. Soon though it is metamorphosis into grander, fractured ivories playing in elliptical patterns which mirror that of the bass, punctuating its own pattern with rapid asides.
The trumpet and tenor saxophone are two long things which entangle even as the stretch out, wisps of smoke, coils of rope or deeply abstracted thoughts. As the piece continues on the front line of horns separate with the trumpet then tenor taking solos which would not sound out of place on the Impulse label of the 1960’s.
A dramatic cohesiveness is created not because all the musicians play in unison but because each of the smaller patterns executed within the piece bolster the others.
This album is no mere tribute nor does it seek to concern itself with offering up the next artistic evolutionary step. Instead it displays what inspirations one generation of artists gleamed from another. An informal meditation on the enjoyment from works that we find ourselves constantly going back to, something which we can all relate to in our own way.
More information on Greg: http://www.jazzintensity.com/
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My writing going out in the world, I know it is merely a matter of personal perception but it seems to go further when the notes become separated from one another. Each paragraph takes up residency in a different piece.
The cat laying by the fountain and the sound of her broom on the steps both captured by my pen on the same day and sharing a page in my notebook. Once utilized they live many miles apart as one goes to an essay while the other in a poem.
All the words circle the globe, they create the lines of a special map as groups of words come together to form countries with names like;
“Bar at night…”
“That girl from then…”
“Regret from a lack of tears.”
No nation’s borders have straight lines of demarcation, although some do more so than others owing to the suppleness of certain words and their groupings.
I take long walks and talk to myself about the nature of what goes into any given work. Picasso once told Andre Malraux that he dreamed his “Bull” sculpture, which was the skeletal head of the animal made up of a bicycle seat for skull and handlebars for horns, would one day have a reverse birth. Like watching a film run backwards, the parts would subtly vibrate, then shake and then detach from one another. Jumping out the window each would separately place themselves back on the frame of some bicycle, where their former prestige unnoticed, they would go back to carrying out their original functionality.
I imagined the similar magical motion behind the absorption of my notes into various pieces. The sea change that the words underwent from their birth in a reporter pad into something less functional but perhaps grander in some people’s eyes.
With the vision of the Toro behind me, my inner dialogue on this day was the nature of influence and components which make up any work of art.
It has been written that the twin wellsprings of all modern (Western) classical music flows from Igor Stravinsky (1882 –1971) and Arnold Schoenberg (1874 –1951). With the passage of time, these two influences have not waned but in some cases have occurred via a ripple effect, the influenced composers in turn influencing the following generations.
Even for these two composers, neither of them started off fully realized as the artists whom countless people would treasure. And once their artistic identities were fully gestated, there was still a near constant evolution occurring. The forms of inspiration offered up by these two were the foundation to build off of or reject, spurring on further explorations. Their different theories and techniques taken apart, cannibalized to reappear in new forms, like The Bull.
Modern jazz has had many similarities with modern classical music. In both cases diverse components from traditional folk/ethno-world and previously established cannon have been utilized and mixed to varying degrees with the aural vernacular of the day along with each composers own voice. Creating something new, yet linked to what came both before and after.
Both jazz and modern classical have had instances of cross pollination within their genres and with each other. As both genres were ever evolving, they have conveyed an aural shorthand for capturing the zeitgeist of progress.
Although non-populist music stateside is largely marginalized in regards to where the casual listener can discover (or see live) works which do not strictly adhere to a genre, in some ways it is a golden age for creating uneasy to define works. Now artists need not restrict themselves from where they cull influences and inspiration. Cologne musician/composer Jurgen Friedrich’s new release Monosuite (For String Orchestra and improvisers) is more a classical piece with improvised solos than a jazz album. Yet in this age we need not worry about coming up with a too exacting classification.
Jurgen draws from not only a myriad of musical influences and inspirations but painters and nature as well. All perfectly apropos given the visual feel to the piece.
The structure of the work is a suite which is non-programmatic. The orchestra is made up of strings with the improvised solos of bass, alto saxophone, piano and drums. The lack of a brass or woodwind section allows for the episodic nature of the suite to subtly present itself to the listener.
“Waves” begins with a lush swell of strings, sonorous cello and viola above which crystalline waves of violin rise. This is a good example of the subtle colorations of the score. There is a reoccurrence throughout; a sort of ambient vibration(s) as one may experience when looking at the color field paintings of Marc Rothko or during a long good conversation.
“Breaks” is mainly the fluttering breath of flute punctuated by the occasional emergence of the orchestra. It is meditative beauty, the soft wind which hits the cheeks as one catches themselves standing in contemplation of an abstract.
“Fiddlesticks” has a great drum pattern accompanied by strings which conjure up a North African feel. These colorations strive for the rigid confines of authenticity to the place from where they came but as an added influence to be incorporated into the esprit de corps. The melody takes on a sort of rolling motion, rolling the way the dunes do across a dessert and over which can faintly be heard the glissando of piano and above that, horn.
“Blossom” starts with strings building into a wave of tension. The shrill violins are a rope or wire about to break, the crooked looping cello the voice warning that they are about to do so. The string is broken and there is a fall through the roof into a lopsided cabaret where the piano attempts to intermittently gallop away when the discordant voice of the horn is distracted by the ratchet like percussion. The bass becomes both the front door opening and closing and the footsteps of the patrons many of whom wear ill-fitting hats. The flute is a type of nocturnal peace as can be achieved in such places at a late hour, not necessarily real but believed. This section marks the introduction of discordant elements. I would not say they are necessary but their presence with their piquant cacophony serves to underscore the lushness of the more out right beautiful sections.
“Low Tide” is my favorite section. It has an elliptical flute breathing over the tinkling of a piano. It is a predawn Gotham, someone practicing in their fourth floor walkup or softly talking to themselves via the ivories. There are swells of strings and the rumble of bass, so much concrete resettling in its predawn coolness. The percussion is the rattle of found objects, umbrella skeletons with their spindly metal bones now bereft of any fabric, empty cans which lost the fight and with their middle dented in now have a V for the victory of their opponent. All tripping up or being kicked away by a lone flaneur. Walking alone at night, gently enfolded in the wings of the city, I want to wear a suit the color of yesterday but will settle for a peace nestled in discordance.
The suite ends with “Weave” which is not a summing up but more the mirror twin of the first section. Where our entry into the suite was lush, this last section is densely beautiful and of a darker hue. There is short bursts of strings, their humming a code converging with flinty notes of piano. Cello conjuring up the ghost of Boccherini’s nights mark a change in the sections cadence. Percussion and piano mirror the pattern of the strings before flute, piano and bass delicately add solos which stay inside the melody.
In his composition Jurgen never falls back on repetition to move onto the next idea or to merely fill space. All the soloists make statements in the end, the effect is of individuals running into a crowd, joining it and then continuing on at the same brisk pace from within it. The close of the suite, the strings drop away and it is all soft murmurings and plinkings, the symmetry of beauty.
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Lying on my back, I raise my left arm parallel to the edge of the bed. The square of sunlight which comes in the late afternoon…
In October it is golden with an almost greenish tinge to it. Always, it is quickly retreating after only offering a stage for my shadow puppets for a mere twenty minutes before the elongated square then sinks back into the rest of the wall.
Dawn too may have offered a brief theater but I was rarely awake to observe if it was so.
I look best in bar-light and so tried to bathe myself in it as often as possible. This trick of light also encompassed the perception of time. Regardless of how long I held myself absent, none of the stool vultures noticed. Conversations and arguments could easily be picked up again as if they had just been started the previous night.
I spend a lot of time in my head giving my life currency via obeying Socrates’s old adage. Sandra noticed my lack of presence as I became wrapped up in a project. She insisted I go out with her, adding the prerequisite that it be some place free of other distractions or crowds in which I could camouflage myself.
A home cooked meal, the preparation for which painted my shirt that I changed right before her arrival. Offered up, a heavy pasta meal whose execution and richness induced a near sensual stupor. We talked, the music played and as I remained an active participant it all remained dreamily peaceful.
However, as good as the evening was she knew that there was every reason to believe that tomorrow would find me once again solitarily soaring through the air on notepad wings at the expense of all else not birthed from the barrel of my Waterman. She wanted to squeeze as much of my attention out of the night as possible.
We went for a walk. I choose an area which I did not usually find myself in as to avoid the transmutation of this evening into just another night. There was a diner, whether mere ritual or the heaviness of the meal, I desired a coffee even though most likely it would not be any good. Sandra was fine, so I go it to go.
A small park. We sit in the empty bandstand. I drink smoldering coffee from a cardboard cup while Sandra smoked one of her endless, last cigarettes.
The bandstand sits in meditation on the ghosts of Duke, Basie, Kenton and a then young modern America. As for myself, I think of Nathan. He had driven a taxi for thirty years, big band music providing the soundtrack. Not necessarily wisdom but the desire for a minor immortality is the catalyst of one generation telling the next their stories. A lot of Nathan’s anecdotes centered on the time of his youth. Whether this was because he thought I would relate better or because it was the more interesting time in his life, I never knew.
There was his pal who had lost an arm in the war but afterwards continued to drive his taxi that was affectionately known as “The one arm bandit”, countless get rich quick schemes involving silver mines and commercial tuna boats that had nearly paid off and a general excitement which kept his taxi circling the city well after hope of obtaining fares was gone as he was afraid that he would miss something where he to merely go home and go to bed.
The stories I never tired off. The music he tried to share did not do much for me; I was pure into the then new to me, bop and would not appreciate it for many years and by then he would be long gone.
I initially when I finally got into Duke, it was his later recordings on Columbia which were closer for my ears to the modern jazz I had been cutting my teeth on. From this I traveled backwards in his catalog and then outwards, exploring and embracing his peers.
I grew big ears, listening to music from every era and genre, the who and what depending upon my mood. I gained an affection and knowledge of big band.
From the early 1950’s on, while no longer the soundtrack for youth, the big band genre continued past its cultural reign. It was not merely nostalgia, a mere few remaining bands playing the favorites at festivals, the genre continued to evolve well past the inception of bop, albeit it outside of mainstream attention.
Overall, modern jazz, while supplanting big band from its previously held cultural position did make the incorporation of largely previously unutilized components such as Western classical and world music easier to incorporate.
People like Mel Lewis/Thad Jones Orchestra, Gil Evans, Charles Mingus (not big band per see but amazing large ensemble writing with some Duke in his DNA) and Bob Brookmeyer continued evolving the genre well past what had been its era utilizing palettes which were no longer limited in the way their artistic predecessors had been due to commercial or other consideration.
For big band and large ensemble music it would seem that now would be a golden age to be a musician/composer as there are not limitations to where one can draw influence from nor what can be incorporated into a work. However there is neither the widespread innovation nor evolution as one would expect from such freedom.
Once in a while there are little flashes of something, the power of it being real as it comes neither from gimmick or novelty.
Jon Armstrong’s new jazz orchestra album Farewell offers something new but clearly built off of what had come before him.
The ensemble is made up of woodwinds, trumpets low brass and percussionists. The first track “Ardnave”, begins with a foundation of percussion and trumpets playing in unison a theme which has an Iberian peninsula feel to it without it ever lapsing into ethno caricature.
After a solo trumpet statement there comes a percussion break. This section really puts forth the warmth of the album’s sonics. The album’s sound is very good with an ambient warmth which I will take any day over a cold digital, pristine perfection. Recorded in a school in North Hollywood (California) the artist and engineer clearly understood how to utilize the room. After the percussion break comes a section with clarinet. It has a mild klezmer feel to it. The contrast between clarinet and the swell of brass is enjoyable. The clarinet’s voice, a rich woody shade as found in the forest, the trees’ canopy broken here and there by the shafts of sunlight brass.
With a lot of larger contemporary ensembles, regardless of how good the players are and how forward thinking the charts, there is always that effect of garnering a suspicion that the band sounds better live. The overall warmth of this recording keeps that feeling at bay throughout the length of the entire album.
“Fool of Me” starts with a legato, split reed murmuring and is a perfect example of the intimacy of Farewell’s cadence. The lone horn is joined by other voices in a plaintive lament. The low brass roils in contrast to the bass and saxophone which remain delicately buoyant in a duet. Slowly a near vocalese trumpet speaks its piece as the rest of the ensemble add an underlying richness. I enjoy the density of this composition which is kept from feeling overly heavy by achieving its mass through the emerging and reduction of various instruments in smaller groups within the group.
“Dream Has No Friend” begins with horns in unison laying out slowly descending lines. After a low end march is introduced there are some subtle tempo shifts accompanied by varied orchestral colorations. Rising out of the aural miasma, the trombone lays out long lines upon which the piano and clarinet intermittently appear all voices unified by a slight waltz like rhythm.
The clarinet has chime like echoes accompanying it upon its initial introduction which makes for a unique and compelling sonic contrast. Towards the end of the piece the rest of the ensemble comes in, an impasto effect. The work ends with the deep brass reduced down and once again in a descending pattern.
Jon’s work does not strictly adhere to genre formula(s) and the entire album is all the more better for it. It stands up to repeated listenings. It has substance but is never so forward thinking as to turn off the more casual listener. The CD comes in gatefold packing with a liner note booklet.
For more information on Jon
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Coming out of the shower a bunch of components, nothing exotic but combined in a ratio that would be impossible to intentionally replicate, created an ambient perfume. It called forth not specific memories but more an emotional abstract which was familiar. The futility of memories, smoke that briefly takes on the shape of something else, blowing back apart as one tries to hold it in their hands. This is yesterday’s tomorrows, now already spent up.
The city of light, she was everything to me and too soon I would once again be temporarily leaving her. Perhaps that was one of the reasons for my unending desire to always return; I never got to gorge myself to the extent that I thought that I was capable.
Once I was down to a day or two before leaving I could not sit still as my body was caught up in contrary motions, not wanting to leave but also with an encroaching time of departure looming, wishing I could just get it over with. I had been invited over to Margeaux’s for a last dinner. Under the best conditions I was a finicky eater with home cooked meals made by others and that was not taking into account my current nerves. I actually liked cooking as I found it meditative but I did not want to offer up that idea as I was trying to use up what was left in the refrigerator and a dinner guest would mean more food shopping. The logistics of the whole thing was beginning to feel an inconvenience to me, especially as when not taking my final turn as a flâneur, all I wanted to do was sit around in my bathrobe eating eggs and listening to some Jelly Roll Morton while devouring every inch of my arrondissement with my eyes as to have total recall of even the smallest brick when away from it all. I tried to beg off, offering up vague promises of a drink somewhere.
Knowing the way I operated she insisted that we meet for dinner as otherwise she could miss me until my eventual return or find me surrounded by too many other well-wishers at one of my favorite watering holes. What could I say?
She liked to wear the little hat that she had bought in Italy with the dark green veil as she felt this gave her the gift of prophecy. Too late to warn Icarus to change his flight she headed to Saint Michelle, bringing her smaller pocketbook since she need only carry her keys and some money for drinks.
I had grumbled to myself all day about our dinner date but on the way there, the lights spilling out into the streets, the plaques which I now knew so well, each denoting which artist had lived in a building, worked to remind me of how wonderful even the commonplace in this city is. Aside from the obvious of one last long walk all around the neighborhoods that go from mine down to the Seine I now wanted an act of communion and valentine with the city. The only solution was to order everything on the menu and hope that she saw the sensuality of it. We talked and ate, one act spurring the other on. I helped her on with her jacket, she turned around and held me in an embrace as we kissed goodbye. There was now an undertone of the gastronomic in her perfume. Of course we would write or at the very least mean to.
I take my walk. I pass a small bar, it is crowded but I feel compelled to go in. Once inside there is just enough room to blink. At the far end of the room is a kid standing on a spot of floor playing an alto saxophone. He is accompanied by an upright bassists who must dip his instrument like a tango partner anytime someone needing to use the restroom or the waitress goes by.
They are young but play with feeling and a clear understanding of the bop genre. All the people crowded into the place generate a heat yet there is none of that rude aggression as can be found in such situations elsewhere. The front of the bar has two sort of bay window alcoves that normally house small café tables which had earlier been moved to the side of the bar to serve as a staging area for the dirty glasses accumulating. These empty alcoves allowed more people to come in and stand in the tables spot. I stay for a few songs, Bud Powell and Bird. I could not have left even if I had wanted to as there was a score of people now behind be. All the heat and bodies, the windows begin to bulge outwards a ship catching the wind and about to set sail. More people come in; one girl by the door thinks she sees some friends ahead and to the left of me. As the people try to part to make way for her I swim towards the door before the small tributary closes.
The cool air revives me. Tendrils of music make their way out onto the street, lingering over the crowd smoking by the door waiting their chance to squeeze in. I begin one of my last walks back, taking the long way that brings me by one of the edges of the Luxembourg Gardens. I know I will not be around for it but I stop to look at the concert schedule for Le Petite Journal anyways. It is mostly Dixieland bordering on hot, jazz.
The small program taped to the door gets me to thinking. From what F. Scott Fitzgerald tapped his toes to, all the way into the late 70’s fusion which some wish had never happened, jazz in all its incarnations is alive and well in Paris. A few blocks away were the kids listening to bop who tomorrow may be here listening to some Bechet or over in Montmartre to dance music under the flashing neon in a club. Of course distinctions are made between the myriad of genres but the fans here seem to have more open ears, not limiting their listening habits to any one specific style.
The musical choices available and the dichotomy of people’s listening habits here get me to thinking. When writing about jazz, just as a point of reference labels must be attached to a work/musician. As practical as this practice is, there is a certain level of stagnation about it as once something is labeled, the verbiage creates a specific set of expectations and artistic limitations.
Musically there are some interesting things going on stateside which one could call underground, not necessarily because of musical obscurity but from lack of interest or promotion by major labels and more importantly, the availability (exposure) to the more casual listeners who do not often seek out what is not right in front of them.
The term mainstream now carries a pejorative connotation as it conjures up all things plebian, fare for the lowest common denominator not in the know. Founded in 1969 by Manfred Eicher, the label ECM has always had a roster of artists whose work not only straddles genre boundaries but often ignores them. ECM is mainstream not for lacking substance in what they offer but in that works on the label are readily available almost anywhere. The music and the distinguished cover art often receive awards worldwide. Talent aside, part of the labels success is in the diversity of work offered up which renders irrelevant the question and the importance of asking “is it jazz”. Much of what is on the label could comfortably be considered world or modern classical.
Extended Circle is the new offering from the Tord Gustavsen Quartet. Often if an album is not comprised of standards or covers, I like to listen to it the first time without having read the liner notes. A measure of artistic success is if one listens to a work and the emotions and inner visions experienced while listening match up to the artist’s intent. Extended Circle is a programmatic work which incorporates aspects of Scandinavian folk art, gospel and choral works. Immediately even when the source material of folk songs such as the traditional Norwegian song “Eg Veit I Himmerik Ei Borg” is transmuted into Tord’s own vernacular the overall sense of emotional unity for the album comes clearly through.
“Right There” is a personal favorite. Stripped of any mysticism, déjà vu is said to be the recognition of an emotional response one has had before, usually triggered on subconscious level by stimulus of a similar nature to the original thought or reaction. There is something vaguely familiar about the chord progression and the lyrical way in which the music quietly undulates. This could be some of the components of source material which Tord drew from, many choral and spiritual pieces sharing at least some sonic commonalities. There is a sense of tension achieved in how the music builds organically and slowly akin to the sun starting a new day. There is a lyricism prevalent throughout the entire album and of which this song perhaps is the most indicative of.
The piece begins with the piano gently stating the theme but not so delicate as to make it ever lapse into muted abstractions. It is bolstered by the pulse of brushed drums which serve to underscore the melody. The introduction of the double bass which plays the theme but not the exact melody in sync with the piano is akin to a dialogue between the two. Not so much as duet but as two people talking about the same thing as they comment on different aspects of it. The song ends on an ethereal note with the fading out of the final ringing notes of the piano.
The album is all original songs predominantly written by Tord with the exceptions being “Entrance” and its variation which was a collective effort, “Bass Transition” by bassist Mats Eilersten and the previously mentioned “Eg Veit..” which is a traditional song , here arranged by Tords. As always with any ECM release, the sound is pristine.
“Silent Space” with its soft (solo) tinkling piano has a contemplative spirituality. With its circular pattern, it feels a reflection about what one may occasionally muse upon, the soul and that which feeds and inspires it, which are forever locked into a similar circular pattern of give and take. This piece really shows off the richness of the production. The fullness of sound achieved by the lone piano is timeless not in regards to the era it belongs to but in the space it occupies from a clock’s point of view.
“The Prodigal Song” has a similar cadence to the first piece, both nicely bookending the album to further an overall suite like feel to the songs. There is an encompassing spiritual aspect to this album whose power is non dogmatic, the importance being not on a specific place or recitation of words but one of contemplation. Spirituality, different for us all but arising from the commonalty within each of us, to let our thoughts wander to the infinite.
Musically, there is no longer any wars, one need not take sides, bop versus the moldy figs or the free jazz(ers). No longer do any musical adherents of a specific genre care if one strays in their listening habits. This combined with the far easier availability of diverse and obscure works via the internet should free everybody up to explore. Load up your MP3 player or tablet with unknown works and become sonic Magellan.
The morning of my departure, instead of the gentle singing of the bird in my window box which I had grown accustomed to and which along with the sound of the bakeries grates sliding up served to herald the start of a new day, there was a crow perched atop the utmost corner of a building screaming at the dawn. A pagan ritual for leaving to replace that of the daily start.
More information on Tord: http://www.tordg.no/trio/
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