Posts Tagged review
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.
More information on Jurgen
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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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Earl MacDonald is a music educator (Jazz Studies; University of Connecticut), composer/arranger and musician (piano). Mirror of The Mind is his fifth album as leader, in which he continues his exploration of combining a diversity of outside influences and inspiration while still feeding off of jazz’s rich history.
The ensemble is a quartet comprised of piano, multi reedist Kris Allen, Christopher Hoffman on cello and Rogerio Boccato on percussion. It is a little bit of a different line up for a quartet but not overly so. The sonorities achieved by the group as a whole always remain interesting but never at the risk of alienating the more casual listeners.
“A Thousand Memories” begins with Earl’s piano in a see-saw pattern and brushed drums whose stuttered beat is perhaps someone’s pulse caught up in a reverie of memory. Opting to go for a cello instead of the standard upright bass is a great idea. Here, it enters the song initially emulating the piano pattern in a rich singing tone. For his solo statement Earl’s piano offers up a cascading run of percussive, clear ringing notes whose pattern is then taken up by the tenor saxophone. The horn’s solo is a long flurry of notes bereft of any discordance and so logically connected to both the piece and the piano solo which had preceded it that it serves to organically move the piece forward. Throughout the piece are two motifs, the see-saw pattern and occurring under that by cello and horn one that is a sort of diagonally upward thrusting pulse point pattern. Towards the end of the song the cello reiterates both themes. The finish is an exhale of the horns breath, softly and the final plink of the piano; the dream over but not forgotten and only for now.
The album is comprised of mostly original compositions with the exception of two covers (“Blackbird” and “I Never told you”). “Blackbird” is refreshingly executed as a fairly straight ahead read. In modern jazz a cover tune or musical quote initially would have some sort of humorous, intellectual or political raison d’etre. As jazz expanded past being music just for the outsiders (artists, intellectuals et al) a cover or musical quote became the starting point for each artist to build their own thing off of. For the past decade or so covers are often deconstructed or reimagined, sometimes distractingly so. The listener metamorphosed into an audience member at a magic show, waiting for the source material to be revealed. The “I” of the artist more often than not taking precedence over the material, what it means to them and not what makes the piece in itself great. In lieu of vocals the soprano saxophone declaims the main melody. It is a relaxed affair without ever lapsing into sounding like a jam band. The ensemble shows great interplay which is harder to organically do on material that is not comprised primarily of virtuosic turns. There is a beautifully buoyant plucked cello solo midway through the piece. The sonics for the entire album are pristine and immediate, lacking that digital coldness which can threaten to remove the humanity from a work.
“Miles Apart” is my favorite piece on the album. It has a laconic, bluesy feel. It is a nicely layered piece. There is a great opening line which has the soprano taking the lead under which a bowed cello can be heard, it being bolstered in turn by the subtle poly rhythmic murmurings of the percussion. The cello has some compelling moments, conjuring up the feel of someone with a stately mien admitting to having the blues without losing their composure as they do so. The long lines of the soprano which end the piece underscoring the point. In some bar or club, the protagonist dressed to the nines, happy to be going home not on account of having had a bad time but because that is the natural order of things. As is to lament what we lost or do not yet possess.
Maxwell Chandler -Midtown-
More information on Earl: http://www.earlmacdonald.com/
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I decide to take a walk in the opposite direction from all that I have learned geographically of my newly adopted city. I walk under a freeway ramp whose concrete columns are cracked and for some reason make me think of an old time taxi dancer now bereft of music. There are some barbeque places and alike, several tiny dive bars dark which seem to be siblings. All being kept propped up by the regulars who in turn are held erect by the cheap vinyl of their stools, stiffened with age and the work week need to eventually get back to it. The side of one of the places had chain link fence whose bottom did not quite reach the ground or perhaps the earth had retreated from its touch. There are the skeletons of several cars with concrete block feet, a graveyard of stilled motion. Objects and their myths. I decide to go in and let myself briefly be anesthetized by whisky hopes and carnival dreams.
The juke box is no good, contrary silence which is what the regulars want as they have heard it all before and are intent upon studying the diminishing returns of their perpetual last rounds. It is all right, I truly am only here for one. I leave without having been offered a word by anyone but I trust they knew I was, as always simpatico.
Walking back I hum to myself, the music lulling me into contemplation. Lately I have been reading the Russians, not just the immortals but the newer greats too (Babel, Solzhenitsyn, Olesha). It has made me contemplate a stoicism which tries to see a little good even in a bad situation without lapsing into any sort of Panglossian blind optimism.
Music no longer has the steadfast genre classifications and while this in itself may not be viewed as a bad thing, there have been some definite negative side effects. Although proper usages for genre terms are more often than not now made vague and irrelevant, a common point of reference is needed for any kind of interaction. Speaking in the broadest sense, for there will always be exceptions to every rule; this has quelled the casual listener’s ability to see and hear things which fall under the mainstream’s radar. With the bottom line almost always winning out, to find anything different one must now make an effort to search, which means it stays largely unknown to people who like music but do not live for it.
As I now strive to see the positive, the good thing to come from this is that those artists following their muse outside of the mainstream are now freed up to draw upon diverse influences differing from what their work may end up as. The freedom caries over too into their ability to incorporate myriad stylistic turns within their own work.
Jason Miles is a Grammy winning producer/composer/musician. From the very start of his career his pedigree shows diversity in the spirit of which he continues to create with today. Within his large and varied palette can be found some pop elements. Pop, not in the pejorative term as used to describe the vapid state of the genre now but harkening back to producers and arrangers like Van Dyke Parks, Quincy Jones and George Martin. He has also introduced components of world music and electronica into the realm of pop and fusion.
A Prayer for the Planet is Global Noize’s second album. As with some of his other projects, here Jason brings in some guest stars: world vocalist Falu and turnbulists/efx maestro DJ Logic among others.
The sound throughout the entire album is pristine. “Tokyo Sunrise” starts with softly ascending electro-washes over which a soprano saxophone played not in the nasal mid-eastern cadence as is so often utilized but with more legato gentle breathy notes, slowly unfurls. There is the percussion of drums intermittently peppered with finger snaps. The piece has the ambience of when one is initially arriving back from the land of slumber. Those first golden ambassadors of the early morning sun waking one as projected fingertips gently caress still closed lids, the soft growing heat signaling an end to the night. There is a churning of bass and vintage sounding synthesizer washes which add richness to the piece from its halfway point. The piece finishes with the sax trailing off, the sun moving down the street to wake the rest of the city, heralding the start of the new day.
“Charisma Love” has world music vocalese by Falu. Although I do not know what she is singing I greatly enjoy the song, which emphasizes the universal aspect of all music and underscores the general philosophy of Jason’s project. There is a compelling mélange of world music meets funk, led by a transistor toned guitar which serves as contrast to the plucked string section swells and soprano saxophone runs. The whole song in general seems to exist within a series of pulses as could be created by seeing a beautiful woman or something as equally enjoyable and perhaps nocturnal.
“Viva La Femme” is my favorite track on the album. It starts off with voice coming as if from a long ways away via a radio. There are layers of percussion and electro flourishes as signal flares that something is about to happen. The melody created by a chant is mirrored by harmonica; some local in a café in Marseilles who plays for change and cannot but help have the ambient surroundings enter into his own music. Bolstered by a dark oscillating ambient churning a rhythmic panting can be heard before a more song-like and melodic vocalese enters. There are some Gitane like scales upon which the melody is built. I can taste Pastis in my mouth as my feet feel the cobblestones of the street. The song successfully creates a layered mélange of electro and acoustic elements. It is a joy derived from music with the music generating an organic near on eroticism. It is all beauty which sets the mind to wandering and toes to tapping.
“Walking On Air” has a great relaxed vibe combining a down-tempo feel with elements of jazz in the soft flute lead voice. Over the entire album, even with guests coming and going, there is cohesiveness to the playing. It never feels like anyone is merely playing a part which will be jig sawed into the rest of the song. Even though there are electronic elements to the songs it is never at the cost of emotion.
With his Global Noize project Jason has set out to create works with various collaborators which ignores any kind of stylistic restrictions in execution or from where they pull in their influences. Subtler and left unsaid is the shown example within this album of how music can be fun, groove and still be art.
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Driving down the night, thinking in broken rhymes, the city sings out in a soulful falsetto that does not match up to its darker ambitions. Not all appetites are the same nor is the way in which we seek to satiate them but there is a commonality in that we all want. There are bound to be similarities, many facets of what we all have or want that is the same. Two things which transcend cultural differences of language and social mores are food and music. It can serve as a sort of shorthand to convey one’s intentions or overall identity. Offering up a sweet to someone who does not speak your language; humming “Ode to Joy” or “Take the A Train” shows that when all the subtle differences are stripped away, humanity as a whole is all in the same boat. Connected to this phenomenon of commonality is dancing, if not outright then at least moving to the groove. Dancing can encompass a sort of communal celebration or when reduced down to an individual, a ritual of and for one. Either way it is a narrative told by bodies all in motion to a beat but proclaiming themselves individually by the nature of their movement, the Saturday night dichotomy of being together yet apart.
Global Noize is a collaboration of turnbulist/composer DJ Logic and Keyboard/Composer Jason Miles. Both artists have never limited themselves in regards to who they will collaborate with, the diversity transcends not just genre but style (jazz/electronic/pop/world). DJ Logic’s music impresses because no matter who he has performed with, he keeps his voice while simultaneously making it mesh with that of his collaborators regardless of their genre. YouTube is loaded with videos of DJ Logic jamming with artists that when listed on paper seem it would not work but always do so in a compelling way.
One of the powers of traditional jazz was that it was ever in flux, new genres shooting Juno like up out of the head of established ones. Traditional jazz has stagnated, there is still plenty of joy to be had from seeing some of the surviving masters do their thing or a young up and comer adeptly serve up an offering from jazz’s lexicon but the effect is not dissimilar to seeing one of the great paintings by the masters in a museum. This album is their third together and like the previous works utilizes a cast of musicians from wide ranging backgrounds. Both Jason and DJ Logic have helped the downtown sound further evolve in the way traditional jazz used to. The downtown sound for the longest while was a sort of off branching of free jazz sometimes encompassing aspects of modern Western classical component (Varese, Lighetti, Webern et al). Organically, through their efforts both together and separately, new elements have entered into the downtown sound. DJ Logic has cross pollinated with the jam band crowd, hip-hop and rockers while Jason has brought in later day fusion, the aural perfections of pop productions and electronica. Further added to this mix are elements of world music.
There is a whole new generation of musicians and composers of world music who grew up practicing the traditional works of their culture while also embracing what was au current elsewhere. This has allowed for the creation of work which rather than forsaking what came before it, builds off of it combined with outside elements to create something new. These musicians’ attitude of freedom from the restrictions of rigid tradition fits in perfectly with Global Noize’s artistic mission which is to serve as a sort of all-embracing cultural ambassadors, creating works and performances which draw upon whatever turns them on regardless of its source.
The music of Sly Stone offers the perfect template for this project. In attitude his was among one of the first multi-racial groups in rock for which he took much heat. Among the messages in his music was a strength through unity. Stylistically, Sly’s music was highly original and encompassed several genres, from the doo-wop he sang in his youth (Start of “Dance to the Music”) to the Fender Rhodes drenched funk and straight out guitar solo crescendo of rock and roll. Sly has remained a steady influence on current music, more so than a lot of his peers whose work is pleasurable and important to the canon of what came out of his era. With Sly, some of each generation of artists continues drawing directly from if not aspects of what he did then possibilities which he freed up.
This album is highly listenable and gives a surprisingly straight ahead read on the source material. The program is made up of all Sly penned songs except the last piece “Dreams’ written in homage by Jason. The sound is pristine as is to be expected given Jason’s pedigree. The album eschews the luminescent from sheens of sweat funk for the more laid back soul groove parts of Sly’s work.
“In Time” starts with some beat boxing and an infectious world music version of scat singing by Malika Zarra which is sexy and fun. Along with Jason Miles and DJ Logic there is a rotating cast of musicians that vary from track to track including original Sly drummer Greg Errico. The musicians all come from different backgrounds but their enmeshment is perfectly organic which is fittingly appropriate given Global Noize’s mission statement and the scope of Sly’s music too. Throughout the album different guest vocalists are brought in, Nona Hendryx taking lead on this song. With each song the spirit of the original is maintained without ever sounding like mere parroting. The different vocalists do not fracture the overall cohesiveness of the project but underscore how some aspects of works of art effect people the same regardless of whatever other totems we make of them.
There is such a full sound on this track where every instrument is clearly heard, deftly layered but never overly busy nor muddied. It also underscores how this part of Sly’s oeuvre was as compelling in its intricacies as some of his more dramatic harder edged funk which is probably better known to the more casual listener. While new sonic elements such as scratching/beat boxing are introduced into this track it does not forgo the traditional brass section as Sly would have used which sonically adds a warmth and further layers that would be missing had it all been midi(d).
The album has two different versions (mixes) of “It’s a Family Affair” and “The Same Thing” on it. “It’s a Family Affair-Falu Mumbai Mix”is named after the singer Falu whose chant-like vocalese entwines itself around the songs traditional vocals as done by Roberta Flack. The song has a bubbling bass whose mood is mirrored by the occasional wah-wah of guitar. The song is all subtle contrasts coming together, from the two different style vocals to the old soul declamations of saxophone and late night organ mixing with slow electro washes of synth. In some ways this piece is emblematic if not of the ensemble itself then this current project.
The album facilitates the urge to dance, whether just with friends, a potential romance or just by one’s self. We are all just the creature of Prometheus and must occasionally honor that gift by getting out on the dance floor to shake our asses.
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