Posts Tagged richard hugo
The cat knew that she was not supposed to be on the jacket despite the fact that I had earlier lazily let it fall to the floor. Staying low to the ground, she approached it from across the room with the slow deliberate steps of an actor in a Noh play.
The end of the day found the swallows returning the night, their spread wings carrying the blue black back up into the sky. In this season, so swift was their ascent that the motion, seen peripherally did not take attention away from the garment.
Finally she pounces on it, looking up at me to gauge my mood. I can’t be bothered to reprimand and after a moment of silence she comfortably settles down amongst the folds. If only I could make everyone, someone, as happy so easily.
I pad into my office. The top of the lowest of my bookcases where I keep my blank notepads also has a vase. I keep flowers as often as I can remember but not for the obvious reasons. Always a cut flower has already received its death sentence. I like this subtle reminder of the terminal futility of beauty. I used to keep the vase closer to my desk but depending upon the type of flower, the petals would fall onto my workspace mixing with the pencil shaving butterflies.
An important component of all great works of art regardless of medium is its ability to seemingly speak to each person individually, calling for it to be incorporated into our lives and selves in some manner of totem. For every person it will vary, which is fine so long as there is not too great a deviation from the artist’s initial intent.
Outside, the huffing of trucks dropping off palettes of things for the restaurants, the murmur of a crowd whose bodies are in constant motion and the intermittent testimony of impatient car horns. The dichotomy of civilization, all the places of man, and every city, have the same noises yet each place has its own subtle variations which flavor it. It is the same with birthdays and funerals. I grab a book and record off of the shelves.
Poetry and jazz share certain key qualities with cities. Within works of both are specific intents, executed in such a way as to leave room for the audience to fill in the blanks as is meaningful to themselves. The effect is akin to hearing a story and without changing the narrative structure, each of us imaging in our own way what the characters look like.
All poetry is poetry, yet there exists within this blanket term a myriad of genres and sub genres. The same can be said of jazz. Each has its cannon which is revered and passed down from generation to generation even while the art form(s) remain in flux and ever evolving.
The current album by Wayne Horvitz underscores how well the two art forms mesh. Some Places Are Forever Afternoon is paying tribute to American poet Richard Hugo (1923-1982).
Richard Hugo is a perfect fit for Wayne’s genre defying music as neither can be pegged down to a specific time or rigidly within any one specific school. Richard’s writing was rhythmically complex and forward thinking, yet was sometimes framed within the older structure of an epistolary format of a bygone era. Wry humor, heartbreak, nature and bars coexist within Richard’s work providing the perfect mercurial templates off of which Wayne works from.
The music while not programmatic is inspired by the poetry with which it directly emotionally resonates. One need not be familiar with the writing to enjoy the music but when paired there is no feeling of the sonics being a lesser artistic sibling, so organically do they enmesh themselves.
The ensemble is made up of long time collaborators from two of Wayne’s bands; Sweeter Than the Day and the Gravitas Quartet. The instruments which comprise the band are far from that of the usual jazz ensemble which subtly underscores the lack of sonic borders.
The track listing gives the name of each song and also the poem that inspired it. Also reproduced are the poems along with some photos which are visual works of poetry unto themselves. The photos show, if not exact locations of Hugo’s life and work, then places cut of the same cloth.
“Money or a story” exists within a quick groove which is not overly frantic, its steady engulfing pace, like a poetic metre. Each of the instruments offers up their voice in long lines, the similarity of declamation creating a density usually achieved by complexity of changing tempos but here made more by a layering. The effect achieved is even stronger for its departure from the normal technique.
Starting softly, “Those who remain are the worst” unfolds into a near waltz like feel with an organic casualness. The richness of the cello at the piece’s introduction is counter balanced first by the plink-tink transition of the piano and then the coronet and guitar. So different but go together well are the guitar and horn; that they conjure up the feeling of a sort of musical signpost within the piece’s landscape along with the people who stand by them waiting, in conversation. The work ends with the woody murmuring of bassoon, the secrets which we softly tell ourselves and the odd things that remind us of them.
Slowly revealing itself, “You drink until you are mayor” is one of my favorite pieces on the album. It is dark but not in the artificial milieu of theater. The darkness is more akin to the repercussion of deep thoughts as occurring when one is honest with themselves late at night or early in the morning. A pulsing drone of piano, bass and guitar with near subliminal discordance in the background shows that there is some Walter Piston and Ned Rorem mixed into the artistic DNA of the piece. It is all legato beauty, illuminated darkness as reflected in the curved brass railing of the bar. As the piece nears its end, the instruments stagger their statements. The silence between adding to the feel and being of equal importance before elliptically the work ends as it had begun.
Poetry and jazz each in their own way offer a myriad of emotional, spiritual and intellectual possibilities. This album shows how well these two universal art forms can go together. It is the power of the commonalties which we all make our own yet allow us to still sympathetically shake our heads when hearing of someone else with the blues or stretching their arms skyward in ecstatic joy.
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