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Bright Moments vs. The Dying of the Light*

February 20, 2011 By 6 Comments

I. 

L’amour de l’art fait perdre l’amour vrai.

Or, the love of art makes one lose real love (attributed to Richepin).

As quoted by Vincent Van Gogh in one his heartbreaking letters to his brother and patron, Theo. (Incidentally, it is often stated that no one understood Vincent’s work while he lived. This is a fallacy, an unfortunate and possibly unforgivable oversight. The fact of the matter is that Theo advocated his brother’s art, but he was ill-suited to play the role of pied piper, since all the rats were already at the bottom of the sea).

It is simple, and possibly correct, to presume that Vincent was speaking of the sacrifices inherent in creation, the things one must willingly forsake in order to perfect their art. He identified with those words, and put his work before his life. His mind was his mistress, his canvas his castle, and his paintings the offspring he would never have. He was unlucky at love, and less lucky at life: doubly betrayed when his courtship went unrequited. But Van Gogh was not aware, when he quoted those words, what life had in store for him. Perhaps he was not talking about creating art, but the actual love of it, which is at once less and more perplexing.

Art and life are irreconcilable, if you are an artist. At least that’s how the story goes.

Vincent Van Gogh stood in a field and decided to take his life, even as the paint dried on his final attempt—the last in a lifelong endeavor—to transfer what he saw, in his mind and in the world around him. Van Gogh: he felt it, and he left it for us; on the canvas: the most indelible of his many self-portraits. It is not only in his face, but the dark rings, spiraling out behind him, an inverse halo. His madness, trapped inside him is trapped alongside him, for all time, on the canvas. Unable to endure it any longer, his despair overwhelmed his discipline, leaving him dead at 37. His last effort, now celebrated and studied like all the others he created, would propel no patrons and furnish no fortune, like all the others he created.

That these original prints fetch minor fortunes and are found reproduced in department stores is not the quicksilver quirk of fate, it is God laughing at us.

Or, in the absence of any God or divine, organizing force (an increasingly obvious and easy assumption), what then? It is us, the audience, laughing at ourselves.

And yet.

In his own words, from 1882: No result of my work could please me better than that ordinary working people would hang such prints in their room or workshop.

Does this not absolve, in the long view, the unfortunate, fleeting indignities the artist suffered while he walked, unnoticed amongst his indifferent brethren, the same ones who celebrate him now, who proudly and purposefully purchase his prints, the same one who writes these words?

His suicide: cowardice? Hardly. The world gave up on him long before he gave up on the world.

Is this what it comes down to, this one simple question:

Do you believe in God?

Ultimately that question, and the answer, is of little consequence. Much more important: does God believe in God? Does God believe in us?     

     

II.

Heaven and Hell, if they exist at all, reside in the mind. And regardless of where you end up, that’s all you take with you.

You hear plenty about the suffering artist syndrome, the suicides, the drinking and the desolation, because these are the things that people who write about writers write about. Certainly, the artists themselves express this angst in their art, but you seldom see the solipsism on the screen or the stage or in the grooves of the vinyl. But then again, these artists don’t need anyone to celebrate their achievements, because the art they created does so with exceeding adequacy and eloquence.

For instance:

You don’t hear too much about a man like Rahsaan Roland Kirk, who was born blind and eventually taught himself to play three saxophones—simultaneously. At first, as is so often the case when folks are confronted by inexplicable genius, they simply refused to believe it. When he was no longer possible to ignore, he was acknowledged, begrudgingly, as a sort of circus act. Eventually, after the man and his music (a music that could—and often did—encompass the entire history of jazz in a single evening’s show) refused to go meekly into that alley called obscurity, he began to receive, almost two decades after he burst onto the scene, a smattering of the approbation his talent warranted. Then, as if to compensate for this overdue good fortune, Fate dropped the gloves, serving up a stroke that paralyzed the left side of his body. Rahsaan did not have time to question his particularly rough road; he was too busy figuring out a way to play the music he continued to hear. He made his last album, Boogie-Woogie String Along For Real, while confined to a wheelchair, and fortunately this document of courage and soul is still available for anyone interested in checking it out.

Kirk often talked about bright moments: moments where you feel deeply connected to the music, the message, and the soul of the messenger. To be sure, he made it rather easy: all one need do is listen with the heart as much as the ears and the music takes care of everything else—you’re just along for the ride.

And yet, you’re not. You really do go somewhere: begin here and end up there: when you listen to Rahsaan Roland Kirk, the experience is never static, you are always on your way someplace.

This is what jazz music, and Kirk’s music especially, signifies for me. As a dedicated non-musician, I use jazz as a viable source of empowerment; while it remains first and foremost a very real and easily identifiable source of extreme pleasure; it is also a vehicle, something used to get you somewhere else. A stimulus that demands a response, inexorably capable of conjuring up words and concepts (and constructions) such as spirit, soul, God, karma—things that are (rightfully) almost unbearably oblique, or pretentious, or all-too-easily invoked, usually as readymade escutcheons for folks who ardently need a way to articulate the feeling they either can’t quite explain or desperately wish to get in touch with. Because they heard about someone else who might have felt it. Or they heard a whisper on the wind, a rumor of some dude who was blind and could see everything, who left a legacy documenting some of what he said and thought and felt, left it right out in the open for anyone with the eyes to hear and the ears to see.

III.

Check it out: Most compact disc players have carousels that fit five discs. Five albums, five hours, more or less, of uninterrupted music. And for most people, this is more than adequate. However, on the off chance you want to listen to the work Charles Mingus committed to record in the single year of 1957, a five-disc changer would not be enough. Because, as people who follow jazz music might not even be aware, Mingus made six albums that year. Six exquisite albums. 1957: that’s a year to remember, to celebrate an achievement from one of our great American composers. This is almost my time, Mingus remarked in a prescient interview. Maybe this year. I know one thing: I’m not going to let anybody change me.

He then proceeded to make six remarkable albums, each strikingly different in terms of sound and conception. A miracle of modern music: East Coasting, The Clown, A Modern Symposium of Jazz and Poetry, Tijuana Moods, Mingus Three and Tonight at Noon.

Needless to say, these efforts went pretty well unnoticed. They certainly made Mingus neither famous nor rich. The tensions and stresses of harnessing the hush and thunder of his restless soul culminated in a brief confinement in Bellevue in early 1958. How about them apples? Mingus, indefatigable and defiant to the end, went on to make his mark on music—again and again—up to and after amyotrophic lateral sclerosis confined the colossus to a wheelchair, where he literally sang his songs, composing them with his mouth when he no longer could lift a pen.

To know this music is to know the pain and profundity of existence: the hardship of an African-American’s life during the tumultuous period that preceded the Civil Rights movement, when being black was an automatic obstacle. Couple that with being an artist (of any color)—another facilitator of alienation and loneliness—to being a black musician, particularly a black jazz musician, more particularly a black Bebop musician, most especially a willful, brilliant black Bebop musician who wrote, recorded and conceptualized his own music. The opposition and odds were almost insurmountable. Almost.

That these men were, in spite of the challenges and animosity that they ceaselessly encountered, and endured, nevertheless able to translate their glorious vision into the sweet, soulful music we have left to us for posterity is a testament to their spirit and dedication: their sense of single-minded purpose, which combines passion and pathos in a unique alchemy unlike anything else in American history. This is one of the great paradoxes of our last century—which is rife with irony and the squalid reality of our collective, consistent weakness and frail judgment—that the very individuals who were heroically creating an art form that we now claim as an American commodity (i.e., our own shared accomplishment) was performed (and forbidden from being performed) in clubs and towns where the artists were, at best, tolerated—more often, overlooked. To be sure, they were certainly not celebrated.

Even by jazz musician standards, Mingus paid substantial dues in his extended apprenticeship years, struggling to find a sympathetic label and always worried about money. Of course he also endured the non-musical outrages of the time, being an outspoken and exceptional black man in a country that considered him at best a second-rate citizen. Mingus bristled at the ignorance and intolerance that sometimes suffocated him, and his work can be viewed as an ongoing dialogue between himself and the world. All the passions that informed his underdog triumphs are inextricable from the music he made: as much as any other artist from the last century, his life was his music.

In the final analysis, all of Mingus’s music is a self-portrait of a man who helped define the direction of post-bop jazz, commenting on the country that created him. Charles Mingus was, above all things, a fighter.  Since nothing came easily to him, his struggles—as a musician, as a man—acted as the kiln in which his character was forged. This is how Mingus, mercurial and larger than life, manages to encapsulate so many aspects of the American story: he battled to find his artistic voice, then he strived—often stymied by rejection or indifference—to have that voice heard. Eventually, inevitably, he managed to create material that was too brilliant to be ignored.

The light died on all of these men much sooner than they wanted or deserved, but through their art they managed to make themselves immortal.

* From a non-fiction work-in-progress entitled Please Talk About Me When I’m Gone.

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When I have fears that I may cease to be…*

February 4, 2011 By Leave a Comment

I. Til Love and Fame to nothingness do sink

When I have fears that I may cease to be

Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain,

Before high piled books, in charact’ry,

Hold like rich garners the full-ripen’d grain…

If you are a certain age, or a certain type of person (or both) when you first encounter these lines, they lodge themselves somewhere deep and remain there forever. That is the gift the poet gives you; your gift in return is to read and receive the work and by never forgetting it you ensure that the artist never dies.

John Keats will remain immortal as long as humans are capable of reading words. Had he been aware of this while he struggled with the tuberculosis that would take his life at 25, perhaps it might have offered a consolation money, fame and even health could never approximate.

When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face,

Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,

And think that I may never live to trace

Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance…

This particular work resonates with each successive generation because it grapples with the most profound fear any of us will ever experience: the acknowledgment that we will inexorably perish, not knowing what actually awaits us once we’re gone. That Keats, easily one of the incontestable geniuses of any era, had several decades—at least—of his life stolen by a vulgar disease tends to augment the import of his solemn meditation. There is nothing anyone can say that could possibly begin to explain or rationalize this travesty of karmic justice, this affront to life. It is the intolerable enigmas like these that make certain people hope against hope that there is a bigger purpose and plan, a way to measure or quantify this madness. But in the final, human analysis, whatever we lost can never subdue all that we received.

Does it make a difference if he is no longer around, if he never knew his words would be read, studied and savored centuries after he drew his last breath? Was he hoping he might witness that as he wrote the words; are we hoping we might see it when we read them? The questions are unanswerable, and the only thing we can be certain about is that he did live, he did write, and we do read. That is not nearly enough in terms of consolation for his death, and our loss, but it helps. As always, with art, it helps that we will always have the gifts the artist left behind. It is never enough; it is more than enough.

It is enough to make one consider asking more unanswerable—and unsatisfying—questions, like: “What kind of God would take a poet like Keats from us?”

Asking questions like that can lead one to answers that are at once the easiest and most difficult—to understand or accept: “The same one who gave him to us?”

This, of course, is not enough. It is never enough.

But somehow, it will have to do.

And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!

That I shall never look upon thee more,

Never have relish in the faery power

Of unreflecting love!—then on the shore

Of the wide world I stand alone, and think

Til Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.

 II. Strength and Sanity

Eric Dolphy & Booker Little, “Fire Waltz”:

For many years—all through college and after graduate school—John Keats signified, for me, the ultimate artistic loss of all time. In terms of talent and potential versus time granted to practice and refine his skills, Keats has even the most unbearable cases beat: his good friend and fellow genius Percy Bysshe Shelley (aged 29), their mutual friend Lord Byron (36). Even the great Franz Schubert (31) who, considering his abilities, may have amassed a body of work to be mentioned in the same breath as his fellow Austrian Mozart (himself only 35). Yet, like Mozart, Schubert was so stunningly prolific the collected output somewhat mitigates the loss.

Once I began seriously listening to jazz music, I quickly came to recognize that this art form is littered with premature deaths. We know all about our famous rock stars, many of whom flamed out early in life due to self-destructive habits and hobbies. The typical, if irresponsible (and racist) assumption is that most jazz players were junkies and therefore each casualty must have died with a needle in their arm. In actuality, the number of luminous young men whose deaths were not self-inflicted is unsettling. Of the many worth mentioning, two tend to stand out because of their brilliance, potential and clean and sober lifestyles: Eric Dolphy and Booker Little.

It will be difficult to avoid clichés here. In their defense, clichés originate from an authentic place; they are mostly an attempt, at least initially, to articulate something honest and immutable. And so: Eric Dolphy is among the foremost supernovas in all of jazz (Clifford Brown and Lee Morgan—both trumpeters incidentally—also come quickly to mind): he burned very brightly and very briefly, and then he was gone. Speaking of clichés, not a single one of the artists just mentioned—all of whom left us well before their fortieth birthdays—died from a drug overdose. Dolphy, the grand old man of the bunch, passed away at the age of 36, in Europe. How? After lapsing into a diabetic coma. Why? The doctors on duty presumed the black musician who had collapsed in the street was nodding off on a heroin buzz. To attempt to put the magnitude of this loss in perspective, consider that Charles Mingus, perhaps the most difficult and demanding band leader of them all, declared Dolphy a saint, and regarded his death as one of a handful of setbacks he could never completely get over. Dolphy holds the distinction of quite possibly being the one artist nobody has gone on record to say a single negative thing about. His body of work, the bulk of which was recorded during an almost miraculously productive five-year stretch, is deep, challenging, and utterly enjoyable. Let there be no doubt that Eric Dolphy warrants mention amongst jazz music’s all-time immortals.

And then there is Booker Little. Considered the heir apparent to the effulgent Clifford Brown (himself only 25 when he died, clean and sober, in a car crash), Little did not die so much as have his life defrauded, at age 23, from euremia—an especially brutal, and painful, type of kidney failure. Barely legal drinking age, Little had already led sessions that stand alongside the best post-bop recordings of the era (He neither drank nor took drugs, incidentally).

Little was able to complete two albums in the final year of his life, both considered masterpieces by aficionados, but largely obscure outside of jazz circles. This is ignominious on a number of levels. For one thing, the music contained in these releases captures the ethereal nature of life, the ecstasy of creation and the unique expressions our most gifted artists are capable of conveying. Beyond that, the albums are touchstones; perhaps the most poignant instances from any era of a human being defying death with dignity and joy, even as mortality circled his head like a demented buzzard.

What Keats was able to convey so succinctly, and enduringly, with words, Little achieves without needing a single syllable. His voice, of course, is his instrument, and his trumpet tells the story of his life: not for nothing was his final work entitled Victory and Sorrow. It’s not possible to listen to this music without hearing the history of illness, injustice and ultimately the transcendent human ability to, at least temporarily, overcome anything.

“Strength and Sanity” (from Out Front):

At once somber and serene, the compositions achieve an intense distillation of Beauty: the joy of inspiration leavened with the contemplation of transience. It is all in there, as devastating in its way as the symphonies of Mahler or the extended meditations of Tolstoy. Does the concentrated intensity of this sound derive from the soul of a man who sensed his time was, all of a sudden, just about up? It is almost intolerable to imagine that he was anticipating –and realizing– some of the experiences and emotions of the years he should have had, putting every thought, feeling, regret and ambition into his playing. Was he in fact dealing with significant pain while he composed and played this music? If so, we are getting into deaf Beethoven levels of drama and disbelief.

How did he manage? There is a tune on the album Out Front entitled “Strength and Sanity”, which could be a commentary on what any individual requires in order to survive –much less thrive– in a world where there is a distinct shortage of both. It certainly speaks to ingredients necessary for jazz musicians, incomparably talented men who were still, circa 1961, considered second-rate citizens, not to mention the additional stigma of being jazz musicians. But it is also a statement about what Little had to count on and cultivate just in order to get as far as he did, and deal with the hand he was dealt: performing, composing and playing against the dying of the light.

Perspective. That he was called on so young by the capricious machinery of Fate is enough to humble a hardened heart. That he succeeded in creating, and leaving behind, music that still inspires and consoles is a miracle; a miracle that, in the final analysis, equals or surpasses and possibly even overwhelms the illogical, unfair nature of his passing. That this blissful, restorative sound exists to help any confused, self-pitying individuals left behind, struggling to carry his baggage, makes a compelling case to consider the bigger picture.

“Man of Words” (also from Out Front, but no comment on the unrelated, albeit not unpleasant accompanying YouTube image; I challenge you to close your eyes for five minutes, listen, and not think about what he saw and is saying: about his life, and how it causes you to contemplate your own):

*another installment from a non-fiction work-in-progress entitled Please Talk About Me When I’m Gone.

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What’s It All About, Then? Part Three: Jazz, Featuring Five Of My Favorite Things

November 18, 2010 By 2 Comments

Just before my birthday, on the subject of Eric Dolphy (who I’m happy to call attention to anytime the opportunity presents itself), I had the following to say about what the ways music affects and moves me (I had more to say, about a month later, on the subject of Wayne Shorter, here):

Question: What’s it all about?

Answer: I don’t know.

But I do know a few things.

I know some of the things that make me tick.

Even though I write (for fun, for real and forever), I would still say that music has always been the central element of my existence. Or the elemental center. Writing is a compulsion, a hobby, a skill, a craft, an obsession, a mystery and at times a burden. Music simply is. For just about anyone, all you need is an ear (or two); that is all that’s required for it to work its magic. But, as many people come to realize, if you approach it with your mind, and your heart and, eventually (inevitably) your soul, it is capable of making you aware of other worlds, it can help you achieve the satisfaction material possessions are intended to inspire, it will help you feel the feelings drugs are designed to approximate. Et cetera.

I know that jazz music has made my life approximately a million times more satisfying and enriching than it would have been had I never been fortunate enough to discover, study and savor it.

During the last 4-5 years, I’ve had (or taken) the opportunity to write in some detail about Charles Mingus, John Coltrane, Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, Freddie Hubbard, Ornette Coleman, John Zorn, and Herbie Hancock. This has been important to me, because I feel that in some small way, if I can help other people better appreciate, or discover any (or all) of these artists, I will be sharing something bigger and better than anything I alone am capable of creating.

When it comes to art in general and music in particular, entirely too many people are very American in their tastes: they know what they like and they like what they know. And there’s nothing wrong with that, since what they don’t know won’t hurt them. Also, let’s face it, the only thing possibly more annoying than some yahoo proselytizing their religion on your doorstep is some jackass getting in your grill about how evolved or enviable his or her musical tastes happen to be. Life is way too short, for all involved.

On the other hand, back in the day I was obliged to talk about music using only words. Now there is YouTube. You can’t believe everything you read, but you can always have faith in what you hear; the ears never lie. Not when it comes to music. Not when it comes to jazz music.

How to talk about jazz music? Well, perhaps it’s better to determine how not to talk about jazz music. Hearing is believing. That’s it. And if you hear something that speaks to you, keep listening. Whatever effort you put in will be immeasurably rewarded. Trust me.

So, let’s get it on. I wouldn’t say these are my five favorite pieces, or necessarily my five favorite artists, but they are some of my all-time favorite tunes by some of my all-time favorite jazz musicians. I also happen to think that these are all representative of the type of work these men did, and should serve as easy gateways to deeper study for those who are inclined or intrigued. Contact me directly if you want some suggestions on which albums to pick up (or go to Amazon.com and see which albums generate the most enthusiasm; or check out YouTube and type in an artist’s name and just see what happens).

1. Jimmy McGriff, “Back On The Track” (Though not nearly as famous or prolific as the “other” Jimmy, Jimmy Smith, McGriff had considerable game and he got down with the funk as well as any of his fellow organists did. This is an obscure song from an obscure album –and to be honest, the whole album ain’t that great– but what a song. This is happiness in musical form, and you can hear the words through the music, particularly during the wave-crashing choruses. I love how the song shifts from ever-so-slightly melancholic and introspective to ebullient. This is music to put a smile on your face and all up and down your soul…and it’s addictive as all get-out):

 

2. Herbie Hancock, “Tell Me A Bedtime Story” (I’m officially on record declaring Herbie Hancock one of the coolest human beings to ever walk the earth, and I’m sure I’ll have more to say about him, building in part on observations like this. For now, let it simply be stated that while I could never, under any circumstances, consider actually trying to cull down a universe of music into some type of ultimate list, if I was forced under penalty of painful death to do so (having to do so would be its own sort of painful death, but at least at the end I’d still be alive and I’d still have the music I chose) I would have to put this song very near the top of that list. If “Back On The Track” is readymade bliss for whatever ails you –and it is– “Tell Me A Bedtime Story” has functioned, in my adult life, the way an ice cream cone or the thrill of the diving board were when I was a child: in the air or in my mouth, the delights were expected, and consistently satisfying. This song has never ceased to soothe and exhilarate me, and I’ve been listening to it with regularity for at least a decade and a half. You could spend an entire afternoon trying to sort through just the better music Herbie has provided, and picking one penultimate piece is pointless…but all of his compositional acumen and unmatched ear for melody –and above all, that ineffable feeling the best music delivers are on display here. This is the sort of magic you need not be a wide-eyed kid to behold, or believe in):

3. Rahsaan Roland Kirk, “Three For The Festival” (I have a much longer piece in the works –it’s been a long-standing work-in-progress– celebrating the life and music of this truly unique artist. If there was any justice in this whacked-out world, Kirk would have been a superstar during his life and his likeness would be printed on our currency today. He could play anything you can blow air through: sax, clarinet, conch shell; he even invented new instruments to satisfy his prodigious imagination. Whether soaring off on his own engine or more than holding his own with blues (and rock) legends or appropriating Christmas music and making it really sacred, Kirk is a singular –and irreplaceable– legend that America should be proud to have produced. I’m not going to suggest that there is something seriously wrong with you if you don’t feel this, but…well, yes I am):

4. McCoy Tyner, “Valley Of Life” (I’ve celebrated Tyner’s work as 1/4 of the great Coltrane Quartet –my vote for second best jazz collective of all time, just –and I mean just– behind the second Miles Davis quintet (link to discussion of that band above). McCoy, of course, continued to make remarkable music after Coltrane departed this planet, and he is still on the scene, gracing the rest of his with his elegant presence. Picking a favorite Tyner release would be agonizing, but anyone who is interested in learning more can –and should– look for anything from the late ’60s through the mid-’70s: this is when he was utterly locked in and dropping masterpiece after masterpiece, including Expansions, Extensions, Asante, Sahara, Enlightenment and Trident. “Valley of Life” from 1972′s Sahara, is a personal touchstone and one of the premier examples I would offer of what some people (like me) tend to call “other” music: moments that are impossible to define, unfamiliar yet recognizable, and seemingly in touch with sensations we are not accustomed to accessing. This is a meditation of tranquility, harmony and a real spiritual sense of unity: it is from another place and transports you there. In other words, it’s impossible; a miracle):

5. Grant Green, “Round About Midnight” (Grant Green is another genius I have a long overdue appraisal of that needs to be completed: for now it can suffice to say that he is definitely my favorite jazz guitarist. For my money, no one else had a run as long, productive and enduring as he did for Blue Note all through the ’60s: album after album of ideas, energy and innovation. Consider his (way underappreciated) rendition of the immortal Thelonious Monk’s “Round About Midnight”: if you didn’t know Monk’s version it would be difficult to understand that this is a cover of one of jazz’s top-shelf compositions (in other words, it’s not a by-the-numbers reproduction; Green imbues it with his own distinctive elan). The tone Green gets from his guitar is so full of feeling and grace it is sometimes overwhelming. When it comes to jazz, Green is one of my secret weapons: there are few people I’ve introduced to his music who have not subsequently fallen under the spell. I hope if you are reading this and are hearing him for the first time, this marks the beginning of a lifelong love affair) :

Stay tuned for part four (and more…)

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William Parker: The Inside Songs of Curtis Mayfield

November 2, 2010 By Leave a Comment

A Match Made in Heaven Turns Into a Near Miss

This review should be prefaced by a simple acknowledgment: William Parker has few peers in contemporary music. For the better part of two decades, he has been releasing statement after statement, steadily cementing his name on the all-time roster of jazz immortals. Because he is a bassist, it might seem facile to name-check Charles Mingus, but the comparison is apt and inevitable. Like Mingus, Parker is, in addition to being a monster on his instrument, a prolific and first-rate composer. And like Mingus, Parker is ceaselessly weaving together a tapestry that integrates tradition with the avant-garde. Many musicians would love to attempt this, and a lot of them try. Few have been as successful as Parker, just as a mere handful could hold a candle to Mingus when he oversaw the scene.

With considerable regret, then, I find I would rather talk about every other album in Parker’s catalog before getting around to his latest effort. It’s by no means a failure (concerning Parker such an assessment is impossible); rather, it’s a disappointment. On the other hand, for the genuinely interested but uninitiated jazz novice, this could be a suitable point of entry. It is for the hardcore William Parker fans that these reserved words are primarily intended.

It’s interesting. Jazz musicians have been covering popular music forever, using both commercial and obscure songs for a variety of reasons: to engage with the audience using accessible tunes, to pay homage to the individual being interpreted, to utilize traditional or “safe” material as firm if friendly ground from which to leap and explore. In recent years, artists like The Bad Plus, Marco Benevento and Stanton Moore (to name three acts that non-jazz fans may be familiar with) have utilized contemporary pop and alternative rock to satisfactory effect.

Part of what makes the enterprise enticing—particularly for listeners who wouldn’t readily gravitate toward jazz—is the novelty of re-imagining works, both the beautiful and the banal, that have infiltrated the public consciousness. As such, these exercises are seldom literal (note for note) and rarely incorporate lyrics or vocals. And, for myriad reasons, this is a good thing.

Which brings us to Parker’s eight-piece ensemble, The Inside Songs of Curtis Mayfield, and their new release I Plan To Stay A Believer. On paper, this project is inspired and appealing: 11 songs collected from a series of concerts recorded over the past decade. There is not a long list of musicians who could (or want to) try and pull off a full-scale tribute to the late, great Mayfield. And as he has frequently illustrated with his unique and indelible covers of adored songs such as “Come Sunday” and “There Is A Balm In Gilead”, Parker is quite capable of putting his own imprint on the classics.

It is, therefore, regrettable for a band this talented, performing material this good, to wind up with a well-intended, but underwhelming product. This is one of the better bands anyone could assemble, so it’s a shame you can barely hear them. You can hear the band, of course, but what you really hear are the vocals. In fact, these are not only (overly) literal interpretations—there are often more vocals here than on the original songs. This, putting it plainly, is not a formula for success.

In all fairness, your mileage may well vary. If you find instrumental improvisations of well-known tunes a bit played out (or just “out”), the relative structure and curiously tame renderings of these songs may resonate. If you are an ardent Mayfield fan, you might find yourself racing to the shelf for the original item(s). Mayfield’s catalog, after all, is not merely well-known, it is miraculous. It would, needless to say, require a radical or at least inventive revamping in order to make a project like this sufficiently intriguing (over two discs, no less).

Unfortunately, Leena Conquest’s effusive if occasionally overwrought vocals run the constant risk of reminding even the most open-minded listener that if you can’t improve upon a particular work, you’d better put it in a different wrapper. Too often, the presentation offers the worst of both worlds: it invokes Mayfield (but in a way that is distracting, not enlightening), while suffocating the exceptional performances of these remarkable musicians. When they are not being (inexplicably) drowned out by Conquest, they are ceding the stage to a legend that ought to be read and not heard. Amiri Baraka, who contributes original (though not particularly interesting and certainly not incendiary) poetry, also loudly recites it on more than half the selections. Baraka’s credentials (as a writer, thinker and provocateur) have long been largely unassailable. Alas, on this misadventure, he pretty much sounds like what he is: an older man trying to rap. (I know, his poetry from back in the day was rap before scratching and the wheels of steel, but its magic was conveyed on the page.)

There are, to be sure, stretches of songs that convince and delight, and these are not coincidentally when the band is able to cut loose without the vocal histrionics. The first 20 seconds of “If There’s Hell Below”, for instance, offer tantalizing impressions of how scintillating this material could (should) have been. So many Mayfield masterpieces are incorporated (including lesser-known gems like “We The People Who Are Darker Than Blue”, and “It’s Alright”), it causes one to wish for an alternate version of this release, without the words. For now, we can still have the best of all worlds: the enduring Mayfield albums and the ever-growing list of treasures from Parker.

http://www.popmatters.com/pm/review/130960-william-parker-the-inside-songs-of-curtis-mayfield/

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Sue Mingus and the Mingus Big Band: Letting Our Children Hear Music

August 6, 2010 By Leave a Comment

The Mingus Big Band is bigger than most big bands because they play the music of Charles Mingus. Of the many words one could use to describe Mingus, (and one has to use many words to adequately describe Mingus) it is big: he was physically imposing and he had feelings, opinions, and musical genius that no ordinary person could possibly contain, much less hope to convey. Most of all, he made big music. His knowledge of and passion for all types of expression is evident in practically every note he wrote over the course of four astonishingly productive decades. The catalog of his recordings is, in many regards, still being fully absorbed and understood. His output was so vast and encompassing it is impossible to summarize or easily encapsulate the scope of his achievement and influence. Suffice it to say, the shadow he cast continues to creep into any conversation about jazz music in the 20th century.

Thanks to the Mingus Big Band, we have the opportunity to keep much of that music alive and screaming in the hear-and-now, while the band’s contemporary interpretations of Mingus’s compositions allows the songs to breathe, mutate and swing their way into a new millennium. Overseen by Charles’s widow Sue Mingus, the band has been performing in New York City since 1991. Almost 20 years later, the Mingus Big Band has staked its claim as an American cultural institution—an extension of Mingus’s repertoire but very much its own entity. This, of course, is a tribute band that does not sound like a typical tribute band. On one hand, they do not play any “safe” covers, which speaks well of their collective abilities; on the other hand, they are playing Mingus compositions, which are so fully realized they effectively self-police misinterpretation. The only way you can mess up a Mingus tune is by having unprepared or unqualified musicians attempting to play it, and that is assuredly not an issue with this band, which comprises some of the finer players on the scene. 

 Beginning in 2008, the band commenced its association with Jazz Standard (coincidentally named “Best Jazz Club 2008” by New York Magazine). On New Year’s Eve of that year, the band was filmed during their performance and that concert is now available on the new release Mingus Big Band Live at Jazz Standard. Aside from the historic import (the show was broadcast nationwide on NPR) and the festive occasion, this was a special show for another reason. Anticipating the transition into 2009, all of the songs performed are compositions Mingus recorded 50 years prior. 1959 was a special year for jazz music and a crucial one for Charles Mingus. He released his masterpiece, Mingus Ah Um, as well as Mingus Dynasty and recorded Blues And Roots (which was not released that year).

It is remarkable, despite the band’s track record and longevity, how seamlessly they navigate the pieces from ’59—some of which were written for much smaller bands. For the Mingus Dynasty sessions Mingus assembled one of the larger groups he’d worked with to that point; it was not until the next decade that he had consistent opportunities to employ more musicians—albeit not as often as he would have liked. Indeed, one of the more impressive aspects of Mingus’s realization as a composer and leader is how he was able to thrive with whatever he had at a particular point in time. Listening to selections from 1957’s The Clown affords the opportunity to savor—and marvel at—the sounds he was able to conjure out of five musicians (including himself). A barnburner like “Haitian Fight Song” or a swinging tone poem like “Reincarnation of a Lovebird” are, in addition to being bona fide jazz masterworks, case studies of a dedicated artist translating the magic he hears in his mind. There is, then, a sort of reverse alchemy unfolding when the Mingus Big Band performs: if their namesake made big music with minimal resources, this band is obliged to convey the raucous feeling of the originals while integrating some of the instruments the composer might have incorporated, given the chance.

Mingus Big Band Live at Jazz Standard is an almost flawless slice of some of Mingus’s finest work. Anyone familiar (including the faithful and besotted) with the original material should be dutifully impressed with the way they are rendered; for a newcomer who has not had a chance to dive into the tidal wave of all-things-Mingus, this is an excellent gateway. For obvious reasons, the selections from Mingus Dynasty seem most suited for a big band (again, those sessions featured seven or ten players on each track). “Gunslinging Birds”, “New Now Know How” and the show-closing “Song With Orange” (which features a scorching piano solo by David Kikoski) all swing like nobody’s business and the band manages to sound intense and ebullient (one suspects Mingus would approve). Trumpet virtuoso Randy Brecker, who played with Charles in the ‘70s, is typically delightful, and the addition of drummer Jeff “Tain” Watts kicks things up a notch. The band dives into the rootsy blues by way of The Big Easy on a dirge-like deconstruction of “Cryin’ Blues” (arranged by bassist Boris Kozlov, who is in particularly fine form throughout and should always be front-runner as band MVP considering the boots he is obliged to fill): it is impossible (for this writer anyway) to consider anything an improvement on any Mingus original, but this rendition brims with playful fervor that truly does Mingus proud.

The high points include a trio of songs that even a stellar band must cover with care. “Goodbye Pork Pie Hat” is generally regarded as one of the sublime jazz ballads; this rendition includes the vocals Joni Mitchell wrote for her own Mingus tribute (Mingus, from 1979), sung tastefully by Ku-Umba Frank Lacy. “Bird Calls” would frankly overwhelm almost any working band—there is so much going on and the pace is so breakneck throughout it would be easy to imagine even capable musicians tripping all over each other trying to recreate the heat lightning in a box that Mingus & Co. laid down in ’59. Finally, the immaculate “Self-Portrait In Three Colors”, originally a study in expressive restraint, is sped up ever so slightly and manages to actually swing while capturing the full emotional impact of the original.

Speaking with Sue Mingus is like conversing with jazz: she is enervated and completely in the moment, yet also a living conduit to history, a voice of experience and authority. One approaches an opportunity like this with a combination of excitement and attentiveness. She is legendary not only because of her close association with Charles Mingus, but also for the passionate advocacy with which she guards her husband’s legacy. She achieved underground hero status amongst jazz fans when stories spread about her habit of entering record stores all over the world and waltzing out with unpurchased copies of Mingus bootlegs. If confronted she encouraged the shopkeepers to call the cops; they never did, quite aware they had no legal ground to stand on. The title of Sue’s (award-winning) memoir Tonight At Noon references one of her husband’s compositions, and the image it conjures is a miraculous anomaly (or an anomalous miracle). It also invokes the nocturnal hours intrinsic to a working musician’s existence. Of course it is also more than a little autobiographical: Mingus was a contrarian as well as a contradiction, notoriously demanding of those in his employ (particularly those poor piano players), yet protective and loyal (especially to Eric Dolphy and Dannie Richmond—two of his artistic and spiritual soul mates). He could be intimidating and imposing when he had to be, and occasionally when he did not intend to be. He was arguably the only player in history capable of making an upright bass look modest. Most of all he was sensitive and cerebral, and he is easily one of the most important musicians America has produced.

Asked to talk about the band she directs and its new release she is unequivocal. “Charles would be pleased to see these pieces being played fifty years later,” she says. “Obviously the vitality and freshness is not lost. Of course these are great musicians and they are keeping the spirit [of the music] alive.” Sue is understandably reluctant to pick a favorite amongst the Mingus Big Band’s recordings, but she concurs that this latest effort does justice to the originals while stretching out and expanding songs that are so familiar and beloved. “A lot of the band’s success and the positive reception to the music has to do with the passage of time,” she suggests. “Peoples’ ears are growing up to the music; the big band caught on right away … it was the right time to have this band performing this music.”

There is inexorably a bittersweet element to this band’s existence, which is the unavoidable absence of its namesake. There is also the substantial irony that Mingus—despite having larger bands at his disposal in the late ‘60s and throughout the ‘70s—seldom had the ways or means to work with the fuller ensembles he often desired. “Charles would love to have played with bigger bands,” Sue confirms. “Economically it just didn’t make sense; it just wasn’t feasible. But he definitely would have loved a working 14-piece band!”

If there is an aspect of injustice here, it does seem to be a natural progression for Mingus’s works, being performed on a weekly basis by a dream band he never had the chance to handpick. Sue can’t say enough good things about the Mingus Mondays program at Jazz Standard, though she is quick to convey her appreciation for past venues. “We were at Fez [under Time Café in New York City] for 13 years. Every Thursday night—it was like home for us. Unfortunately they closed the music aspect and revamped the restaurant.” After performing at various locations, in late 2008 the band initiated its ongoing residence at Jazz Standard. “This is the closest we’ve been to the feeling of Fez. We love it here and the audience is always receptive. We enjoy having the opportunity to showcase the three different bands.” Sue is referring here to the other two collectives, Mingus Dynasty—a seven-piece band—that tends to be on the road in between gigs and The Mingus Orchestra—a 10-piece band—which features more exotic instruments such as bassoon, harp and clarinet. On any given Monday you can catch one of these outfits in action. “Mingus wrote over 300 compositions, so there is plenty of material to work with and there is always something for everyone.”

Speaking of those compositions, it is indeed refreshing, if overdue, to see Mingus’s name increasingly mentioned when the alpha dogs of jazz are discussed. These days one usually hears “Miles, Monk and Mingus” along with “Coltrane, Bird and Dizzy.” Having lived with Mingus from 1964 until his death in 1979, Sue has watched the slow but steady trajectory of his reception into the pantheon, all these years later. “It’s definitely happening,” she affirms. “People pay more attention and Mingus is entering the mainstream.” Asked to elaborate, she suggests that to a certain extent this acknowledgment was inevitable. “The music is so personal and because of its openness it attracts musicians. People love to play this music, and its tentacles are reaching out. We see it being used more regularly in film and TV and advertisements.” Sue suspects some of the initial challenges in getting Mingus the recognition he deserved was a matter of preconceptions. “People thought the music was unapproachable. Mingus was larger than life and some folks figured his music was too complex or difficult. Now we see kids playing this music!” There is indeed an annual high school competition (directed by Sue) and a quick visit to YouTube illustrates the diversity in age and ethnicity of people performing Mingus’s music.

Sue recalls the performance of Mingus’s posthumous masterwork Epitaph (the title Mingus sardonically chose, certain it would never get performed in his lifetime) in 1989 as a major turning point. The concert, conducted by Gunther Schuller and performed ten years after Mingus’s death, was successful and a double-CD was later issued. “It was difficult going at first,” Sue admits. “But after a few years it was astonishing how easy it seemed.” Everything clicked and the various tribute bands began taking their shows on the road. Over time Mingus gradually began to be fully appreciated as a composer as much as a masterful bass player, and every day more people are getting hit in their souls.

When the topic turns to two recent releases, (Charles Mingus: Music Written for Monterey, 1965 and Charles Mingus Sextet with Eric Dolphy, Cornell 1964) the question must be asked whether or not any additional footage remains in the vaults. Tantalizingly, the answer is affirmative. “There is hours of piano music, actually,” Sue confirms. “Mingus spent most of his time on the piano; that is where he worked out his ideas and how he composed. He used to say that the music was waiting for him on the keys.” Presciently, and thankfully, Sue got in the habit of tape recording the pieces he would improvise and as a result she has “tons of tapes” to work with. Anyone who has heard the somewhat overlooked Mingus Plays Piano understands that these are not just enlightening works in progress; they are fully-formed monologues that function—in addition to being remarkable music—as irrefutable evidence of Mingus’s compositional genius. Sue relates the story of Alvin Ailey choreographing some of the piano sketches for a 60-piece orchestra, and the musicians could not (and initially did not) believe it was all improvised music.

Mingus used to refer to his “workshop” and he would assemble various musicians to flesh out the songs prior to performance or recording. In similar fashion the Mingus Big Band workshops existing Mingus material, but also collaborates to rearrange familiar works. In terms of what we might expect next from the Mingus Big Band, Sue mentions that bassist Boris Kozlov has been hard at work arranging “Meditations for Moses” (from Mingus Plays Piano). While we wait to see how they tackle that, Sue reiterates that the band will almost certainly revisit and rearrange other outlines from Mingus’s piano recordings. Perhaps most exciting, Sue lets it slip that she is working on another book. We can only imagine how many anecdotes and insights we’ve yet to hear, but considering how productive and passionate Mingus was in his music and his life, there is a lot to look forward to. Charles Mingus accomplished many remarkable things; we know now—more than ever—that one of his best decisions was marrying the woman who lived with him and loved him. She still does.

http://www.popmatters.com/pm/feature/128374-sue-mingus-and-the-mingus-big-band-letting-our-children-hear-music/

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If Two Jazz Fans Fight on the Internet, Does Anyone Hear It?

July 21, 2010 By 1 Comment

Kind of like two trees falling in the forest, right?

Well, for anyone (and I mean “one”) who may wonder what it sounds like when two jazz fans fight, here is the ugly, unvarnished tale of the tape (to be cont’d?).

Brief back story: in June I took the opportunity to express my (not particularly controversial) opinion that Miles Davis’s second great quintet was the best band of musicians to ever assemble in one group, here (the piece also appeared at PopMatters). Here is some of what I wrote:

Those men, individually, are some of the most important and brilliant musicians of the last century. Together? Forget about it. This quintet (Davis’s second famous fivesome) was an unstoppable force and they made some of the greatest albums. In jazz music? In any music.

And then, after discussing the merits of the individual players, lamented that Wayne Shorter still seems to get short shrift when all-time greats are mentioned:

Wayne Shorter is, for my money, possibly the most underrated genius in any genre of music. To be sure, he gets plenty of props within jazz circles and the people who know really know. And in his wise, humble way, he is probably cool with that. But his name does not come up quickly enough, or often enough in discussions of the true masters. And aside from his considerable proficiency on the horn(s), he is also among the most distinctive and consistently satisfying composers. And while Miles, who was without peer in assembling talent, had the vision and deservedly gets the lion’s share of the credit (he was the lion, after all), a good chunk of the material on those second quintet sessions was written by Shorter. And here’s where it gets unbelievable: all through the mid-to-late ’60s –at the same time they were in The Quintet– he (as well as Hancock) was dropping epic masterpieces on the Blue Note label (think Maiden Voyage, Speak Like A Child, JuJu, Speak No Evil –for starters).

So then, about a week later, I went ahead and sang the praises of Wayne Shorter in greater detail, here (a piece that also appeared at PopMatters). This is how I concluded the piece:

Wayne Shorter, on the other hand, is like imported dark chocolate. Or fresh Kona coffee beans. Or a 2004 Brunello (or a 1964 Brunello for that matter). Or whatever type of car people who appreciate cars get excited about. You get the picture. Wayne Shorter is, in other words, the authentic item that aficionados savor, but whom virtually anyone with unpolluted ears can immediately appreciate. We odd and admittedly obsessed folks who really love jazz have no agenda. Really. (I’m not talking about the aesthetic prigs who have nothing good to say about anything other than the music they endorse; that is a certain type of poseur who has always been amongst us, whether the topic is music, literature, movies or wine or food or coffee or, especially these days, beer, et cetera.) All we care about is disabusing opinionated but clueless blowhards of the notion that jazz is (insert cliche here: to include “old-fashioned dance music”, “boring”, “musical masturbation”, “shrieking”, “easy listening” (!!!), “overwhelming”, et cetera) what it is or, put another way, what it is so manifestly not.

Life is too short to try and pick up something you simply can’t appreciate. But if you’re willing to give it a shot you just might be surprised. So consider this five song sampler from Wayne Shorter a win/win: if you don’t like this, you don’t like jazz; if you do like it, welcome to the rest of your life.

I’ll confess I did not think anything I offered up was particularly debatable or objectionable. But when it comes to the so-called jazz intellegentia, all bets are off. Sure enough, a very hip(ster) reader of PopMatters felt obliged to chime in and (I have to hope unintentionally) misinterpret both the literal words and –more egregiously– the entire spirit of where I was coming from and why I was writing.

His letter, which prompted a response in kind, are below.

Him:

I am sorry, but I find your article very stupid.

I am a jazzman, I love jazz and I can’t live without it, but when I see sentences like, if you don’t like this, then you don’t like jazz, I can say anything but “stupid”.

First, you can love basie or billy without loving modern jazz. Jazz rythm is the most important thingin my life but it can’t be different for other people.

Twice, I know hundreds of people who like jazz and lots of them don’t like Wayne that much and it doesn’t mean they don’t like modern jazz. Moreover they may be much more advanced in their tastes than you, when it comes to real jazz ( they love Cecil taylor, the last thing of Coltrane and so on…)

You can give your opinion and as you say you are here for that, but don’t do what you are fight against. Let people have their own tastes and enlarge their tastes, not the contrary.

Best,

Serge

Me:

Serge,

Appreciate the thoughts and while I’m disappointed you found the piece “very stupid” I’m glad it provided you with the opportunity to vindicate the honor of those *really* misunderstood and sophisticated jazz aficionados (presumably for whom Wayne Shorter is simply too conventional).

Unfortunately, and more than a little ironically, your protestation kind of misses the purpose of my rather tongue-in-cheek point. Which is: the proposition that if a person, who has never taken the time (for understandable and legitimate reasons) to check out jazz does not find much to like in these rather accessible and representative post-bop recordings by Shorter, it’s unlikely that they will find much in the more free and “out” works of the last half-century (and for the record, I endorse Cecil Taylor, thank you very little, but find that there are two primary reasons I don’t recommend him first when talking to would-be jazz fans: one, however much I dig ‘Silent Tongues’, in my experience it’s not exactly an ideal aperitif for the uninitiated; two, dropping late period Coltrane (which I actually discuss in a recent appraisal of Trane’s career) or Cecil Taylor or Henry Threadgill as proof of my avant-garde bona fides would make me precisely the insufferable poseur I excoriate in this piece).

That said, I reckon there has to be at least one or maybe three people out there who ‘Speak No Evil’ would not speak to, but who would connect, at first listen, with Sun Ra’s ‘Cosmic Tones for Mental Therapy’. Likewise, I am sure there are more than a handful of folks who just love pre-bop jazz but don’t care for anything after Coleman Hawkins; the problem is, they are all 130 years old.

The central impetus of this piece (and the previous entry on Eric Dolphy, and whatever subsequent ones I write) is to hopefully turn on a handful of open-minded listeners to some great music that—whether because of some insidious stereotypes that still exist about jazz, or because they encounter uber-hipsters who feel that John Zorn sold out after ‘Naked City’, or Albert Ayler sold out…by dying, which understandably confirms the worst clichés about how *real* jazz fans roll—they might find worthwhile. It is a humble endeavor that I imagine artists like Wayne Shorter might even appreciate—perish the thought!

Cheers,

Sean

For even unconvertable jazz haters, Mr. Shorter casts a long shadow –and you’ve probably heard him before, even if you don’t realize it.

Steely Dan’s “Aja” (featuring Wayne Shorter):

Portishead’s “Strangers” (which features two samples, particularly the DOPE one that opens the tune, from Weather Report’s “Elegant People”, composed by Wayne Shorter; that’s him on the sax…):

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What’s It All About, Then? Part Two: Jazz, Featuring Wayne Shorter

June 8, 2010 By Leave a Comment

There are not many people who have any idea what it’s like to be this cool. Even Wayne Shorter does not know, because he is too cool to stop and consider how cool he is. That’s what people like me are here for. And along with his partner in crime Herbie Hancock, Wayne Shorter has been one of the coolest dudes on the planet for more than half a century.

It was only last week, while talking about the (second) Miles Davis Quintet, i.e., the best working band to ever make music, that I had this to say about Wayne Shorter:

Wayne Shorter is, for my money, possibly the most underrated genius in any genre of music. To be sure, he gets plenty of props within jazz circles and the people who know really know. And in his wise, humble way, he is probably cool with that. But his name does not come up quickly enough, or often enough in discussions of the true masters. And aside from his considerable proficiency on the horn(s), he is also among the most distinctive and consistently satisfying composers. And while Miles, who was without peer in assembling talent, had the vision and deservedly gets the lion’s share of the credit (he was the lion, after all), a good chunk of the material on those second quintet sessions was written by Shorter. And here’s where it gets unbelievable: all through the mid-to-late ’60s –at the same time they were in The Quintet– he (as well as Hancock) was dropping epic masterpieces on the Blue Note label (think Maiden Voyage, Speak Like A Child, JuJu, Speak No Evil –for starters).

It occurs to me that while I occassionally wax ecstatic about jazz music (in general) and some of my all-time musical heroes (in particular), I have recently and with good reason invoked both the heavyweight champion John Coltrane and the man I unashamedly use words like “immortal” and ”saint” to describe, Eric Dolphy. But I realize, when it comes to sax players and accessibility, perhaps I’ve been remiss to not put Wayne Shorter at the top of the list. Not that either Coltrane or Dolphy are necessarily intimidating, but they tend to both be acquired tastes (and by acquired taste I mean once you get it, you are on board for life and you won’t be satisfied until you own everything either man ever did –even the stuff like late-period Coltrane which you may never even listen to but you still must possess, for all the right and obvious reasons).

Wayne Shorter, on the other hand, is like imported dark chocolate. Or fresh Kona coffee beans. Or a 2004 Brunello (or a 1964 Brunello for that matter). Or whatever type of car people who appreciate cars get excited about. You get the picture. Wayne Shorter is, in other words, the authentic item that aficionados savor, but whom virtually anyone with unpolluted ears can immediately appreciate. We odd and admittedly obsessed folks who really love jazz have no agenda. Really. (I’m not talking about the aesthetic prigs who have nothing good to say about anything other than the music they endorse; that is a certain type of poseur who has always been amongst us, whether the topic is music, literature, movies or wine or food or coffee or, especially these days, beer, et cetera.) All we care about is disabusing opinionated but clueless blowhards of the notion that jazz is (insert cliche here: to include “old-fashioned dance music”, “boring”, “musical masturbation”, “shrieking”, “easy listening” (!!!), “overwhelming”, et cetera) what it is or, put another way, what it is so manifestly not.

Life is too short to try and pick up something you simply can’t appreciate. But if you’re willing to give it a shot you just might be surprised. So consider this five song sampler from Wayne Shorter a win/win: if you don’t like this, you don’t like jazz; if you do like it, welcome to the rest of your life.

“Deluge”, from JuJu:

 

“Speak No Evil”, from Speak No Evil:

“502 Blues (Drinkin’ and Drivin’)”, from Adam’s Apple:

“Miyako”, from Schizophrenia:

“De Pois Do Amor, O Vazio”, from Odyssey of Iska:

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Mostly Other People Do The Killing or, The Shape of Jazz To Come

May 24, 2010 By 1 Comment

Best band name ever?

It has to be way up there.

What makes it even better is that this is the name of a jazz band.

A jazz band that is making music, today.

A jazz band that is making excellent, relevant, real music. Right now.

Check it out.

Three albums in, each using cover art as an homage to classic jazz recordings (the two below by the amazing and under-appreciated Roy Haynes as well as the not-of-this-earth Ornette Coleman):

Sense of humor? Check.

Sick chops? Check.

Challenging? Absolutely.

Satisfying? Utterly.

These guys represent, to quote an artist they are fond of quoting, the shape of jazz to come.

It’s a shame nobody listens to jazz.

But the beatings will continue until morale improves.

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Henry Threadgill: This Brings Us To, Volume 1

November 1, 2009 By 1 Comment

HTThis is a difficult review to write, knowing that the folks who follow Henry Threadgill are likely already aware of (or in possession of) this new release—his first in eight very long years. On the other hand, this is an easy review to write, since it is pretty painless to recommend exceptional music. So let it serve as a friendly reminder for fans and an introduction of sorts for the uninitiated.

Perhaps the most illuminating way to attempt discussing Henry Threadgill’s music is to begin by discussing the man himself. Biographically speaking, Threadgill is one of the most respected, if recalcitrant members of the post-‘70s avant-garde. Of course, his roots stretch back a bit further, as he first made a name through his association with AACM (Association for the Advancement of Creative Musicians) in the ‘60s. By the way, referring to him as recalcitrant is intended as the highest form of praise. Though he spent a minute signed to a major label (his mid-‘90s work for Columbia Records produced some quiet masterpieces which, being both masterpieces and jazz albums, sold enough copies to ensure that the association was brief). Threadgill, suffice it to say, has always followed his own path, making no apologies for the wonderfully challenging music he makes. Upon winning a Guggenheim Fellowship in 2003, his extended hiatus from recording was starting to seem ominous, which makes the release of This Brings Us To, Volume 1 cause for considerable joy.

Virtually any Threadgill recording is like the indiscreet hole in the wall joint that happens to serve the best food in town. No bells or whistles, no valet parking or wait lists, but it manages to stay in business by retaining the loyal clients it attracts. Take the name of his working band, Zooid. For the benefit of folks who had difficulty with math class (like myself), the name does not signify the number of musicians (Octet…Nonet…Zooid?). A zooid, to quote the press materials, “is a cell that is able to move independently of the larger organism to which it belongs.” To be certain, there are examples of pretense without sense (we can all think of examples without naming names), and then there is intelligence so genuine and unrestrained it is slightly intimidating but ultimately exhilarating. Just listing the titles of select Threadgill compositions illustrates his keen and refreshingly unorthodox mind: “Just the Facts and Pass the Bucket”, “First Church of This”, “I Love You With an Asterisk”, “Dirty in the Right Places”, “Go to Far”. One always gets an adequate sense of Threadgill’s perception of the world, and the amount of thought and attention that has occurred, before a single note is played.

threadgi

And that is where the listener comes in. This Brings Us To, Volume 1 is, once again, Threadgill’s first release since 2001, and a most worthy companion piece to the excellent Up Popped the Two Lips. A few words about the Zooid. A handful of people in the world who are inspired, or forced by their parents, to play tuba actually grow up to become badass musicians: one of them, Jose Davila—who also plays trombone—is in this band. The rest of the quintet is comprised of Elliot Humberto Kavee (drums), Stomu Takeishi (bass) and Liberty Ellman (acoustic guitar). Then there is Threadgill himself, who alternates between alto sax and flute.

The music, as usual, has overtones of Eastern influence but is firmly rooted in Western (jazz) tradition. As always, it obliges the listener to slow down, concentrate, and receive. The opening track (and enigmatically titled) “White Wednesday Off the Wall” is a tone poem of subtle expression: the flute whisks in between the strings being plucked and pulled, while the tuba crouches like a crocodile, just beneath the surface. It is, like much of Threadgill’s calmer pieces, beautiful but ever so slightly foreboding. It also conveys a certain prehistoric vibe that recalls the first installment of Sun Ra’s Heliocentric Worlds series.

The pace quickens with “To Undertake My Corners Open”, showcasing Kavee while Ellman makes cerebral, always tasteful contributions throughout. “Chairmaster” opens up ample space for Davila, who takes an extended solo before dueling with Threadgill’s serpentine flute runs. “After Some Time” is an insanely syncopated—and appropriately named—workout for Threadgill on alto saxophone, with Kavee gamely keeping pace at every turn. The bandleader remains on alto for “Sap”, another frenetic romp that encourages Ellman to stretch out, working into a hurry-up-to-slow-down solo that is reminiscent of Marc Ribot. Finally, “Mirror Mirror the Verb” is a quirky exclamation point on the proceedings, and sounds more than a little like Eric Dolphy woodshedding with the Art Ensemble of Chicago.

So, like I said, this is not music for everyone, but it is music for anyone. Even for jazz hounds, Henry Threadgill is somewhat of an acquired taste; not so much because his music is impenetrable or off-putting, but because it is a foreign film that does not provide subtitles. You may not always be able to follow it, but you always know what is going on. Hopefully it goes without saying that I mean that in a good way.

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“Radical Jewish Culture”, Redux

August 11, 2009 By Leave a Comment

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After my ardent endorsement of Rashanim (the great trio who have just released what may well be the best album of the year), I would be remiss to not also mention a new name we can hope to hear much more from in the years ahead. Yoshie Fruchter, also a guitarist, released his debut on Tzadik entitled Pitom in late 2008, and it is as indispensable as any of the Rashanim releases (“Pitom”, incidentally, means “suddenly” in Hebrew). It is similar in that it’s (mostly) rocking jazz with an explicitly Jewish sensibility, but where Madof’s traditional roots are always discernible, Fruchter sounds somewhat like a precocious younger brother who found the stash of ’70s prog rock albums and never put them down. In a (very) good way. Indeed, the kinship with the great King Crimson outfit of the early-to-mid ’70s is undeniable, not merely because both bands feature the same instrumentation (drums, bass, guitar and viola): there are songs on Pitom that recall some of the more adventurous tracks from Red and Larks’ Tongues in Aspic.

Check it out:

 

But this is not to imply that the music is a postmodern reduction of those progressive milestones (brilliant though they are); Fruchter is also very adept at distilling the essence of jazz improvisation into his rock-meets-klezmer workouts:

And then there is this one, which is a wonderfully schizophrenic cross-section of influences; it’s kind of like a demented German march, (with shades of Oompa Loompa, circa 1971:)

As I say, Pitom is, like Rashanim’s work, categorized under Tzadik’s “Radical Jewish Culture” series. Apparently that moniker has, at times since its inception, proven to be problematic. John Zorn, aside from being a genius, is nothing if not controversial, and this ability to provoke is a constant (and probably necessary) tool in his arsenal. Put another way, there is always a method to his “madness”. Here is what he had to say earlier this year, which is about as straightforward as it gets:

I’ve got a lot on my plate, and I’m not one of these guys who wants to relive my days of beatnik glory. That’s not my modus operandi. I want to keep moving forward come up w/ new ideas and try things out. I think my role in this society — on the planet — is to take some chances and to make some music and ask some questions. Some of what I do is entertaining and fun for people to listen to, but entertainment is not why I’m doing this. This is art music. This is music that in some ways can raise questions and can deal with consciousness and — I honestly believe — can make the world a better place.

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So, what is Radical Jewish Culture, exactly?

John Zorn, who curates the Tzadik label and, as anyone who has read this blog should know, is responsible for creating some of the best boundary-crossing music over the last several decades, talks about his rationale for the provocative and loaded depiction:

The series is an ongoing project. A challenge posed to adventurous musical thinkers. What is jewish music? What is its future? If asked to make a contribution to jewish culture, what would you do? Can jewish music exist without a connection to klezmer, cantorial or yiddish theatre? All of the cds on the tzadik RJC series address these issues through the vision and imagination of individual musical minds.

Much controversy and discussion has arisen over the Great Jewish Music series and on several occasions this has taken the form of a personal attack on me, my work, my sincerity and my integrity. Clearly the inclusion of music with no overt jewish content may seem out of place in a series dedicated to jewish music and it is very gratifying to experience the power the word (or the image) continues to exert on the human spirit. The operational word here is “music”—if I had titled the series Great Jewish Composers perhaps there would have been no further discussion.

It seems important to mention that the name Radical Jewish Culture was chosen with serious deliberation. There is little question that the contributions of Franz Kafka, Mark Rothko, Albert Einstein, Walter Benjamin, Lenny Bruce and Steven Spielberg have all been embraced as central to jewish culture in the 20th century. The logical question that arises is—is there jewish content in their work? Well, at times yes, at times no—and in using the term “great jewish music” I am raising that question—albeit a bit tongue-in-cheek, and not without a small tip of the hat to the Art Ensemble of Chicago.

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Kudos to Zorn for helping young artists like Madof and Fruchter reach an audience.

Bottom line: this is exciting and formidable new music. This is music that requires imagination and intelligence on the part of the listener (those with deficiencies in either department need not apply). Mostly, this is music that is not intended to massage the air around you while you focus on other things. It is music that challenges and enriches. It asks questions and also provides answers. Yes, it even manages to make the world a better place, and when you get down to it, that’s what art is all about. Right?

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