A friend of mine, who is just beginning to dip his toe into the pool of jazz, asked me if I thought he was "ready" for Bitches Brew. That's a tricky question, no matter who is doing the asking. The generic answer, suitable for use in nearly any situation, is a definite "maybe." Some might say it's a mighty big leap from Kind Of Blue to Bitches Brew. Indeed, the two albums sound nothing like each other, with the former's genius slowly revealed in the subtleties of modal interplay while the latter makes a much more strident, funky, and loud statement.
The question remains, if a person has only been exposed to the "safer," more structured side of jazz, is a visit to the deep end going a bit too far?
A recent article at A Blog Supreme explored similar territory with You Aren't Too Dumb To Like Jazz. Part of that piece explored the issue of complexity and the often-visited idea that a person needs to "understand" the music in order to enjoy it. I've never really agreed with that sentiment, mostly because there are so many more ways to appreciate a piece of art than understanding its technical nature. Do we have to understand Picasso's technique to appreciate the color explosions of his paintings? It's never been that way with me. So, those lilting opening melodies that Miles plays on "All Blues" are just that, melodies that on their own sound pleasing to the ear. How they fit into the song's structure can be appreciated, but it's not necessary for the listener's enjoyment.
While Bitches Brew lives nowhere near the extreme end of Whack Jazz, much of it is certainly an ear-opening experience. Melodic lines can at first flow in parallel and then later collide. Ideas move from one player to the next at what at times is not a linear fashion. There are abrupt changes in direction, tempo, and mood. There are reasons, some of them non-musical, for these shifts. I'm not going to discuss them, because they focus attention in the wrong place.
What is important? That all of these musical elements are propelled by an insistent pulse that reduces to a kind of funk stew. Let it flow over you for a while and you'll realize that you're being taken over by a killer groove. You'll realize that you're having fun, and that you're not too stupid to like jazz.
We all know this, but sometimes we need to be reminded that Chicago is a mainstream rock band that was once a rock/jazz/blues/R&B/whack jazz band masquerading as a mainstream rock band. Wait a minute, you say, "whack jazz"???
Not just whack jazz, but the extreme kind of whack jazz. If you still have a worn-out vinyl copy of the band's spectacular debut album Chicago Transit Authority, chances are that the black band between "Poem 58" and "South California Purples" is still shiny and clean. Perhaps it's time to reconsider the cut everyone skips over, though.
As a totally improvised solo guitar piece, "Free Form Guitar" is Terry Kath at his most unhinged. Kath plugged his guitar striaght into a crackling studio amp turned up to eleven without the use of any pedals, generating more feedback in these seven minutes than an hour of Jimi Hendrix at Monterrey, and you can't find a single shread of tonality.
It's as hard to listen to today as it was back then, and I won't try to pretend otherwise. Music? I prefer the term "primal expression." But in the context of the times, that was pretty amazing, especially with it appearing on a hit rock album. By 1969, there were plenty of free jazz sax players, but among free jazz guitarists, maybe only Derek Bailey and Sonny Sharrock were active practitioners of the stuff in 1969. For one song, Kath had the balls to put himself in that rare company, and his band included that track in the batch songs they expected Columbia Records to release for their first album. And, the corporate heads went along with it (something they probably wouldn't even remotely consider doing today). "Free Form Guitar" is also held up as one of the precursors to noise rock, which didn't really emerge for another decade.
It's been said that Hendrix himself once told Chicago sax player Walter Parazaider "your guitar player is better than me." If that's true, then some of the attributes Jimi must have appreciated the most are Kath's adventurous spirit and a willingness to go beyond what's been done before. Those are the sides of Kath that are on conspicuous display on "Free Form Guitar."
That George Harrison kept recording until just two months before his death at age 58 in November of 2001 was its own blessing. After all, he hadn't put out a new album of solo material since 1987.
But you wondered what would become of Harrison's final works, since producer Jeff Lynne had decided to finish the project in George's absence. After all, this former frontman of 1970s hitmakers the Electric Light Orchestra -- perhaps even more so than Harrison -- was prone to unsuccessfully ornate albums.
What happened was one of the best two or three records Harrison issued. For me, it ranks right alongside George's debut and his 1979 self-titled album.
Lynne -- who parlayed that Beatles obsession called ELO into a producing gig with each of the band's members in the 1980s and '90s (if you include Lennon's posthumous "Free As A Bird") -- was respectful of his passing, but familiar enough to realize that Harrison's religious fervor needed a balancing dose of the former Fab's often-overlooked charms.
So, we get -- on perhaps this record's biggest surprise, "Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea" -- some ukelele from Harrison. (You can't be sad when someone is playing the ukelele.) It's a joy amid so much thundering emotion, and just one example of the subdued approach that permeates the "Brainwashed" CD.
That said, this project remains centered, of course, on a painful stillness -- in those times when Harrison faced his final adversity. In this way, "Rising Sun" is definitive.
It started as a fine little acoustic number. But like all of Harrison's signature stuff, which is always somehow both downbeat and uplifting, this required a larger sound.
That's why Harrison was attracted, in his first solo incarnation, to Phil Spector -- who couldn't fathom a record without a few thousand violins playing along. And it's why Lynne, playing posthumous svengali, wasn't going to let this one be.
Using Harrison's initial and insistent guitar-strum beat as a platform, Lynne's production explores both the ghost of regret and the atmospheric vistas that mark the best of Harrison's -- and, yeah, Lynne's -- work.
Yet, it's clear that Lynne understands the tune's wonderous strength. He adds rumbling fiddles, but largely gets out of the way.
Harrison never flinches from what we know -- and what, more particularly, he knows -- to be true: He's a goner. Harrison plays the slide guitar with the same conviction on "Rising Sun," like there isn't much time but so much to convey. Ravaged by then with throat cancer, he retakes his place as one of his generation's most stirring spiritualists.
The larger album -- was he ever more consistent? -- also finds a way to make room for Harrison's lesser but still enjoyable pursuits, from the jokey to the precious. Credit Lynne with grasping that a smidge of each would make this Harrison album a completely realized gem.
Even so, "Rising Sun" is the centerpiece of Harrison's overlooked finale, its reason for being. As driven as the tune is to start, it ends with a kind of wistful neatness, like a dream that couldn't possibly finish so well.
Lynne provided the same thing for Harrison, and it would have been special even if George hadn't been so notoriously inconsistent when it came to putting out records.
Here, Harrison gracefully, quietly, lets go.
And in so doing, manages one of the most delicately executed goodbyes in memory.
If you want to really scare yourself, wait until everybody else in the house has gone to bed, turn out all of the lights, and put the Kronos Quartet's Black Angels on the stereo. You will be assaulted with George Crumb's terrifying "Black Angels (Images I)," a piece so full of tension and release (or maybe just tension...it's been a while and honestly, just the thought of it is making me nervous) that you will feel like you've done aerobics after it's over.
That particular incarnation of the quartet, together for so many years, was absolutely fearless in their approach to material. Their talent and vision allowed them to tackle musics as diverse as Crumb, Thelonius Monk, Philip Glass, Bill Evans, and Astor Piazzolla. When cellist Joan Jeanrenaud left the group in the late 1990's, I wondered what direction she would take. I mean, Kronos had covered so much ground. What was left to accomplish?
The answer to that was, "Quite a lot, actually." Sure enough, Jeanrenaud has been involved in all manner of new music projects, from solo works to collaborations with the likes of Fred Frith and Hamza El Din to film scores. This might make it sound like Jeanrenaud lacks a sense of humor, being a "serious" contemporary musician & all, but that perception is way off. The just-released Pop-Pop should set things right. A fun & funky collaboration with producer/percussionist PC Muñoz, this album mashes up 20th Century high art with beats designed to get your body parts in motion.
With Jeanrenaud playing the acoustic and electric celli, and Munñoz providing both electronic and acoustic percussion, the album's intrigue is built on the obvious contrasts between old and new. Take "Noise," as an example. Starting out over a straight and relatively simply beat, Jeanrenaud layers on the nervous energy with four simple notes. But just when we think this might be an exercise of straining against the darkness, the funk beat takes over and the mood is instantly transformed. The piece does employ tension effectively during breaks when Jeanrenaud revisits those shadowy notes, overdubbed cello swirling in the background.
Other tracks on Pop-Pop convey as sense of whimsy and sheer joy. Check out the funk of "Snake," the futuristic blurp of "Where's Raymond?", the Asian (or techo, I can't quite decide) vibe of "Snake."
None of this is to imply that Jeanrenaud has lost all touch with her previous nature. "Dive" can almost be heard as a companion piece to "Black Angels," making music from the inspiring source material of dissonance. After that powerful and introspective dirge, the album closes out with the bouncy, almost video game-ish "Freakbeat." If the listener is able to hold back from the random body part shakin', professional help may be in order.
Counseling might also be in order if your idea of a good time is to listen to George Crumb in the dark. At least that's what the "normal" people might say. Me, I'm more than happy to indulge in the mental aerobics.
I wish I had a cool story about where I learned about the blues. I never had an older brother who gave me his Howlin' Wolf records. There was no cousin who pointed out the line that runs backwards from Jimmy Page. Despite the early appearance of my inner music nerd, I doubt that I was curious enough at the time to perform my own investigations. The closest I came to a blues mentor experience was when my high school psychology teacher turned me on to folk singer David Bromberg. I totally dug the song "Sharon," though I cared less about its blues essence than the fact that it was about a stripper. Duh.
No, the blues came to me from a source that's all but dead these days: the radio. For many years, WBGH radio in Boston broadcast a wonderful blues show on Friday and Saturday nights, hosted by Mai Cramer. She taught me all I needed to know, from Muddy Waters and Little Walter to Magic Sam and Koko Taylor. One of Mai's favorite artists was Pinetop Perkins. In fact, her show used to start off with his "After Hours," a tune that never failed to transport me to a place I hadn't been yet. This feeling was hard to pin down, but it seemed like I had been rushed through the rest of my life, survived worlds of hurt, and was finally sitting on my back porch, taking it all in. Weird. Especially for a young man living in suburbia.
Or maybe it's not that weird at all. Maybe it's something that happens when you experience music that's truly authentic. Music that's built on honesty.
I get that same feeling when listening to Eden Brent. Her sultry voice and organic piano playing echo the intent of her mentor Abie "Boogaloo" Ames as well as blues piano great Pinetop Perkins. The fact that Ain't Got No Troubles was recorded in a manner honoring the music (analog tape, a single room, no overdubs, no added reverb) helps to push Brent's particular genius into the foreground. Add to that a New Orleans locale (Piety St. Studios), some Meters vibe (bassist George Porter Jr.), and producer/guitarist Colin Linden, who has worked with the likes of Sue Foley, Cassandra Wilson, and Mavis Staples, and you've got the recipe for some deep listening.
Given this lineup, you won't be surprised to learn that the music takes from many blues-related genres — Boogie-woogie blues ("Let's Boogie-Woogie"), cool swing ("Later Than You Think), soulful strut (the opening "Someone To Love" just kills with those horns and Eden's soaring solo), and the old-time naughty jazz of "My Man."
The subtle power of Brent's voice is put on display on the songs that lean more toward soul: "Beyond My Broken Dreams," and the slow & soulful "Leave Me Alone" supported by organ, horns, and some killer slide work by Linden. Speaking of power, Brent chose to close out the album with a gorgeous version of Wil Kimbrough's "Goodnight Moon." This presentation manages to distill what Brent is about these days: beginning with just voice and piano, Brent lays out the story of longing before the bass & drums kick in. The ballad shifts to full-on soul for a bit (thank you horns) before we again have Eden and her piano.
Somewhere Abie "Boogaloo" Ames is smiling. Pinetop is still smiling! It doesn't get any more honest than that.
Ain't Got No Troubles will be released on September 7th, 2010 on Yellow Dog Records.
Lush strings, rich three part vocal harmonies, blending acoustic guitars and an almost non-stop lead guitar, all stretched out to nearly nine minutes. That's a hell of a way of a band to introduce themselves on the radio, but the then-infant Australian troupe The Little River Band did just that to break into the American market with "It's A Long Way There" in post-Watergate 1976.
Formed just a year earlier, the Little River Band was founded by musicians who were already musical stars in their native country, but struck out in the UK. Now, they set their sights on the USA.
Their self-titled album came out in Australia near the end of '75 and then reached America the following year. Helped along by promotional tours, the long, leadoff track from their first album started appearing on rock radio. The radio edit version (video below) chopped more than half of the song off, and was good enough to give LRB their first American hit, getting into the Top 30. That touched off a string of thirteen top 40 hits in the U.S., like "Happy Anniversary," "Reminiscing" and "Lady," but their first one rollicked and rocked more than the songs they're better known for, and the melody was one of the best Goble ever wrote.
Having listened to a lot of album rock radio at the time, it's the unabridged version I think of, and it doesn't even feel that long to me. In spite of Ric Formosa's endless guitar soloing, the vocal synthesis of Glenn Shorrock, Beeb Birtles and Graeham Goble make this song go. Goble wrote "It's A Long Way There" as the first of several LRB songs describing his first-hand accounts of a life on the road. The band sought to follow the Eagles' country-rock formula for success, but more often than not ended up sounding more like Crosby, Stills and Nash. You could even argue that Shorrock's soulful lead voice approximated Stills, while Birtles sung the "Nash" parts and Gobles was the band's David Crosby, harmony-wise. It wasn't the match of CSN at their best, but darn close enough.
In fact, "It's A Long Way There" might be the best CSN song that CSN never did.
When a great, small combo jazz pianist makes a solo record, it usually doesn't signal that pianist's arrival, it means he's solidifying his legacy. We witnessed this with Art Tatum's Solo Masterpieces recordings made at the end of his life. The same goes with Bill Evans' Alone recorded several years after his Village Vanguard apex. Chick Corea's first solo piano recordings were made before Return To Forever but after his signature Now He Sings, Now He Sobs album, the short lived but highly acclaimed Circle band he co-led and of course his stint in Miles Davis' band during a very creative time. Even earlier this year, Matthew Shipp released his first solo piano record. For Iyer, a solo piano record makes perfect sense as the next move for the guy who walked away with the Downbeat Magazine International Critics Poll and New York Times #1 jazz album in 2009 for Historicity, as well as other numerous accolades (including my 2009 "Best of" list).
I suppose everyone's got their own criterion on determining what makes a great piano solo record. Mine is how well they do in revealing the melody in a discreet manner that doesn't leave the listener already satisfied in the first minute or two. Also, how well the performer exploit the range of timbres at his disposal. And lastly, does he or she leave his own personality on the song and make it his own. Note that I didn't allude to technical skills; if the pianist can do those other things, then the technical ability is presumed.
Certainly, Iyer doesn't lack for technical ability.
Iyer dedicates Solo to Thelonious Monk, Andrew Hill, Duke Ellington, Muhal Richard Abrams, Randy Weston, Cecil Taylor, and Sun Ra, as well as past mentors Wadada Leo Smith, Steve Coleman and Roscoe Mitchell. All all those cited are pioneers---and many of them avant-guardists---which suggest the Iyer himself intended to record an "out" record, but he instead reconciles the in with the out, which is more apparent in his five originals than the six covers.
Those half dozen covers are chosen not for popularity, although nearly all of them should be familiar to most. Rather, these are songs that mean something personally to the performer himself, a connection either with the composer/original performer or with the song itself. So although he was only around eleven when Michael Jackson's Thriller was dominating the charts, Iyer remembers the beautiful melody from Steve Porcaro and John Bettis' "Human Nature" and was drawn back to it in the wake of Jackson's death. On Solo, he eases into the familiar melody, and soon his signature percussive left hand comes into focus, as his right hand provides harmony. The deviation from the original rendering comes not so much from notes played---he stays pretty faithful to the chord progression throughout. Rather, it's how he modulates those succession of notes. He builds up the chorus with an intensity that washes over you, leaving behind a void in the sound at the end, which could be taken to symbolize Jackson's departure.
In a similar fashion, Monk's "Epistrophy" is easily identifiable after a brief, alternate intro, but only because he's playing the notes in the familiar pattern. However, the rapid way it's rendered by his right hand contrasting with the bass notes provided at half speed from his left casts this song in a whole new light. The old Van Heusen/DeLange standby "Darn That Dream" is delivered relatively "straight," but Iyer lets each note hang just a little behind the silent beat. On the two Ellington tunes, he undertakes a prewar, almost stride piano style for "Black And Tan Fantasy" and resembles the beautifully majestic and melodic approach of Abdullah Ibrahim on "Fleurette Africaine."
Iyer trades in some of the direct and simple lyricism for adventuresome playing and more expressive moods when it comes to his own compositions. The brief "Prelude: Heartpiece" conveys a sense of foreboding, and "Autoscopy" speaks in Taylor's advanced language for the first half, smoothly transitioning to Viyer's own familiar repeating arpeggios for the second. As the most extended piece of the album, "Patterns" traverses through the greatest number of his mannerisms and whims. "Games" calls to mind the elusive and esoteric melodies that Hill was so good at coming up with, and the Sun Ra tribute "One For Blount" oddly doesn't sound much like the freewheeling, demented style of of the former Herman "Sonny" Blount. Instead, it's a blues based number that's demonstrates Iyer's spirited and insightful interpretation of that side of jazz.
So does Vijay Iyer's Solo meet the standard for a standout solo piano record? When tested against my own personal criterion, I believe that he does. I suspect that he'll meet most other jazz lovers' own personal criteria as well.
Solo, Iyer's second for ACT Music, will arrive in all the usual CD retail outlets on August 31.
This site's ties to Louisiana have provided a rich vein of musical delights over the years, but also a moment of staggering loss when Hurricane Katrina swept ashore near New Orleans five years ago today. A legacy of recovery for the city, and the wider Gulf Coast, subsequently found voice in songs from across the spectrum, and helped many sort through the jumble of emotions that remained for a community drowned first by the storm and then by bureacracy.
Here are thoughts on some of our favorite recordings from throughout that redemptive journey. Click on the titles to read more from the SomethingElse files.
DR. JOHN AND THE LOWER 911 - THE CITY THAT CARE FORGOT (2008): Sorrow and hope have now turned to rage. Dr. John's message is directed squarely at the Washington politicians and is blunt: we're still suffering and in your greed, you've forgotten about us. The good thing about the anger is that angry artists tend to be more invested in their work. There's a certain grittiness that's been missing from most of Mac Rebbenack's work for a couple of decades and it's great to see him return to the sound of his Allen Toussaint days when The Meters and the Bonnaroo Horns backed him up.
TED HEARNE - KATRINA BALLADS (2010): Brings back all of the tragedy and all of the surrealism inherent in such an epic event. Written for an ensemble of eleven musicians (piano, horns, woodwinds, strings, electric guitar, bass, and drums) and five voices, the work uses as source material many of the words we came to identify with Katrina. With quotes from Speaker of the House Dennis Hastert, Anderson Cooper, Senator Mary Landrieu, Barbara Bush, George Bush, and Kanye West, the unhinged nature of the event is brought back into full relief. Yes, it was not easy to forget things like "Brownie, you're doin' a heck of a job" (President Bush) and "George Bush doesn't care about black people" (Kanye West). I tried to forget them, but they wouldn't go away. And maybe they shouldn't.
ANDREW LAMB TRIO - NEW ORLEANS SUITE (2010 reissue): Recorded a scant three weeks after Katrina wrecked the city, New Orleans Suite is music that literally does live in the moment, in the immediate, confused and heartbreaking aftermath of the storm. Dr. John is the only other artist that I know of who put together a Katrina-inspired session so soon, but Lamb, Abbs and Smith didn't dwell at all on nostalgia; this is all about the despair and fury that pervaded the immediate weeks following America's largest natural disaster. Likewise, the improvised music used as a conduit for these emotions have little on common with NOLA icons like Louis Armstrong, Allen Toussaint, Professor Longhair, Mac Rebennack or scores of other Crescent City influences, but if jazz is "the sound of surprise," then its cousin free jazz could be considered "the sound of raw emotion." Using this method of expression, the frayed nerves and sorrow that prevailed in September 2005 were clearly presented by Lamb and company.
BRYAN LEE - KATRINA WAS HER NAME (2007): Whether it's Delta acoustic blues, jump blues, dirty electric blues, or creole-styled r&b, Lee gives it all the same dedication and mastery. As producer Duke Robillard plainly states at the beginning of the liner notes he provided for this record, "if you're not familiar with Bryan Lee by now, you should be." "Katrina Was Her Name" is a sparse, acoustic guitar/dobro ode to the despair that the storm left behind to the Crescent City. In it, he sings of the devastation in plain terms so that no one listening to this song many years from now will forget what happened and when it happened.
PRESERVATION HALL JAZZ BAND - MADE IN NEW ORLEANS: THE HURRICANE SESSIONS (2007): At once tender, funny and sad. Capturing all of that is the group's towering achievement. They put out the perfect Mardi Gras record for the post-Katrina era. It acknowledges everything that came before, even while leading the way into happier times. This was a delicate balance, and hard to do well. Like the curious commingling of smells in the Quarter, "The Hurricane Sessions" could have been as inviting as au jus but then just as quickly smack of something left out too long. In a time when almost nothing else was, the Preservation Hall Jazz Band -- a group of savvy vets given a boost here by brilliant sequencing -- made it look easy.
ONE TRACK MIND: THE SUBDUDES - "Poor Man's Paradise" (2007): Its straightforward lyrics are character sketches into people who find refuge in the simple pleasures of life after their lives were torn part by Katrina. You'll be hard pressed to find a more uplifting song derived from that tragedy and it's sure to be a staple in the Subdudes' live rotations for many years to come. To me, "Poor Man's Paradise" has three simple but powerful messages: 1.) The triumph of the human spirit over even the violent wrath of Mother Nature; 2.) taking enjoyment from the simple pleasures of life, and; 3.) the healing power of music.
JAMES BLOOD ULMER - BAD BLOOD IN THE CITY; THE PIETY STREET SESSIONS (2007): Like many other musicians affected by tragedy of seeing a great city and many of its residents left festering underwater for days, Ulmer put pencil to paper and immediately penned several songs to express his sadness, anger and frustration at the calamity. But it wasn't until December, 2006 when he laid down these tracks in a marathon, three day session. As explained by second guitarist and producer Vernon Reid (of Living Colour fame), waiting almost two years after the hurricane ravaged New Orleans made more sense because as media and government attention subside over time, this record could serve to keep people from forgetting about the victims.
ONE TRACK MIND: U2/GREEN DAY, "The Saints Are Coming" (2006): They opened up the Superdome and we streamed through the turnstiles, tickets and hats and signs in hand. We bought Dome Foam, personal pizzas, and peanuts. So much of that was similar to other days in this place, as the Saints played their first home game of the 2006 NFL season. But, in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, nothing -- of course -- was the same. And so I sat in this darkening cathedral, thinking not of football -- those days, and weeks and months and years of downs and distance -- but what had happened to this city, and in this site.
As I write this, two very talented bands from Italy specializing in the jazz of the whack variety are traversing the fruited plains looking to collect fans from the USA. The trio Neo and the quartet Tribraco are criss-crossing the country from August 23 to October 6, covering 37 cities, including Chicago, Philly, New York, Houston, Phoenix and L.A. Both Neo and Tribraco are part of the avant garde scene but approach they music in different ways: Neo brings a primal punk attitude to its virtuosic jazz, while Tribraco is a self described "psycho-jazz-rock" outfit. Both are highly creative and play it in the studio much like you'd expect it to hear it live. That in itself is a good sign.
The "Music and Miles" Tour is being presented by Megasound, the Rome-based label that both acts are signed to. For more information on this tour and when these bands might be headed to your town, click here. But first, you might want to know if they are worth coming out to see. These two releases, each of them the latest by these groups, should give you a pretty good idea:
Neo Water Resistance
There's just three guys in Neo: drummer Antonio Zitarelli, tenor saxophonist Carlo Conti and guitarist Manilo Maresca, but they make a lot of joyful noise. Its start-stop-stumble speed jazz that calls to mind the vivid, condensed harmolodics of John Zorn's Spy vs Spy and the raw, thrashing energy of the Scorch Trio. Atonal but highly structured, highly composed but highly improvisational, the music of Neo is a conundrum that invites listeners to solve. And I love puzzles like these. There's no bassist, but there's no need for one: rhythm and harmony are completed integrated, making the bass's traditional role of bridging the two not needed in this case.
Water Resistance came out last year, distributed stateside by Cuneiform's Wayside imprint. There's fifteen tracks here, but nine of them run three and a half minutes or less and another four of them less than five minutes long. It's like "ultra" laundry detergent: so intense, just a small dose handles the load. "Ooh No!" shows determined concentration for all three players to play such gnarly lines in perfect unison. Many whack jazz combos might get that hyper for a tune or two, but Neo rarely lets up on the gas pedal. "Canto Di Natale" is a twenty-six second screech fest, and "Medieval Tune" sounds much like a mutated Western swing tune. "Iperprofessional" is the closest the group come to an identifiable melody in the conventional sense, one that is constructed using Ornette's principles.
The ballad of the bunch finally comes at track eight, "Come Trasformare Il Divertimento In Tragedia," a song that's played at a normal tempo, but by slowing it down, one gets to uncover the intricacies in their compositions that blow by the ears at their usual rapid pace. "Pensieri E Riflessiono Suli'Ottimismo" is a dyslectic mish mash of sounds, like a broken down hip-hop rhythm track and a sax blown as if it was from behind a fan. Occasionally, there are short individual solos like from Conti on "Silicon Valley," but the structured or group improvisation parts are usually far more complex than the solos.
Their next album, which is being recorded at Steve Albini's fabled Electrical Studio during their stop in Chicago, is slated to be out early next year. Check this space at that time, when we will hopefully be able to give you our rundown of it.
TribracoGlue
Tribraco takes on the look of your standard rock band, with Lorenzo Tarducci and Dario Cesarini on guitars, loops and effects, Valerio Lucenti on electric bass and Tommaso Moretti on drums. However, they don't play music like most rock bands; there's a lot of jazz sensibilities in their sound and at times, they get as crazed as Neo. At the same time, the temperament changes along a wider range, and their brand of fusion crosses over into prog-rock side at times.
Glue is their second album that was made available right at the beginning of this US tour, and demonstrates a lot of what this band is capable of. As opposed to the bass-less Neo, Tribraco has put their bass player at the center of their sound; Lucenti is muscular player who defines the soul of every song. I can't tell who out of Tadrucci and Cesarini is playing all the lead guitar parts, but one of them sounds a lot like early McLaughlin in both tone and attack. Indeed, there's a clear Mahavishnu influence on the band, and the uncluttered way the album was recorded makes these songs road-ready.
They mix it up well with tempo and attitude, and like their tour mates, the compact running time of their songs keep their performances concise. The galloping "Fake!" and the kinetic "Blue Glue" both run only three minutes, but everyone manages to say a lot musically in both. "Samatzai" is built around a voodoo bass-drums groove, and as he does all over the record, Moretti adds nice touches to the basic rhythm but never overdoes it. "Burlesque" has the intricate group interplay that's a hallmark of the best jam bands like Umphrey's McGee. The "psycho" part of Tribraco's jazz-rock comes out the most on the rolling thunder and creepy guitars of "Segente Di Ferro."
Tribraco, like Neo, made a record that lives up to the team first principle. You can tell that the members have chops individually, but they put those chops together to mold a group sound that's often far more interesting than listening to a parade of solos.Together, these two bands make a strong case for Yankee fans of the wilder side of jazz to come out and check out what the Italians are putting down.
by Mark Saleski I had intended for this essay to start out something like this:
OK, I'll come right out and say it. I used to hate John Mellencamp. Back then he was known as John Cougar. All of my friends had their copies of American Fool, and I had to put up with that freaking "Jack and Diane" thing. Too bad my JazzSnob™ phase hadn't taken off yet. I could have tortured them with...
Before I got around to sing the praises of Mellencamp's recent output, there was to be additional back story about how I grew to appreciate him, beginning somewhere around Uh-Huh ("Pink Houses") and then turning a sharp corner with the release of Scarecrow. There was that concert in '93 and the post-divorce "Wild Night" story (which is less interesting than it sounds), and some other things. Finally, there is T-Bone Burnett phenomenon, which has extracted the essence of Mellencamp's ideas. The soul of the latest recording had already been perfectly presented by SomethingElse! cohort Nick Deriso, so I thought I might look at things from the audiophile angle.
But then I got to chatting over the Internet with an old friend of mine. She told me that a high school classmate had died unexpected just last Sunday. It was something about a freak accident involving a tractor and a rough patch of field. Tom was 49 years old. Too young, as they say.
I went to a very small school, so you knew pretty much everybody. I'd hung out with Tom a little bit in the early years. He seemed like a pleasant guy, though I can't say that I really knew him. A lot of years have passed, as they say.
There's a part of me that wants to run away from news like this, to run away from the songs that Mellencamp has produced as of late. They're almost too real, too raw. My recent experiences with death have been receding into my past, and yet a sharply-focused tune like "A Graceful Fall" can bring those memories right back in focus. "I'm sick of life/and it's lost its fun/I'll see you in the next world/if there really is one." I've seen people give up. I'd rather not see it again.
Avoidance of songs, lines of thought, and old memories can't really save you. We deal with this stuff as best we can, so taking a short break from songs that put you back in the wrong headspace? That can't be a bad thing.
Hopefully, we can accept life's relentless momentum in a way that doesn't ruin our time here. On John Mellencamp's previous album Life, Death, Love and Freedom, I was struck by the key lyric to "Longest Days," related to him by his grandmother:
I have two amazing young daughters who constantly remind me of the distance in age between them and me. The youngest is too young to ask much, but is plenty busy with toys and books, and being the family comedian. My older daughter, however, she is full of questions and I, while not necessarily full of answers, have seen enough of the world to have a feeling or two about how things go most of the time. The answers seem to satisfy her, from what I can tell, at least. And the rest of the time, when I don’t know, I try to make up something entertaining that clearly makes no sense, and then wait to see how long it takes for her to complain.
Kids make you reassess everything. You know, before they came along, you had all the answers to your perfect little world. It was practically self-contained. You and your significant other, you orbited each other in perfect balance. Once you’ve got a kid in your life, it tosses away any semblance of that balance, challenging what you care about and how you approach everything outside of your family. Because everything matters and nothing matters. You suddenly have to start looking at things from their perspective, if only to see what is going to be a danger to your favorite tiny people, if not just to understand what they’re talking about half the time. In doing so, I’ve found that it’s humbling to look at how hopefully young kids view the world and how wearily I generally tend to see the world. Sometimes you feel a little unnecessarily worn down. If they are so hopeful, how can I feel so tired? I don’t think I want to.
Our oldest daughter is about to turn five and is overstuffed with questions, like most kids her age. They pop out of her at random times as if new ones being created in her head are shoving out the older ones. Some I can answer - why the sky’s blue, why rainbows look the way they do. Others leave me stumped, not because I can’t answer but because I don’t know what I should say. Questions about God, Jesus, religion. Some things I just don’t know that I feel right saying anything about. My answers, well, they might just be more questions.
I am not a religious man. The most of the Bible I’ve ever read was the part of Revelations that the opening of Iron Maiden’s “Number Of The Beast” used (which everyone thinks is voiced by Vincent Price. It’s not. Don’t worry, I thought that too.) I don’t have any real answers for her here. There’s no specific reason. I never had a falling out with the church or anything like that. It just never sat right with me. A five year old probably wouldn’t understand that.
A couple of years back, Charlie, my parents’ dog, died. He was a beloved companion to my daughter, and the situation raised questions about how to handle it. “He was sick and went away to be with his his mommy and daddy” is how we chose to handle it, but that was greeted with questions of when he would come back. It seemed that, night after night, at bed time, she'd pipe up with a new question about Charlie's status, and it would result in a sniffling response from mommy. The earnest lack of comprehension was so sweet and so sad.
I was about her age now when one of my grandpas died, and it didn't register. I didn't really know anything happened. I didn't go to the funeral, which wasn't any request I made. I stayed home with a family friend and instead we went to the grocery store. I often wonder what, if she has the ability to remember Charlie when she's older, will stick in her memories. I hope it's something better than going to the gross old Lucky supermarket.
It’s hard to make such a young child understand when someone you love isn’t coming back, and the concept of heaven didn’t register at all. Fluffy clouds and happiness all the time didn’t mean much - that was what she already offered him, so why would he need to go away? What could God mean to her? What could God mean to a three year old to make it okay that her favorite doggy was with him instead? I'm not sure I get that even now.
In David Bazan’s Curse Your Branches, I feel like I’ve found something really special. A kindred spirit, perhaps. Here is a man questioning everything, and getting lost along the way. A formerly religious man who formerly fronted a Christian indie band (Pedro The Lion,) he is digging through piles of questions, trying to understand how what he knows to be right in his own mind and his own life contradicts and conflicts with everything the church he used to follow told him was right. In the album’s closing song, “In Stitches,” his own daughter is looking to him for answers about God, or the tongue in cheek ambling of “Bless This Mess,” where he wearily points out how, as long as you shelter under God’s umbrella, you can assume to be forgiven anything.
But it’s opening “Hard To Be” where he makes his case most clearly, and perhaps most offensively to devout Christians. He systematically tears down the story of Adam and Eve to the point that it devolves into mere myth, and it’s hard to fault him:
Wait just a minute You expect me to believe that all this misbehaving grew from one enchanted tree And helpless to fight it we should all be satisfied with the magical explanation for why the living die
He then delves into a list of other things explained away by the punishment from Original Sin: why childbirth is painful, why growing food is difficult, etc. It’s a beautiful, moving portrait of a man coming to grips with his new reality and how it changes his life in some dramatic and sometimes unfortunate ways. It’s a mood that pervades not just this song but the whole. It may be dark and gloomy but most of all it’s intimate like few others albums today are. Bazan has dared step away from his church and, in doing so, his family, and in the process has bared himself to everyone with a heart-wrenching, unflinchingly honest set of songs.
I don’t have any answers after listening to Curse Your Branches. I wasn’t looking for them going in, however. What I feel is, if not relief, maybe sympathy that there’s someone else out there asking exactly the same questions, feeling exactly the same conflict, and facing the same crises.
None of that would mean much to my daughter. That hopeful nature she has, being so young, keeps her curious and keeps her asking, each answer spawning a new question. It’s an opportunity for me, I suppose, to look at everything again and try to understand where I’m coming from. If I can’t answer her questions in a way that’s satisfactory to her, maybe that means I can’t answer the same questions to myself. And we have another kid who will be preparing her own inevitable set of uncomfortable questions that demand answers in the coming couple of years.
Many years ago, while stuck in traffic during the evening commute, I heard a radio segment on microtonal composer Easely Blackwood. I had read about things like microtones, 24-note equal tunings, and the like, but somehow none of the music had ever made it's way into my ears. Some of the pieces played that evening were so striking to my ears, so otherworldly, that I almost had to pull over onto the side of the road to complete the listen. It was that engrossing.
The recording they were playing cuts from was called Microtonal. It took me a while to find a copy of the disc (this might have been before Amazon was an option), but when I did, my ears were enthralled. Much has been written about the initial perceptions of microtonal music, employing words like "jarring" and "shocking." My reaction wasn't nearly that aggressive. Maybe years of listening to Ornette Coleman, Albert Ayler, and Peter Brotzmann can do that to a person. No, the most accurate description would be "fascinated."
The images that formed in my head as I heard these new sounds were quite ephemeral, eluding easy description. And then one afternoon, the answer came: fish tanks. Have you ever looked diagonally through an aquarium and them moved your head just a little? Did you notice how the image of those beautiful fish became distorted? That is exactly how my ear parts think of the harmonies that occur during many microtonal compositions. The music can sound "normal" and then "bend" into a different shape, one that retains elements of what we know as western music while displaying these completely new facets and geometries.
Since then, this newfound imagery has been useful when applied to other forms of music. There are times when no amount of language will do a better job than "bending."
And so it is with Tomas Fujiwara & The Hook Up. There are times during Actionspeak when the music does just that: bend. Fujiwara has put together a program of original compositions that makes terrific use of his Hook Up cohorts: Danton Boller on bass, Brian Settles (tenor sax), Jonathan Finlayson (trumpet), and then Fujiwara's secret weapon — Mary Halvorson on guitar.
To hear a musical construct slowly morphing during its short life, check out "Folly Cove." Reminiscent of The Lounge Lizards, the tune opens with a noirish figure repeated several times by saxophonist Settles. Danton Boller then joins in on bowed bass, delivering short comments on the original riff before going off to explore its extensions. By the time Fujiwara joins in at the kit, the structure that is only implied early on has begun to bloom. This process continues as Halvorson and Finlayson add the final touches. Ah, but we're not done yet. The entire band drops away, giving the guitar and trumpet space for more explorations. When the new direction is set, the drums and bass come back in for support. At one point Fujiwara takes a solo that illustrates his orchestral use of the kit. With muted sticks and subtle brushwork, he sets up a framework for the sly groove that follows. As with all great jazz, the written and improvised parts melt into one another.
But what about the bending, you might be thinking? Go back to the opening track "The Hunt," and bring in Fujiwara's "secret weapon." Mary Halvorson plays mostly clean-toned guitar that comes at the listener from so many unexpected angles. During this composition, she sets up chordal and melodic walls that are warped in mid-delivery to reshape entire passages in real time. Is she using a whammy bar? A whammy pedal? I sort of don't care, because the result is phenomenal.
Just know that Tomas Fujiwara has put together quite a unique ensemble. Kidding about fishtanks aside, this is a group worthy further investigations. Be careful if you're listening in your car. You just might have to pull over to the side of the road.
Actionspeak will be released on September 14, 2010 and can be purchased directly from 482 Music.
Note: This is a slightly abridged version of the inaugural article in the long-running "Whack Jazz" series, first appearing on July 11, 2006 in the forerunner site to Something Else Reviews, Da Blog by Daslob. Machine Gun remains to me the gold standard for all thrash-jazz records, one that all other such albums are measured against. Peter Brötzmann himself have made plenty of great records since then but never completely recaptured the magic of these sesssions (although F*ck De Boere comes awfully close):
"Brötzmann, the tenor sax player, one of the greatest alive."
- Bill Clinton, when asked by the Oxford American to name a musician people would be surprised he listened to.
The Tet Offensive. The Democratic National Convention In Chicago. The MLK and RFK assasinations. And if 1968 wasn’t violent enough, West German avant garde tenorman Peter Brötzmann unleashed Machine Gun unto the world.
Unhinged, utterly devoid of subtlety. In your face. Of all the entries that may follow in my Whack Jazz series, none will be as extreme an expression of free jazz as this one, John Zorn's Naked City with Yamatsuka Eye notwithstanding.
Major eruptions are followed by minor ones. Occasional rat-a-tat-tats on the drums by Han Bennink for the various takes of the title song is a simple reminder of the theme. The other saxophonists Willem Breuker and Evan Parker join PB for some impromtu faux choruses but despite everyone blowing at their hardest, Brötzmann’s tenor always manages to rise above the chaos; the man has steel lungs. Pianist Fred Van Hove is barely audible most of the time and even having two bassists...Peter Kowald and Buschi Niebergall...doesn’t make for a consistently strong presence on the low end, either, although where they are heard, they make the most of the opportunity. Just as the alert ear can begin to pick up some semblance of a simple melody rising from the chaos, the ensemble blows it up into total disintegration, as if to be playing an evil game of creating enemies for the pleasure of cutting them down; an influence of the then-living Albert Ayler.
Virtually all the players on this record were at the beginning of their careers and have since become some pretty significant jazz players in Europe and the world. Bennink himself will merit his own entry on this blog one day.
So while it’s pretty cool to say that Peter Brötzmann is a favorite tenor player of the former Leader Of The Free World, it’s even more cool to explore his music and discover how he’s become such a giant in both European jazz and free jazz. Machine Gun is where the greatness begins.
There's been a quiet trend of the last fifteen or so years that seems to be picking up steam lately. That is, to approach jazz from the dreamy and sometimes rough textures of alt rock and electronics. There's even a name for this: post-rock. Tortoise was one of the first groups to attempt this, and remains one of the most successful at it.
Post-rock is a genre that's tough to pull off right: if the music gets too hypnotic and droning, it can sedate listeners and fails to distinguish itself from ambient music. On the other hand, if it gets too busy, it just sounds like a bunch of rockers playing jazz, which usually isn't pretty. Mercury Falls is a new band that you could put in that "post-rock" pigeonhole, but whether you want to call it that, or jazz fusion or instrumental rock, I think these guys figured it out right from the start.
Mercury Falls is a quartet of guys who bring a wealth of experience in rock, folk, jazz, classical, electronic and world music. Patrick Cress (woodwinds, flute) and Ryan Ryan Francesconi (guitar, electronics) provides the compositions, and are rounded out by Tim Bulkley (drums) and Eric Perney (acoustic bass). Their inaugural release Quadrangle came out last week, and it's one that took several years to make, but the payoff comes in a well-constructed album that minds the details. But this ain't no Steely Dan vibe; think of a kinder, gentler David Torn.
The comparison to Torn comes in the basic way the music is crafted: a strong emphasis on textures and moods, accomplished via carefully placed electronic washes and compositions that are really collections of evolving sonic fragments. You sense that right off on the opening track "Spring Pools," which starts out with a suspended progression of chords before a riff slowly emerges from the fog. Francesconi throws out the basic melody and Cress delineates on it. Once the vamp comes into focus, so does Bulkley, and soon his accents nearly become a full-blown drum solo behind Cress' saxes. But it happens in such a non-disruptive way.
For "Quad Idea," Cress' various saxes are layered on top of each other as Bulkley metes out a circular rhythm, and the fascinating thing is how the song manages to sound lean despite that. Francesconi relies more on his shimmering electric guitar to provide a wall of atmospheric sounds on "Years Without Speech," while "Solar Plexus" gradually pulls together low-keyed percussive elements into a unified rhythmic charge through Francesconi's electronically produced clouds of noise and revolving around Perney's insistent pulse.
Mercury Falls' Quadrangle is a first step that is no misstep. The only real quibble is the sub-forty minute running time; I would have liked to have heard one more track from this CD. In a way, though, that's a compliment. Quadrangle is for moderate moods, but when you're in that mood, you want to hear more of this record.
Several of Muddy Waters' great sidemen -- Junior Wells, Buddy Guy and Otis Spann -- appear on the loose and funky "Southside Blues Jam," originally issued by Chicago's Delmark Records.
Funny, for all their marquee value, Wells and Guy -- Buddy was born in Lettsworth, Louisiana -- are very nearly overshadowed by the intricate, intelligent playing of the shoulda-been legendary Spann.
In this, his last studio appearance, Spann's fecund blues genius is writ large. Even as Junior Wells (ever the showman) chicken-legs through each song -- "I know her daddy got to be a millionaire," he sings, "I can tell by the way she walks" -- Spann never stumbles.
But Spann is only part of what makes this record important.
Recorded in December 1969 and January 1970, "Southside Blues Jam" lives up to its name -- portraying a refreshing disregard for later-period blues recordings' penchant for production. It's roll the tapes, and let's play.
The album recalls the old Blue Monday, where Guy was a regular, at Theresa's Blues Bar on Chicago's Southside. The feel of those sweaty workouts serves a blueprint for the playing and an inspiration for the album's name.
One drawback (at least for me): No liner notes. The closest you get to that is a photograph of the boys on the back. A treat, sure, but not something that lends any perspective.
Even so, they seem june-bug happy with the proceedings in that photo -- exhuberant with the memory of instruments only just now cooling off back in the studio.
In my mind, they've just finished "Trouble Don't Last Always," the almost eight-minute long closer. That song is everything "Southside Blues Jam" aspires to be as an album: Blues without the lathered-up producers and thunk-out structure.
On it, Buddy Guy is pushing, Junior Wells is pulling -- and check Otis Spann: Cucumber-cool, jacket-pulled-off slick.
The gospel never sounded so blue, so jazz, so locomotive.
Mother Nature just staged a terrorist act on our ass!
--Warren Smith, "Dyes And Lyes"
About five years ago, woodwinds and flute specialist Andrew Lamb convened a recording session with his longtime musical partner Warren Smith (drums, percussion) and the bass/cello master Tom Abbs for some free form musical expression. That's nothing new for longtime practitioners of improvised music such as these three, but this session had a special purpose: it was to put into music the strong emotions felt by those most victimized by the most devastating catastrophe to hit a certain historic and important American city.
Recorded a scant three weeks after Katrina wrecked New Orleans, New Orleans Suite is music that literally does live in the moment, in the immediate, confused and heartbreaking aftermath of the storm. Dr. John is the only other artist that I know of who put together a Katrina-inspired session so soon, but Lamb, Abbs and Smith didn't dwell at all on nostalgia; this is all about the despair and fury that pervaded the immediate weeks following America's largest natural disaster. Likewise, the improvised music used as a conduit for these emotions have little on common with NOLA icons like Armstrong, Longhair, Toussaint, Rebennack or scores of other Crescent City influences, but if jazz is "the sound of surprise," then its cousin free jazz could be considered "the sound of raw emotion." Using this method of expression, the frayed nerves and sorrow that prevailed in September, 2005 were clearly presented by Lamb and company.
New Orleans Suite was originally released in 2006, but Engine Studios has remixed and remastered the recordings and is bringing it back on August 24, just five days before the fifth anniversary of the tragedy. With this big somber commemoration coming up, it's a good time to look back at the Lamb Trio's ruminations.
"Dyes And Lyes" is both the central song for this album and the exception to the rest. Performed around Warren Smith's poetry on the Bush Administration's half-hearted response to the crisis, the group reacts to Smith's lines like a stage play. Going into Week Four of the aftermath, "And the people are still waiting/The FEMA trucks are loaded and standing," Smith's expression of the frustration at the government's inaction was a sentiment that remains plenty justified in retrospect. The song turns into a simple blues at the end as Smith mocks the sincerity of the concern for the poor when he croons that "it's a new world order coming with the break of day."
"Katrina's Path" articulates the fury of the storm itself; Smith and Abbs bring the thunder and Lamb provides the unpredictable winds via his tenor sax. But as the weather changes, so goes the song as it settles into a temporary calm before coming back stronger than ever. All three are putting in remarkable performances, but Lamb is leading the way with an intense temperament. "Rescue Me" (not the Fontella Bass song), is a remarkable display of Abbs' deftness in weaving a sinister bed of low notes that both Smith and Lamb feast on. Smith gave bells to both Lamb and Abbs to play on "Black Water" (not the Doobie Brothers song), as Smith himself played the elephant bells, giving the song an exotic, chant-like mood, only without the chants.
Smith uses on odd assortment of percussion devices on "Song Of The Miracle Lives" that seems to elicit some emotional responses out of Lamb's weeping saxophone. The ending track "Aftermath Healing" is where the band finally plays music that sounds something like New Orleans (not that it mattered). Lamb plays harmonica over Smith's fractured second line beat, and Abbs is playing funky, Big Easy R&B lines that holds the sparsely rendered song together. The fragile way its played sends the message that the spirit of New Orleans' culture and character may be battered, but still lives on.
The defiant nature of the song sums up the defiant nature of the record, too, made at time when there was little hope. But five years later, the music sounds stronger than ever...and thankfully, so is the city that lies at the center of this music.
By Mark Saleski
