The Great Flood

Life in the Twin Cities can sometimes feel like cruel exile to the hinterlands when it comes to in-concert jazz and improvised music. We’re about a day’s travel from Chicago as the crow flies and the outposts of Madison and Ann Arbor aren’t that much closer, making the trek mostly the folly of hearty souls willing to play for door proceeds and a palette on the floor. This reality is why the bounty of riches that’s been bestowed on Minneapolitans and Saint Paulians this month is such a welcome change of circumstances.

Seems like a veritable flood of improvisers has been cruising through town and in typical fashion, my procrastinating personage hasn’t been getting out nearly as often as I should. Much of the action is orbiting around the locus of the annual Sur Seine Festival, a conclave of French and local musicians that has since expanded to include European heavy-hitters from other locales. The full schedule is available through the bolded hyperlink above. Performances thus far have included a visit by Peter Brötzmann in trio w/ bassist Anthony Cox and drummer Mark Sanders Last night was the first of three Evan Parker gigs, a solo recital in the acoustically sound surroundings of the Clouds in Water Zen Center. Arriving a bit early, I had a chance to eavesdrop on Evan running through Monk’s “Evidence” and what sounded like the fragment of a Lacy tune, promising melodic exercises for the upcoming feast. Shuffling out in his socks (as per the Zen Center custom), he eschewed addressing the audience with introductions and commenced instead with the music.

After impressive, if predictable, circular breathing salvos on soprano and tenor that filled the space with the slippery spirals of his signature multiphonics, Parker slipped his spectacles back on, his ruddy cheeks made all the ruddier by the previous exertions and the color contrast of his coarse white beard, and paused for a spoken anecdote. He told the story of his meeting with a famous Japanese flautist while in the company of free jazz drummer Sabu Toyozumi. Over tea, Sabu told the flautist of Parker’s circular breathing skills. “That’s not possible,” replied the flautist. Sabu rejoined with an offer to have Parker demonstrate the technique. “That’s not necessary,” countered the flautist, “I already know that it is not possible.” Citing its Zen appropriateness, Parker brought things back to the present with a wry quip: “So, I’ve shown you that I can circular breathe; now I’ll play some music.”

Curiously enough, the two remaining soprano improvisations of the program where well-stocked with circular breathing as well, though Parker did vary the palette with some staccato and legato passages the broke free from the mold of cyclical overlapping tones. The first piece even included a pithy concluding tag referencing the Steve Lacy tune “Hubris”. Quite abruptly, Parker left the room, leaving his horns behind on a plastic chair. Applause erupted. Soon after, he returned to retrieve his horns, only to exit once again. The clapping continued and he returned once more, bowing graciously and offering gratitude to the small crowd, but by this point it was obvious to everyone that recital was over with barely 40-minutes elapsed. Trundling out to the lobby to recoup my shoes, I still found myself a bit in awe over what had transpired, but strangely, a little disappointed too, having hoped for more variety in the performance. It was a delight to hear Parker in person, but the recital’s brevity and relative homogeneity still left me hungry for more.

Tatsuya Nakatani’s performance the previous night was similarly mixed. Hosted by the Acadia Café, a small Minneapolis coffee house with a surprisingly diverse beer menu, the concert included three sets by the visiting New York percussionist. Nakatani played the first set solo, employing a round robin of extended techniques. Some, like his use of bowls and cymbals as agents for rubbed harmonics, were stunning; others, like the application of bows to gong to create reverberating drones, less so. Perhaps most impressive was how he kept things moving, ranging over his kit and not allowing the ensuing music to list for too long. The second set featured the addition of two local improvisers: alto saxophonist Jaron Childs and a laptop guitarist whose name I didn’t catch. Things slowed down significantly, the two newcomers dealing in molasses gradations that seemed to stymie Nakantani’s more animated side. After 45-minutes of lackluster interaction, I decided to call it a night and not stay for the third set. On the way out, I picked up a postcard detailing Nakatani’s current tour schedule: 37 dates in 19 states, that’s an itinerary of Kowaldian proportions! Here’s hoping that safe travels and plenty of adventures ensue.

Vijay Iyer’s Quartet plays the Walker Arts Center tonight, but I have a prior obligation to attend the opening of a friend’s play. I am looking forward to catching at least one night of Lew Tabackin’s three-night stand at Saint Paul’s Artists' Quarter this weekend. He’s touring as a single and will most likely be playing with a pick-up band that includes AQ proprietor Kenny Horst on skins. Horst is an acquired taste, a drummer whose inner Buddy Rich tends to come out at inopportune times, and for whom the rim shot and press roll are prerequisites in every solo. But Tabackin, who evidently comes through town for an AQ gig every five or so years, is more than capable of keeping him in check. I’m particularly looking forward to hearing the piquant Eastern-tinged Tabackin flute in person. And Parker’s playing twice more, first with Tony Hymas and then with the local improv ensemble Charcoal (Milo Fine, Anthony Cox & Davu Seru). Both gigs are at the tiny Zeitgeist Gallery in Saint Paul and word on the street is that either or both may sell out.

Next week, it’s Dave Holland’s Quintet for a two-nighter at The Dakota, Monday and Tuesday, though ticket prices as per the norm for Minneapolis’ most swanky jazz venue, are steep at $35 a pop. Also on the horizon, bebop burnout turned comeback Frank Morgan in the company of Mr. Beautiful himself, George Cables. I caught Morgan as part of the Minneapolis Jazz Festival this summer and came away less than impressed, thanks mostly to his sluggish color-by-numbers phrasing on treacly ballads like “Suicide is Painless”, but the subtraction of pick-up band coupled with the addition of Cables makes it more than worth consideration. Who knows how long the flood will last? In the meantime, I’ve gained renewed resolve to frolic in the waters while they continue to flow. With winter nigh, the inevitable drought can’t be far behind.