Overemphasizing the electronic aspects in a mixed source composition can result in a tragic error sometimes, the major risk factor being an excessive similarity to other pieces and, on the contrary, the danger of transforming the whole into some sort of mutation of a Playstation game soundtrack. The alternative is usually a release based on pure or slightly treated field recordings; but that method, too, has predictably begun to include big-time commonplaces, albeit pleasurable ones (pouring rain, forest birds, people’s chat in the streets and the sea’s wash are often a great listen but – come on – how long have we been hearing them now?). Speaking of fairly enlightened post-precursors, Jos Smolders’ late 80s debut - Freebasing A For Is Me - was, in the author’s reminiscence, “built as an abstract expressionism sound sculpture”. After twenty years or so - and various records dedicated to the full exploitation of a single idea down to the bare minimum - Smolders decided to go back to the origins.
At over 67 minutes, Gaussian Transient is a long album even for this genre, requiring patience to investigate its most secluded corners. Yet it is also easily describable as a concurrence of environmental situations and more atypical inspections (including what the composer calls “the intestines of a harmonium”). I tried it in several occasions - same setting, different hours of the day - varying the reproduction level and taking into account dissimilar external features joining the music. The dynamic range explored by Smolders, which goes from the almost inaudible to the reasonably consistent, makes sure that we’re forced to actively contribute to the experience, either via the intuition of what’s happening in the remote background of a quasi-silence or by feeling sheltered by a sense of familiarity: that, for example, materializing when the classic whooshed clangor of a distant train revived the memory of characteristic nocturnal occurrences at some stage in my adolescence’s sleepless nights, spent in a summer house not far from a railway.
This means that, as it often happens in this type of outing, the success of the record mainly depends on the fulfillment attainable by listening to a largely recognizable “something” for the umpteenth time. The small amount of processing applied to the material is, mostly, only a complement in this case; the work remains, again in the words of its creator, “just what it is”. From this observation angle, a definitely well-crafted, functional sonic artifact.
~ Massimo Ricci
By listening to this joint effort by Will Montgomery and Heribert Friedl one realizes that the act of creating a certain kind of music doesn’t differ too much from taking a deep breath in the silence of a forest during a solitary walk, and – eyes closed – determining what’s heard in that very moment, and from where those manifestations arrive. These gentlemen are definitely interested in the same musical areas, the ones where improvisation and structural definition meet; exactly in that territory they tried to mingle talents, starting a collaboration in the spring of 2006. Friedl recorded himself playing his hackbrett (essentially, a cimbalom), then sent the files to Montgomery for opportune treatment and addition of electronic sources, and vice versa. After a while the composer realized that things weren’t working, consequently deciding of “absorbing Heribert’s material into his own”.
Montgomery’s style is informed by a Feldmanesque penchant for giving each occurrence an almost perfect position in an ample space, the latter usually coincident with something approaching total quietness. Not one of his sounds seems to expand further than the strict necessary, yet – when the composition requires it – he’s ready to elongate and stretch the raw matter until it resembles a series of blurry apparitions, isolated events in a somewhat introverted aural landscape where peripheral, but not extraneous factors are positively welcome in delineating the listener’s background, both physically and psychologically. The amalgamation of Friedl’s mutated strings and Montgomery’s electronics works just fine in that sense, the acoustic quintessence of the hackbrett swallowed and regurgitated, appearing as a fluid entity designed to measure a room’s width through refraction and echoing shapelessness rather than represent a sonic item per se.
Not necessarily revolutionary, Non-Collaboration is an album whose neat chilliness and inflexible logic hide several instants of concentrated, unpolluted beauty, provided that we’re paying special attention. Although these artists are well conscious of how an installation soundscape should work, ambient music it ain’t – you’ll have to wear Spock’s ears this time.
~ Massimo Ricci
England’s JSP label, with John Steadman at the helm, has long been heralded as a great reissue label, sporting a fine catalog of expertly remastered reissues at budget prices. Their Louis Armstrong Hot Fives and Sevens box, transferred by the late lamented John R.T. Davies, is second to none for sound quality at just above the cost of a normally priced single disc.
JSP is now in the process of outdoing itself by issuing the complete published sides by Fats Waller. If anyone is due such a project, it’s Fats. Long remembered as a supremely gifted entertainer and songwriter, his skills as a pianist have been somewhat eclipsed, relatively speaking. His prowess on the organ is all but forgotten, cited in reverential whispers by those in the know who also lament the fact that such a multitalented musician and composer has been so short-changed by revisionist history. His catalog fared no better in the reissue market; spread out over several labels but chiefly on RCA, several reissue programs of varying repute and legitimacy have treated his legacy sloppily indeed. Even the best of these, undertaken by Orrin Keepnews in the 1990s, was far from complete. Now, we have these fantastic box sets, each one containing four discs and sporting fantastic sound.
Volume 1 opens with Waller’s first recordings, made for the Okeh label in 1922 under infamous but legendary producer Ralph Peer. These first piano solos show the eighteen-year-old already having mastered the stride piano techniques associated with his teacher, James P. Johnson. We then follow Fats through a series of accompanist roles, supporting everyone from blues singers such as Alberta Hunter to odd forgottens—witness the humorously bizarre Jamaica Jazzers sides. He even belies his background in the church on a few sides with the reverend JC Burnett! Fame ultimately finds Waller, and his pipe organ work, as in an early version of the Fletcher Henderson orchestra, he is placed alongside a young Coleman Hawkins in some exuberantly hot jazz. Solo organ sides abound, and his earliest associations with musical theater are also represented, making this first box indispensable in charting Waller’s apprenticeship and maturation.
Volume 2 sees Waller hitting his stride as a composer; it contains the first version of what is perhaps Waller’s best known composition, “Ain’t Misbehavin’.” Written for a review called “Hot Chocolates,” it appears here in a swinging solo piano version recorded in 1929. The rendition bears all the hallmarks of late 1920s gaiety, a trait that would pervade Wallers’ performances in the coming years as he began to sing, evolving from somewhat stereotypical crooner to the performer that could subvert trite pop material while always endearing himself to his audience. The two earliest versions of “Crazy ‘bout my baby” tell the tale. Both recorded in early 1931, the first with the Ted Louis Orchestra is one of Fats’ early vocal performances, and he’s straight-laced until the final verse. Not so when he revisits the tune a few weeks later, and we get a bit of the humorous patter he perfected throughout the 1930s.
In 1934, Fats finally received a regular recording contract from RCA Victor, for whom he’d recorded sporadically for some time. Also in that year, his regular band, Fats Waller’s Rhythm was formed, staying together until Waller’s death in 1943.
Volume 3 sees that solidification, taking us through a good part of 1936. Through much of this set, the classic Gene Sedrick/Herman Autrey/Al Casey lineup can be heard in fine form. We hear the first recordings of Waller staples like “It’s a Sin to Tell a Lie,” and “I’m gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter,” and while the latter is a bit more straight-laced than other versions, it is certainly replete with Walleresque charm. The 1934 piano solos that open the first disc of the set constitute a highlight, especially this rendering of “Viper’s Drag,” in which Waller takes a pot-shot (pun intended) at Grieg.
Ted Kendall’s remastering is worth particular note. Often overcoming sub par sources, especially in the earlier volumes, he is able to perform miracles, demonstrating just how dynamic these recordings can really be if treated with affection and care. Mr. Davies once said that Kendall, his protégé, actually restored better than he did, and while that remains a matter of taste, his work here gives us the finest versions of these seminal recordings currently available. As with most JSP titles, the notes are a bit cursory but serviceable and certainly entertaining, biographical information abounding and full discographies included.
Volumes 4 and 5 are now available, and I will comment on these when the final set is released. Suffice it to say that this series is not only absolutely welcome, it is essential; sound alone makes it indispensable, but the inclusion of alternates, usually on the final disc of each set, will appease researchers and fans alike. Hats off, again, to JSP for what is shaping up to be a remarkable achievement.
~ Marc Medwin
Even though the association to Phill Niblock, Eliane Radigue and Iannis Xenakis on the press release sounds a little disproportionate, there’s no doubt that Commonwealth stands among the finest drone-based records landed on this desk in recent times. Brendan Murray has been active in Boston’s sound art scene for a long time now, also as a partner of renowned individuals in the same field (Sillage, with Seth Nehil on Sedimental, a quasi-milestone in that logic). His creativity orbits around the meticulous modification of various sorts of instrumental radiation until the matter becomes just about unrecognizable, a process whose perfection can require years (in this particular occasion more than fifteen drafts were created before Murray OK’d the definitive version). Basic factors in this hymn to pseudo-stillness were guitars, analog synthesis and “plenty of digital manipulation”: what emerges is an outright cycle of unplumbed depths, gravelly frequencies and wobbly tremors determining hundreds of subtle shifts. A sonic craft made of slow progress, overlaid sources, buried hues.
After a few seconds of silence, an awe-inspiring mass of almost motionless waves arises, soon reaching a next-to-saturation pinnacle, like a thousand shortwave radios tuned to a single frequency. The ominous-yet-harmonious growl lying beneath signifies the impending disaster suggested by the music, as well as a much-desired refuge against marginal noises and voices. Little by little the whole stabilizes into a rather regular flow of inconspicuous events, the unremitting gradualness of the original wall of spurious resonance inexorably wrapping us, preventing our concentration from focussing elsewhere; distraction is not even contemplated. It goes on and on without dramatic changes, the piece finally reaching its natural demise, slowly, inescapably. Not once we’re able to determine the existence of a truly affirmed “chord”, despite clear-cut compositional attitude and painstaking care for the accurate setting up of what, in point of fact, is entirely incogitable. Rare qualities in today’s analogous offerings. I’d be delighted of listening to an orchestral ensemble - Zeitkratzer, anyone? - extrapolating additional energy from this material.
A great album and, despite the substantial consequences on the psyche, a lesson in restraint for the innumerable drone-concocting, Zen-ish phonies populating the globe. By giving it a rigorous try at night, maybe with the windows open, one hopes to get in synch with this moribund earth’s pulse at last.
~ Massimo Ricci
I have to confess a bit of personal history with Wadada Leo Smith. My uncle Philip, at one time a reedman and composer, studied with Smith in New Haven in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s, eventually becoming part of the Creative Musicians Improvisers Forum (CMIF). Phil went to a workshop that Smith was teaching, and ended up being one of two attendees. Rather than the “introduction to freedom” that he was expecting, Smith played Louis Armstrong’s “West End Blues” solo note-for-note, with perfect pitch and similar attack, enough so that one might be hard pressed to differentiate between the recording of Satch and what Smith was doing. The AACM-schooled trumpeter whose Kabell recordings were micro yet far more expansive than any Art Ensemble recordings was, at heart, a traditionalist.
Of course, Smith’s name is rarely—if ever—mentioned alongside the new traditionalists coming up in the ‘80s, and he’s not characterized as part of the Wynton, Nicholas Payton, etc. (wonder if they even know who he is?) crew. Yet Smith’s participation in groups like Yo Miles! and his own Golden Quartet place him in line with those who are directly addressing and expanding upon the post-bop language vis-à-vis Miles Davis. The latest incarnation of Smith’s Golden Quartet features regular cohort, bassist John Lindberg, as well as recent additions in pianist Vijay Iyer and drummer Shannon Jackson. After recording for Pi and Tzadik, Tabligh is the first disc by the group on Cuneiform.
Thinking of Smith’s music microcosmically—and especially as I was exposed to it from a lineage of free improvisation—seems antithetical to tradition, even if it’s aesthetic. Smith’s philosophy of rhythm units seems atomistic, but being able to encapsulate and reference an entire composition (or an entire tradition) in phrases and the spaces between gives largeness to the very small. Miles’ sound might be more condensed, even as the music was often very open. It’s an interesting dichotomy that he was able to play with, and that tension seems most pronounced on his mid-Sixties recordings. Armstrong’s sound was, by comparison, huge and full-bore, yet his Hot Fives and Sevens seemed utterly wound-up (partially due to the exigencies of recording).
On “Rosa Parks,” the image conjured—courtesy Iyer’s electric piano and synthesizers—is that of Miles’ languid late-Sixties pulse, yet with Smith skittering over the top in brittle explosions often in tandem with Jackson’s martial Sunny Murray-esque allover thrum. Smith is at times like crumpled paper and wisp, but never is he indirect, even at his most terse. It’s interesting to think of him as a rhythm player, as he’s frequently trading volleys with the drummer as piano and bass create a swirling sound-field below and around them. Smith’s homage to the group’s previous percussionist, “DeJohnette,” begins with a terse brass sketch as Iyer engages acoustic cascades and tosses bricks in erudite surges. Smith, like Miles, knows how to use a group and is able to adjust his prominence or sit back and watch others create in a framework he may direct, but whose impulses are collective. This collectivity is often dense, constant cymbal chatter, arco glisses and clanging blocks filling in while Smith’s pointed shots and simple extrapolations sometimes sail of a separate, sketched motor.
Midway through “DeJohnette,” a wistful blues etude erupts into growls and blurred high-register swaths, Smith encapsulating a full-band density in nearly unaccompanied space. It is these moments where the rhythm section mostly lays out, prodding on occasion, that the trumpeter steps out into the open and his range—sonic and historical—cuts through the air. Tabligh is an album that should be on the shelf of anyone with an interest in the past eighty-odd years of trumpet improvisation.
~ Clifford Allen
Ideal Bread is a quartet consisting of baritone saxophonist Josh Sinton (a former Chicagoan who studied with Allan Chase, Ari Brown, and Ken Vandermark), trumpeter Kirk Knuffke, bassist Reuben Radding and Boston-based drummer Tomas Fujiwara. Their modus operandi is to explore the compositions of Steve Lacy, though unlike other Lacy tributes – such as those by straight-hornmen Joe Giardullo and Jurg Wickihalder – there is no soprano saxophone present. After all, there’s a tendency to compare soprano saxophonists to Lacy when inhabiting the same musical territory, even when they sound very little like the elder statesman. The inclusion of baritone does separate Ideal Bread a bit, but only superficially, as Lacy used baritone players like Charles Davis and Charles Tyler in his bands (and even Jimmy Giuffre reportedly worked the low horn alongside Lacy at one point). Lacy’s compositions are also tremendously orchestrated and often have a more pronounced bottom end than might at first be apparent.
Sinton states in the liners how Ideal Bread intend to do for Lacy what Lacy did for Monk’s music in the early ‘60s; namely, work with the tunes to show the possibilities that lay beyond their basic structures. Here, they’re using tunes mostly from the mid- to late-70s as springboards, including cuts from Trickles (Black Saint, 1976) and the underrated NY Capers & Quirks (Hat Hut, 1981). The earliest piece here is “Esteem,” first recorded in 1972 on The Gap (America), which its composer dedicated to Johnny Hodges. Whereas the original was a poem of piercing tones, Ideal Bread moves the piece into an elegiac melody of orchestral weight – massive in unison yet microcosmic from bar to bar.
Radding takes the first solo spot into a mini-concerto, his arco thick and trailed by throaty whispers of horsehairs and Fujiwara’s mallets. Sinton’s baritone is smoke and slippery cadences, building into growls and slurs but harping on delicacy of digits. Likewise, Knuffke’s stately pathos tells one more about “Esteem” in a few held half-valves than most trumpeters could in a lifetime. Sinton and Knuffke make an interesting front-line pair, hard-charging baritone panning sound while the trumpeter’s self-assured assimilation of the postbop language into free playing is extraordinarily fresh and gimmick-free.
“Bud’s Brother” was written for Richie Powell, like all of Lacy’s tunes having a curious dedicatee whose connection to the theme might seem spurious. After all, one of the most raucous lines on The Gap, “La Motte Piquet,” was appended with the composer’s statement that “Sonny Clark always liked this sort of tune.” Uh huh. The head of “Bud’s Brother” is a deft trip of ascending and descending flicks, singsong and blur. Sinton takes the first solo, worrying thematic fragments and toying with them like a dog shaking a stuffed toy as Radding and Fujiwara skip the tempo like stones. Soon, a baritone pyramid is built and the trio is far from anything Lacy could’ve imagined. Knuffke is steely cry, working threads over a massive ensemble drone until he and Fujiwara take the reins as a duo, brassy particulates assembled in clear lines atop a blur of gong-and-tom motion.
The only unfortunate thing about The Ideal Bread is the fact that it is a limited edition CDR release, and will probably be long gone by the time the jazz world catches up. It’s a shame because not only is the playing extraordinary, but the germinating ideas and the conviction with which the group approaches them is something that a lot of people in this music could learn from.
~ Clifford Allen
A visionary ability in the assemblage of concrete and electronic sources can take you a long way, the constrictions of low budgets notwithstanding. Greek label Triple Bath, run by Themis Pantelopoulos, published only 96 copies of Red Rose For The Sinking Ship by Jeff Gburek, a 45-year old guitarist and composer who uses extended guitar techniques, signal processing, open source applications and field recordings to engender a unique electroacoustic brand. The man collaborates with Michael Vorfeld and Michael Walz in the ZYGOMA trio, has played with the likes of Keith Rowe, Tetuzi Akiyama, Kyle Bruckmann and - in 2006 - was a student of Helmut Lachenmann in Darmstadt. Recent releases appeared on A Question Of Re_Entry (the excellent Virtuous Circles), Con-V and on the Mattin website. Additional info about earlier works can be found via an attentive search through this very website.
The album’s title is impenetrably arcane, considering that “...Red is a kind of sympathetic individual who loves people” and that “rose” is pronounced as, and exchangeable with, “rows”. In Gburek’s words, “…the sinking ship will leave behind survivors, more appreciative of simple human care”. The overall plot emphasizes “revolutionary nostalgia” and “the naivety of utopianism”, as this five-part composition should be considered a sonic essay about the figure of Mao Zhedong. Quite sincerely, I couldn’t think of a farther connection after having heard the music, dynamically variable and often very intense, the representation of a physiochemical complex rather than a reminder of revolution.
Each setting is fairly incomparable, featuring a comprehensive gamut of protuberances and radiations - mildly synthetic to shortwave to ear-biting noise. The originator depicts his fantasies through processed carillons, modified guitars, birdsongs and - utterly baffling for this writer - tapings of ongoing activities at the main railway station in Milan, the incessant hubbub interspersed with computerized announcements of delayed arrivals and upcoming departures appearing like illusions in a haze of humming presences and altered ambiences. Beyond the studio treatment, there is substance in this music’s backbone: Gburek is seriously endowed with architectural talent, allowing the single scenes to maintain a logic of “anomalous occurrence” while functioning coherently as a whole. Their consecutiveness is almost visible, the changes expected yet disconcerting, the listener embraced by a pale-skinned gratification throughout, until a softly unsettling finale (which will be left unrevealed).
A work that grows with every listen, definitely recommended.
~ Massimo Ricci
In a business where top billing recording gigs aren’t usually elusive to deserving musicians, drummer Joe Chamber’s path to the driver’s seat was oddly fraught with delays and detours. He kept busy during the Sixties with sideman dates, mainly in the employ of Bobby Hutcherson. Hutch’s Components could rightly be claimed as a joint venture given that Chambers’ compositions occupy the entire B-side of the record. Still, no offer circulated down from the Lion and Wolff front office and Chambers had to wait until 1998 to ink a deal with Blue Note. Fortunately, other labels were listening and responsive, among them the presciently-titled Finite Records which financed this date in the middle of the following decade.
The project is very much of its time and shares common ground with another of Chambers’ loosely contemporaneous efforts, The Almoravid. Eastern, Latin and African elements combine in a populist leaning bent that also plies a predictable emphasis on percussion and sacrifices some of the compositional complexity of the drummer’s earlier work. Omar Clay and Ray Mantilla each employ their own batteries of drums alongside Chambers’ core kit and marimba. Vamps and riffs serve as the primary structural adhesives on the album’s five pieces. The title track sounds like a kissing cousin to the Charlie’s Angels theme, heavy on funky atmospherics that arise from fuzz bass and guitar and an answering amalgam of keening soprano saxophone and electric piano. Chambers and his percussive partners percolate around and beneath, building a vacillating array of beats with hands and sticks.
Clay’s “Chung Dynasty” works off a spiraling progression advanced by vibes and guitar. Dick Meza’s flute and flotilla of bells and shakers supplies added color and texture to create a mystic-minded mood piece. “Rio” and “Blow-Up” are borrowings from Chambers’ Blue Note colleagues Shorter and Hancock respectively, smoothed out and almost loungified through plush electric arrangements. Meza’s tenor competes with Paul Metzke’s guitar for the prize of most sugary solo on the first while Herb Bushler’s bass bubbles away as the anchor of an undulating groove on the second. Meza’s tenor sprouts some welcome spines, riding Chambers’ sturdy backbeat. Metzke sets off his own series of miniature flameouts on the Billy Cobham-worthy closer “Rock Pile”. Though the program length clocks at an EP-sized thirty-odd minutes, the brevity actually works in the album’s favor. Initial spins may leave a pungent impression of patchouli and Thai stick, but Chambers’ stylish and strenuous sticking keeps the disc from tipping totally into full fusion fission.
~ Derek Taylor
RéR
The fact that Biota release an album every seven years or so certainly hasn’t helped in generating the attention that their work fully deserves. Half A True Day - published quite a while ago, but only recently arrived in my hands - stands proudly amidst the corporation’s absolute best. Yet the same destiny of its predecessors seems to be awaiting. It’s called virtual obscurity.
Ever since the very first records under the Biota/Mnemonists marks (the latter used today for the collective’s visual counterpart, which adorns covers and booklets with splendidly imaginative artwork) the group has been dealing with cross-pollinations of genres, improvisation, folk-ish song forms and studio manipulation - an absolute point of strength. Over the last two decades, the reports from the musical research department have been signed by Biota which, starting from the 1989 masterpiece Tumble (RéR), progressively shifted the weight of the compositions towards a limited access zone where knowledgeable tampering of raw materials and memories of declining beauty secretly meet. The anarchic unpredictability of earlier albums like Horde or Tinct (both on RéR) has finally left room to a world of treated acoustic sources, taped ghosts and recollections of non-existing stories that William Sharp’s masterful editing and processing elevates to rarely found levels of awareness.
Similarly to other fruits of Biota’s creativity Half A True Day is a suite of sorts, seventeen tracks seamed in a 70-minute flow, almost no time for a listener to memorize a scene, just the glimpse of a few basic concepts appearing somewhere in the mix and instantly fading away. The problem is that this usually happens in parallel with four, five additional frames, all equally uncatchable. Peculiarly gripping themes intersect amidst amorphous reverberations and unstable chords apparently generated from detuned machines; that’s not the case - the superimposition of aural planes and ever-mutating colours is actually doing the work. We follow an allegedly regular figure or pattern, soon finding ourselves catapulted into a whirlwind of contrary-motion tapes and extraneous themes, then avalanched by strata of hissing phonemes and looped layers, each of the constituents contributing to a displacement that can’t be fought but, strangely enough, feels like a most welcome sensation. This goes on for the whole program, the music gifted with a graceful poignancy able to literally prick the proverbial cynic’s detachment.
Mixing normal instruments such as guitars, piano, violin, flugelhorn, accordion and exotic percussion with the likes of “biomellodrone keyboard” and “small battery-powered devices”, adding a charming vocal ingredient with Kristianne Gale (“Where No One Knows” is maybe the album’s top in terms of pure aesthetics) and Rolf Goranson, Biota manage to subvert the rules of expectation while remaining in proximity of an accessible method of expression. There lies their unacknowledged artistry, the ability of setting people’s mind in a comfortable position to let them enjoy music that for sure couldn’t be described as “comfortable”. The incomprehensible invisibility that accompanies this ensemble is a veritable puzzling issue. Still I wouldn’t be surprised if, all things considered, Katsimpalis, Whitlow, Sharp & co. revealed a preference for this status. After all, the purest form of art is necessarily incorruptible.
~ Massimo Ricci
Reuniting after nearly a quarter-century of absence in 2005, the pairing of reedman Peter Brötzmann and drummer Han Bennink was long a formidable one in European free improvisation. A listing of their appearances from 1968 through 1980 casts light on a staggering number of fascinating sides, many among them hideously rare (say what you will about the music, not too many originals of Haazz and Company float around the ether). But as their paths diverged in ensuing years, Brötzmann becoming a master of his very own small house and Bennink engaging swing and bebop proclivities more readily on a pared-down kit, it might have been no surprise that Still Quite Popular After All Those Years (BRO-4, 2005) was a sight more introspective than their duos on FMP and GUA-Bunge. Indeed, a set at the Vision Festival around that time was characterized by a critic friend of mine as “English” (whatever that means). Their approaches refined separately, In Amherst 2006 tames the beast of forty years while still letting it roar when necessary.
A blistering combination of tarogato, drums, the stage and Bennink’s sticks, “Every Man Is Me” starts the set right where they left off years before, the drummer’s kitchen sink of kinetic junk-sculpture replaced by a similar array of sounds/rhythms on a traditional kit. On the Romanian single-reed horn, Brötzmann occupies a narrow range of sinewy, dervish-like lines and terse multiphonics as everything from free-time to shuffles to near breaks to a drum choir give the engine a major shove. The dadaist gesture is part of what made the pair’s music (and in trio with pianist Fred Van Hove) in the Sixties and Seventies so uniquely powerful – irreverent, insane and as serious as a blow to the head. That requires, in many ways, a visual actualization and it’s hard not to think of Bennink with a foot on a snare and a drumstick in his mouth, even today. But without that visualization on record, one is left with something else and equal – a kaleidoscopic drummer and an extraordinarily nuanced reedman in an exchange, willful destruction and growth of ideas. An Ayler-to-klezmer clarinet digs at “I Am His Brother,” prodded and subsumed by hot floes of brushwork, while intricate percussive minutiae open “No Man Is My Enemy,” before hearkening back to the whoops, hollers and Milford-falling-down-the-stairs of old. Here, Brötzmann’s alto is dripping with bluesy pathos, kindling for future squalls. This is one hell of a pairing, even without the Black Forest, a brook and a broken clarinet.
~ Clifford Allen
The debut disc of Lisbon guitarist Luis Lopes continues in the Clean Feed tradition of Portuguese-American freebop combos, something that is fast becoming a hallmark of the label’s aesthetic. Lopes is joined by tenor saxophonist Rodrigo Amado, a fast-rising star of European improvisation, and the rhythm team of bassist Aaron Gonzalez and drummer Stefan Gonzalez, sons of Dallas-based trumpeter Dennis who has already ensconced himself in the Lisbon scene. It’s ambitious for a leader debut to be a program entirely original tunes, even in a seemingly post-everything milieu such as we have today, but the guitarist’s written lines acquit themselves well, not least of which because of the chosen supporting cast.
It’s apt that the brothers Gonzalez were chosen as the rhythm team – after all, Lopes has a rock pedigree (whatever that means anymore), which fits well with the punk-weaned pair of Yells At Eels fame. Their “rock” rhythms are dissective, acoustic tides on the parallel slink of the opening “Cristadingo,” a brilliant minor-key call of gruff tenor and gauzy plectra bells. As Amado digs in his heels, the band becomes a power trio, Lopes laying out as a plastic three-way volley is tossed. If Amado is a searcher in the keening vein of a saxophone preacher, the muted, behind-the-beat and wholly introspective worrying plucks and dissociative blues that the guitarist spins out is of a different quest altogether. They’re both inward, but by nature Lopes is far less exuberant than Amado – McLaughlin and Ray Russell he is not. Rather, he appears like a ghostly Moorish apparition in the middle of a blues-rock solo as minimalist arpeggios appear, only to be broken into long-legged chunks and faded away. Alternately, the grungy slabs he churns out in agitated drops nearly suspends time on "4 Small Steps." Rarely does he comp behind the soloist as would a traditional guitarist; if he doesn’t lay out completely, swirls of subtle feedback accent Amado’s tenor, as on “Paso,” drawing out the reedman’s phrases into, alternately, long tones or the contrast of sputtering staccato. Of course, it’s never that simple – there’s a constant give and take, a constant play of form between smooth and sharp, long and short, a constellation that’s always in motion.
“Big Love” is an homage to Joe Giardullo, a line that would sound interesting translated to it’s dedicatee’s sinewy unaccompanied soprano, but with Amado in charge of solo duties, it’s a series of muscular, brusque blats and lofty false-fingering. It’s a curious thing that Lopes doesn’t always choose to solo on his compositions, that he takes a backseat to democracy, and at times I wished for more obvious solo entreaties despite his surreal presence being felt. By virtue of his compositions and the tack he takes when he’s in the spotlight, unaccompanied Luis Lopes would be a treat. But he’s brought heavy company, and this is an intriguing and meaty debut.
~ Clifford Allen
Unassumingly ambitious is one way to characterize the debut disc on Clean Feed of trumpeter Kirk Knuffke’s quartet. Knuffke is a relative newcomer to New York, who has worked in the ensembles of Butch Morris and drummer Kenny Wolleson in addition to his own small groups. For his first leader date Knuffke’s joined by bassist Reuben Radding, drummer Jeff Davis and trombonist Brian Drye on twelve originals. The leader hails from Denver, Colorado and cut his teeth in bands around the state in recent years, while also studying with contemporary hardbop players like Ron Miles and Hugh Ragin. The music is deft freebop deployed with strength and facility, and for a pianoless quartet the instrumentation is rather unique.
There’s a poised fleetness to Knuffke’s lines that gives away expert music school training, and that’s not a slight – one need only to listen to players like Warren Gale or Kelly Rossum to know that what one does with “technique” in service of the music is key. Knuffke employs a range of the history of his instrument – hardboppers like Freddie, Lee and Woody as well as the scree of Don Ayler, not to mention a significant amount of steely heft. Though his assembly of phrases is very clean, his bravura is unequivocally democratic, always in support of Drye’s fat purrs and the tenuous push-pull of Radding and Davis.
The title track has a little bit of Rudd’s “Yankee No-How” in the head, dense singsong flurries in stop-time that open up into chortles and whinnies, a conversation of insects and horses atop glinting percussion and pliant thrum. It doesn’t hurt that Drye has that slushy tailgate down pat, brothel-ready in the closing “Truck” as well as throughout. Those bouncy heads are something that draws a line back several decades toward something not taught in the average music school – thematic material derived from Shepp, Rudd, Lacy and their kin. There’s actually a swinging of poles between tendencies of “New Thing” classicists and an opening up of those tendencies toward sonic exploration. But exploring space without tempo seems like a tool here rather than an ineffable outgrowth of the structure, a deliberate contrast to the lickety-split engine that keeps trying to rear in “Enough,” for example. Eventually, though, Knuffke will find a way to balance his ideas, and for that it’s worth keeping a finger on his player’s pulse.
~ Clifford Allen
There is something tremendously fitting about Barry Guy engaging the piano-trio format, as he has for three releases with pianist Marilyn Crispell and drummer Paul Lytton. After all, the bassist was at the forefront of European free deconstruction of the format forty years ago, in a group with pianist Howard Riley and a succession of drummers. From disassembling Miles and Bill Evans toward poised mini-suites of the members’ own pens, to electro-acoustic improvisation, that trio did it all. Though it might be something of a misnomer to label Riley the British Paul Bley, there was an affinity for that music early on, something to which Crispell is no stranger to – delving into the songbook of Annette Peacock, for example, on Nothing Ever Was, Anyway (ECM, 1997). Phases of the Night follows Guy’s fascination with surrealist painting in title over four meaty, directed improvisations.
The reason that Riley wasn’t a European Bley was because he replaced tonal ambiguity with directness and poise, even within what are otherwise loose structures. Even as Crispell places herself spatially behind other instrumentalists in a group she’s still a guiding force, displaying an affinity for Riley’s approach. She colors the angles at wide intervals behind and around Guy’s five-string hammered fullness, spinning atonal ellipses in jarring cycles. It’s a strange facet of this music that one feels holes in her lines – even where they are dense – and wants to fill them in, thereby creating extreme tension (but not ambiguity). From this, a rondo form emerges at nearly the seven-minute mark of the title track, Crispell off at a foreground run but still pockmarking her phrases as the jitter of knitting needles, brushes and bass thwack spray the ground behind her. The pace then slackens to fractured points of light, Crispell replaying her egg-like clusters and flecks toward a tumbling group obsession with minutae. To a degree, density and sparse detail are the main poles by which the trio structures its music, slabs of sonic ground worked over until most of the paint falls away and leaves a curious residue of unfamiliar objects. Though “Nardis” might appear distant, one must keep in mind that the history in such pieces imbues every brushstroke this trio makes.
~ Clifford Allen
Childhood friends, the two Chicagoan principals on this date followed similar paths through jazz. Touff was arguably the better known of the two, primarily because of the relative exoticism of his chosen axe and Pacific Jazz date he waxed as a leader (reissued back in ’01 by Blue Note as part of their short-lived West Coast Classics series). The pair led a quintet in their home town, but eventually drifted apart. Mosse expatriated to Amsterdam in the late 70s though a return visit to the Windy City in 1981 resulted in a studio reunion with his old pal. For reasons explicated only vaguely in the album’s liners, the seven swing-to-bop standards taped by the quintet never received a commercial release date until now. Touff’s bass trumpet isn’t as radical as it sounds on paper, usually liming register territory somewhere between regular trumpet and trombone. Both horns blend swing and bop vernaculars in fluid fashion. A local rhythm section led by pianist John Campbell lends support while eking out its own territory within the extended track durations.
Touff and Mosse fall back on arranger abilities no doubt gleaned during their joint apprenticeship in Woody Herman’s road bands. Head-solos structures alternate with more challenging chase sequences, some of which are pretty impressive in terms of evinced agility and incisiveness. The studio sound is warm and faithful to the instruments and it’s a treat to hear Touff, in particular, operate under such capacious circumstances. Mosse wears his Lestorian lapels conspicuously with an aerated tone and gliding delivery that jibes well in concert with Touff’s weightier, but still spry, brass lines. Bassist Kelly Sill and drummer Jerry Coleman, the latter of whom also contributes reminiscences about the session, are able but not revelatory. Digesting the mostly unflappable music it’s difficult to refrain from wondering how many more of these sorts of vintage dust-collecting dates Delmark has waiting in its queue. Regardless of that number, the label’s usual standard of quality control is upheld with this enjoyable and historic entry.
~ Derek Taylor
What do Neil Peart and Milford Graves have in common? Not much, but there is the shared and seemingly unquenchable propensity for populating their kits with a panoply of pieces. In the years since this early ESP effort, dubiously dubbed the Percussion Ensemble though more accurately a duo, Graves’ kit has continued to grow to epic proportions encompassing implements indigenous to nearly every corner of the globe. For better and worse, the date has an informal jam session feel about it, akin to the kind of drum clinics Graves was officiating up in Harlem around the same time and after. Sunny Morgan serves as a competent if sometimes undistinguished foil in the effort, the two drummers having served in the percussion section of populist-minded Montego Joe’s band a year prior. These pieces are decidedly more abstract in intent and structure. Numbered and each carrying the Zen-like signifier “Nothing”, the logic behind their sequencing isn’t readily apparent.
Rhythms overlap in near continuous frequency with both men switching up between what sounds like a sizeable collection of percussive devices. Cowbells, batas, congas, shakers, scrapers, and Graves’ signature gong bombs are all audible within the recording space alongside the core kits. The duo’s interplay isn’t always on point and several of the tracks have a tendency to meander into ideational cul de sacs, but these minor foibles are part of the charm of the date. The effect is that of eavesdropping on a pair of colleagues in the process of woodshedding. The album has engendered a number of negative reviews over the years with the consistently terse Scott Yanow concluding that “the songs largely live up to their titles”. Clever, but a clear case of missing the point in my opinion. There are moments where the presence of Morgan feels more like an obfuscating element than an advantage, but considering the context of the conversations and when they were recorded, the resulting music has more to offer than mere historical interest.
~ Derek Taylor
Career rebirths usually serve as manna for the receptive jazz press. Few, if any, are as remarkable as that achieved by bassist Henry Grimes: More than three decades spent in anonymity practically erased by a prodigal return. This ESP reissue gives a composite idea of how he originally went out, on the top of his game and poised to take the logical step to influential leader status. Sadly, that career trajectory wasn’t in the cards. Despite a number of auspicious sideman appearances in the following year Grimes eventually succumbed to personal demons and an ensuing life off the grid.
Perry Robinson practically deserves credit as co-leader on the date. The pair had previously appeared together on the clarinetist’s Funk Dumpling session for Savoy in 1962 and their creative rapport is even stronger in this free-leaning setting from late ‘65. Nods to the earlier meeting include the Grimes tune “Son of Alfalfa”. Robinson brings a battery of extended techniques previously largely the province of the saxophone, from chirrups and hiccups to split tones and judiciously deployed shrieks. These tactics lack artifice and instead feel wholly integrated into the music, something not easily said of certain other contemporaneous albums by peers. “Walk On” and “Saturday Night What Th’” promote the trio’s freebop interests with Robinson and Grimes engaging in some bracing exchanges and the bassist’s scuttling spider legs strums particularly memorable.
As the bluntest point of the triangle, drummer Tom Price is a bit heavy-handed, particularly on snare, and not quite on par with his colleagues. He builds up quite a vertical barrage on “Fish Story”, but there’s little in the way of horizontal movement in the resulting cascade. The suite-like “For Django” asks more from his sticks and he manages to respond with enhanced color and nuance around Robinson’s chalumeau explorations. Grimes is brilliant throughout, his bone dry sawing on the opening of the first piece contrasting with richer harmonic shades in the final minutes of the second. Robust pizzicato patterns shoot forth like gossamer webs and the newly scrubbed sound aids in discerning their complexities. The stereo mix parcels him cleanly into the left channel leaving Robinson and Price plenty of space in the right. Grimes appears busier than ever these days though debate about his abilities lingers. This set harkens to a time when the contingent of doubters was substantially slimmer and as such seems a slice of required listening.
~ Derek Taylor
Perhaps in an effort to avoid confusion with the 16th century German composer/organist who shares his name, the Hassler under scrutiny herein attaches his instrument as an instructive postscript. Common ground still exists in the occasional pipe organ parallels of his sound and the Baroque patina that tints some of his compositions. Hassler’s bushy facial foliage and ruddy features also work as handy hints to his solo accordion approach. There’s high drama in his musical musings, as on the tellingly-titled “Akkordplosion”, but cheap bombast never factors in. Call and response colloquies and a full array of split tones and effects thread through his improvisations. The percussive rattle of buttons, bellows-born drones and self contained counterpoint, even Hassler’s raspy voice, itself imbued with an endearing Joe Maneri-like quality- all are employed in the service of erecting an immersive musical environment that effectively shuts out distractions. The understanding that at no point is Hassler taking himself too seriously aids in this regard. The music, though highly personalized, also serves as a means of audience identification and stress release.
Tracks tick by in steady procession, many of them merging together to create a medley-like structure to the set. They range from interstitial snippets to the extended title suite which occupies over a quarter of an hour. Tango and other melodic and rhythmic fragments regularly roll by. Polka is fair game too, along with revolving mutations of other folk forms that bubble up and recede amidst more texture-oriented stretches. Hassler manages to braid everything together into a convincing whole, encircling a spectrum that runs from beer hall to recital hall. He proves that two need not be all that removed and that the accordion is the ideal emissary between them. In the final sum, consideration of larger context seems largely incidental to Hassler’s world. Even so, the past couple years have been unusually generous in terms of solo accordion recitals with innovators like Guy Kluscevsek and Ute Völker embracing the format. Hassler’s entry certainly deserves consideration and inclusion within that esteemed congress.
~ Derek Taylor
Perhaps in an effort to avoid confusion with the 16th century German composer/organist who shares his name, the Hassler under scrutiny herein attaches his instrument as an instructive postscript. Common ground still exists in the occasional pipe organ parallels of his sound and the Baroque patina that tints some of his compositions. Hassler’s bushy facial foliage and ruddy features also work as handy hints to his solo accordion approach. There’s high drama in his musical musings, as on the tellingly-titled “Akkordplosion”, but cheap bombast never factors in. Call and response colloquies and a full array of split tones and effects thread through his improvisations. The percussive rattle of buttons, bellows-born drones and self contained counterpoint, even Hassler’s raspy voice, itself imbued with an endearing Joe Maneri-like quality- all are employed in the service of erecting an immersive musical environment that effectively shuts out distractions. The understanding that at no point is Hassler taking himself too seriously aids in this regard. The music, though highly personalized, also serves as a means of audience identification and stress release.
Tracks tick by in steady procession, many of them merging together to create a medley-like structure to the set. They range from interstitial snippets to the extended title suite which occupies over a quarter of an hour. Tango and other melodic and rhythmic fragments regularly roll by. Polka is fair game too, along with revolving mutations of other folk forms that bubble up and recede amidst more texture-oriented stretches. Hassler manages to braid everything together into a convincing whole, encircling a spectrum that runs from beer hall to recital hall. He proves that two need not be all that removed and that the accordion is the ideal emissary between them. In the final sum, consideration of larger context seems largely incidental to Hassler’s world. Even so, the past couple years have been unusually generous in terms of solo accordion recitals with innovators like Guy Kluscevsek and Ute Völker embracing the format. Hassler’s entry certainly deserves consideration and inclusion within that esteemed congress.
~ Derek Taylor
Photoshopped as a face-off, the merger of visages on the cover of this new Delmark disc hints at a potential caveat to the project. The danger inherent with tandem piano settings comes in the tendency on the part of the principals to devolve into combative duels. In other words, a few drops of donnybrook tend to go a long way. The Lion was known for his aggressive touch and rambunctious wit. He wasn’t one to suffer fools and pretenders lightly. While those facets of his mien are present and even prominent here, Ewell’s presence and even-keel demeanor work as a reliable tempering agent. Ewell idolized Smith and when the elder sought to engage in ivory fisticuffs the younger man usually demurred. That’s not to suggest a negation of sparks or playful collisions in the interplay -plenty of each abound- but it’s definitely Smith in the driver’s seat much of the time, a differential Ewell seems to accept as a given.
The program, taped at Toronto tavern in front of a receptive crowd in ’66, corrals a decent cross-section of hoary stride-ready tunes. Smith and Ewell converge and diverge in amicable fashion, only rarely stepping on the other’s toes and pausing periodically to banter with the audience and each other. Chases are a regular part of the aural scenery as well, as during the breakneck digital sprints of “I Found a New Baby” where the two run jocular rhythmic circles from the safety of their respective stools. To their mutual credit, numbers are kept relatively free of ballast and the set trundles right along. Smith even finds inspiration for a pair of passable vocals on the medley “Linger Awhile/Shine” and “If I Could Be with You”, neither of which lacks in either humor or enthusiasm. The sound throughout is surprisingly sharp and faithful with both pianos cleanly preserved along with the vocal incidentals. Stride as a musical tradition is closing in on the century mark. As minted and disseminated by these two resourceful doyens it hardly shows any inkling of such advanced age.
~ Derek Taylor
In previous review of a Peter Zak platter, I cracked wise about his alphabetically-challenged surname and its potential relationship to compromised sales. This latest effort from the pianist puts such conjecture to rest by providing another strong entry in his burgeoning catalog. Bassist Paul Gill is back for another round and this time the capable Quincy Davis (a new name to me) fills the drum chair. Zak responds to earlier observations of his affinity for other pianists by opening the program up to tunes borrowed from saxophonists. Additionally, he doesn’t go for the well known, preferring instead to pull dusty but promising heirlooms like Harold Land’s “Poor People’s March” and the Wayne Shorter-penned title piece. His approach to the keys offers an intriguing blend of detail and propulsion. Each keystroke is audible even at blistering tempos and it’s that precision that sustains interest even when Zak’s improvisations limn stock territory.
Zak’s own pianistic pantheon is audible in shards and slivers. On Jackie McLean’s “Minor Apprehension” he filters in piquant flavors of Bud Powell and George Wallington, favoring a breakneck delivery of complex stacked chords. The original “Horace’s Dream” also carries heavy Bud overtones in its darting harmonic progression, even moreso than the obvious Silverian dedicatee named by the title. Odd for a Steeplechase recording, Gill is a bit underserved by the stereo mix, his ensemble contributions less prominent, particularly when Davis is running at full steam on snare. Bird’s “Perhaps” extends a consolation as Zak leaves the lion’s share to the bassist’s supple pizzicato. All but three of the tracks time in at over six minutes, but only the leader-scripted bossa nova “Propinquity” feels over-long at nine-plus. Herbie Hancock’s “King Cobra” makes for an inspired outro, its layered modal structure effectively creating a mood anticipatory of the Zak’s next recording move. Access to the results may not be that far off as consumers appear more than willing to take those extra necessary steps to the terminus of the brick and mortar jazz racks.
[Steeplechase titles are available direct through Stateside AT prodigy.net]
~ Derek Taylor
As a pupil of Elvin Jones, Alvin Queen earned an advanced degree in propulsive drumming at an early age, even sharing the stage with Coltrane on the occasion of the saxophonist’s seminal Birdland date in 1963. Years later as an expatriate musician still struggling to be heard on his own terms, he followed the path of several of his peers in starting his own label. The Justin Time reissue subsidiary Just a Memory has recently returned a pair of albums to circulation that serves as a reminder of his talents as leader and sideman. Queen’s style presents an assemblage of influences, but the most prominent facet is his dedication to not overplaying or eclipsing his band mates.
Comprised of young and aging lions, Queen’s Jammin’ Uptown from 1985 takes the scene described by its title seriously. The roll call includes trumpeter Terence Blanchard and trombonist Robin Eubanks, two players loosely associated with the Marsalis dynasty of the time. Near contemporaries of Queen, pianist John Hicks and bassist Ray Drummond have a number of years on their colleagues but lack none of the brio or skill. Saxophonist Manny Boyd, a former sideman of Bobby Hutcherson, handles his duties via the three principal emissaries of his instrument family and also contributes two tunes among them the swaggering title track. Hardbop typical to late Sixties Blue Note is order of the hour with the opening Blanchard-scripted “Europia” feeding off a tight horns-driven head and Queen’s stop time pivots. Direct parallels to the Jazz Messengers band are no accident and though tracks appear resequenced from the source vinyl the program still holds a cohesive feel.
Eubanks’ “After Liberation” and Hicks’ “Mind Wine” work of similarly parceled arrangements with the focus again on up-tempo soloing and steady swinging rhythmic support. Queen revels in the structured ebullience, his sticks churning out a crisp beats and finely tuned fills alongside the occasional solo sortie. “Resolution of Love” represents the lone ballad turn with lush horn harmonies before a return to full band sprint on the finale “Hassan”. Sandwiched into the original album program, “Hear Me Drummin’” offers a non-contemporaneous interlude from a 2002 Croatian gig with Queen sparring enthusiastically with a conguero Hrvoje Rupcic. Though the sequencing is a shade suspect, the conversation comes off well. The session proper relies a bit too much on convention for my tastes, but the perspiration that peppers Queen’s countenance on the cover ends up well earned.
Queen has participated in numerous organ dates throughout his career. Soul Connection falls under the able helm of organist John Patton and stands out in the sideman side of Queen’s catalog both for the caliber of employer and the winsome manner in which the drummer responds in kind. Though originally released in 1983, the session is a direct extension of Patton’s late Sixties work for Blue Note on such platters as Accent on the Blues and Memphis to New York Spirit. The five tunes pull in strong elements of hardbop alongside the expected titular ingredients. Instrumentation deviates from the usual soul jazz format with the presence of Grachan Moncur III’s trombone. Tenor saxophonist Grant Reed, a Booker Ervin disciple with reed colored liberally by post-Coltrane effects, and funk jazz guitar icon Melvin Sparks complete the crew.
The opening title cut works off a deep modal groove and finds the five establishing their collective footing. Patton rolls out a cascade of swirling sustains and staccato accents, the epitome of confidence. Queen keeps a pulsing rhythm alive and well beneath the ensuing solos though Moncur III inexplicably sits the order out. The sun-dappled “Pinto” sounds dated and slightly perfunctory by comparison. Patton still manages to thread in some menace through rich indigo comping under the robust tandem horn play. Sparks assumes the early lead on the nursery rhyme-structured “Extensions”, channeling Grant Green through a spate of twangy single note runs. Two classic selections from the Moncur III songbook occupy the entirety of Side B and the trombonist doesn’t disappoint on either one. Sparks is also effective on both spinning out densely picked statements that once again draw direct comparisons to Green. Fans of Patton will want to snap this set up, but the merits of the other band members make it equally worthy of consideration. The royal treatment accorded Queen by these reissues is certainly warranted.
~ Derek Taylor
Nearly half a century on, it’s hard to overstate the influence of Wes Montgomery on jazz guitar. No, make that guitar in general, irrespective of genre. That historical reach immediately registers the signifier in title of this Riverside studio date as far from a hollow superlative. It’s the rare instance where probable hyperbole translates instead into an accurate appraisal. The whole situation becomes even more ‘incredible’ considering the manner in which the guitarist came under the wing of the Riverside mantle. To hear Orrin Keepnews tell it, if not for the keen ear of A&R scout Cannonball Adderely, Montgomery might have languished in the Indianapolis club scene for years. A spate of sessions for Pacific Jazz prior seems to suggest otherwise but whatever the case, Montgomery truly hit his professional stride with this one.
The album’s eight cuts split evenly between standards and originals, constituting the sort of program that would come to embody textbook hardbop guitar fare. Pianist Tommy Flanagan heads the rhythm section with the Heath brothers Percy and Albert in close tow, devising tasteful accompaniment and mainly staying out of Montgomery’s way. Octave-shaded guitar lines color nearly ever number almost to the point of excess. Somehow the guitarist succeeds in making each and every solo a paragon of scintillating beauty. His “Four on Six” contains some exemplary single note picking for variety’s sake, but those persistently mesmerizing octave runs aren’t far behind. With the release and reception of this record, Montgomery found himself on the fast track to dominance on his instrument. Offers followed and he was eventually wooed away by more lucrative contracts first with Verve and then A&M. The sad trade-off on the latter deal arrived with increasing pressure to toe a pop-oriented line. That decline was still years away at the time of this set, one that distills Wes’ art into a readily digestible digest.
~ Derek Taylor
In the late Fifties, Sonny Rollins was practically impervious to bum notes or bad records. Nearly all that he played during the period garnered accolades and adulation and rightfully so. Improvisatory acumen of his caliber is still far from commonplace. A deep-seated streak of self-deprecation kept his ego in check and his person in the high graces of his peers.
Of the five titles tapped as latest entries in the Keepnews Collection, this one feels the most negligible in terms of necessity. The album has been readily available in various formats since its original ’58 release, part of a triumvirate of pioneering trio recordings that also includes A Night at the Village Vanguard and Way Out West. The Freedom Suite has always been my least favorite of the three, but that ranking is relative given the platinum standard to which they each qualify. Listening to the latest pressing in 24-bit sound, a reordering of that hierarchy becomes a tempting proposition; though one I ultimately opt not to succumb to.
Bassist Oscar Pettiford and drummer Max Roach are ideal foils for Rollins’ extended flight through the title suite. Timing at just under twenty-minutes, the piece is a model of melodic improvisation across several episodic cells linked together by cerulean saxophonic threads. Roach and Pettiford provide the most active kind of support possible to the leader’s vibrantly resonant lines. Nothing gets past them. The socio-political connotations of the project aren’t lost either, though Keepnews new notes do little to further elucidate Rollins’ reasonings at the time.
The LP’s B-side, broken into four significantly shorter snapshots of standards, reads as something of an anti-climax on traycard. The actual sounds abolish such assumptions in swift order with Rollins’ taking his time and opening up space for his partners to shine just as brightly as his burnished tenor bell. Two alternate takes of “’Til There Was You” and a duo reading of “There Will Never Be Another You” cut by Pettiford and Roach prior to Rollins’ tardy studio arrival bookend the set. Jazz fans familiar with the album won’t need to spring for this upgrade, but listeners who have yet to hear it should consider purchase an imperative.
~ Derek Taylor
Never a poll-winner or spotlight magnet, Nat Adderley played second fiddle to his older brother Julian for much of his early career. There’s even an amusing quote from him elucidating the job security inherent to his post in his brother’s band: “the contract was made with mom.” Despite Nat’s apparent satisfaction with sideman status, producer Orrin Keepnews had faith in his talents. Nat parlayed that confidence into a clutch of Riverside sessions that placed his cornet in a number of unexpected settings. This Keepnews Collection reissue presents one of the best. Adderley’s program emphasizes instrumental variety without sounding gimmicky or slight on ideas. The album’s nine cuts pack in six different ensemble configurations, varying from trio to quintet in size. Besides the leader, guitarist Wes Montgomery is the only other constant and he easily meets the subtle challenges posed by the shifting palette. His signature and celebrated octave style is in evidence, but tempered by a greater reliance on single note improvisations that add to the openness of the pieces.
“I’ve Got a Crush on You” and “Violets for Your Furs” presage later ballad experiments by Chet Baker and Ruby Braff with only guitar and bass backing Adderley’s smooth melodic musings. “Mean to Me” places his puckish cornet in the company of a pianoless trio of guitar, bass and drums. “My Heart Stood Still” finds Sam Jones taking over on bass while Keter Betts switches to cello, a change-up that occurs repeatedly throughout the date. The braiding of high to low pizzicato patterns suggests chamber sonorities without sacrificing soul jazz credentials. Pianist Bobby Timmons assists in this regard as well, his funky comping augmenting the action on the opening rundown of Adderley’s crowning title composition and two other cuts. Drummer Louis Hayes shows comparable versatility on the fast tempo “Fallout”, punctuating a plucked thicket of strings with a sturdy snare barrage. Keepnews’ confidence was well justified in this case Nat’s inventive work here stands up well against the higher profile projects his brother was putting out in his company at the time. Admiration for the Adderley name wasn’t solely directed at an island of one.
~ Derek Taylor
It’s somewhat bittersweet that in the last year or so of English altoist Mike Osborne’s life, he finally got a bit of renaissance-due from the jazz world, following almost a quarter-century of absence from the scene. Ogun has reissued some of his finest commercially available LPs, and the Cuneiform tape archive has produced a number of appearances with trans-continental big band the Brotherhood of Breath. Now, leave it up to Reel Recordings, a young label documenting British jazz and progressive music, to make available some of Osborne’s last recordings with trumpeter Dave Holdsworth and two rhythm sections comprised of either Marcio Mattos or Paul Bridge on bass and Brian Abrahams or Tony Marsh on percussion.
The centerpiece of this hour-long set is a forty-minute performance from Koln in 1980 entitled “Ducking & Diving.” It’s a piece that’s emblematic of the fiery and continuous freebop suites that make up his small-group work. The initial theme is out of the Ornette Atlantic mode, Holdsworth and Osborne intertwined at breakneck speed, though Mattos and Abrahams are decidedly different rhythmic accompaniment than anything Coleman would’ve utilized. One can cite his vocal “cry” and sour repetition/abstraction, the absoluteness of his tone and the clarity of his expansion on simple rhythmic motifs as bridge built from early ‘60s Ornette, albeit in an entirely personal and non-derivative mode. Sure, Osborne gets lost a couple of times in his first salvo (of several), but his commitment to exploration is unwavering. Holdsworth is the erudite bebopper to Osborne’s feral youthfulness, shining cleanliness a mode of contrast even as growls and slurs enter his vocabulary. The rhythm section isn’t as frantically disassembling as Harry Miller and Louis Moholo in Osborne’s previous group, but there’s no reason for them to be – Mattos drops bombs of physicality as time is on the edge of pulling apart, and what more could be the essence of free-bop than that?
Holdsworth discusses in the liner notes how Osborne never gave any directions to the tunes, let alone spoke much, probably a result of the emotional demons he exorcised through his horn. But in some ways, his difficulty in verbal expression allowed a profound level of artistic communication to develop with his band mates. Collectiveness could be achieved apart from “normal” channels, and in artistic interaction Osborne fostered something peerless. That is a fact which comes through in all of his work, and it’s thankful that much of his oeuvre is in print for the digital age.
~ Clifford Allen
Bassist Steve LaSpina enjoys a long and lasting relationship with the Steeplechase label, some 34 sessions to date. With such a history in place, a green light usually arrives with each new project of his devising. This latest entry leads to the conclusion that such relative cart blanche might not always be a good thing. The finger of blame points primarily at guitarist Vic Juris, his amplified frets routinely caulking the harmonic cracks and smoothing over the compositional edges with a shimmery reverb sheen. The overarching effect of his contributions is often akin to the more syrupy solipsistic side of Bill Frisell. Even turns to unadorned acoustic guitar on “You” and “Why” do little to sharpen his sound, though the warbling harmonics of “Tuesday Too” and “In Place Of” are captivating exceptions. Trumpeter Dave Ballou and saxophonist Billy Drewes are similarly sedate for much of the date and it’s hard not to pine for more biting grit and provocation on their parts as well.
The prevailing dulcifying mood is a chief reason why LaSpina’s terse solo feature “It’s Just a Riff in G” acts like such a shot of aural black coffee. Brazenly funky and free from drowsy sentimentality, it’s an all too anomalous respite from the surrounding decorum and parity. His ensemble bracketed solos, while frequent, don’t convey the same heft or potency. Other pieces in the program are reminiscent of Herbie Hancock’s modal investigations on Speak Like a Child, echoing both the bad and the good in such a comparison. Technique-wise, these five players have a stockpile to squander. It’s the material and their polished approach to it that leads the ears in a maddening state of stasis. LaSpina unintentionally intimates this outcome in his observations: "It turned out to be one of those dates where all goes smoothly" and “This was a fun session, without tension”. If only an infusion of the musical caffeine so prominent in his solo piece could’ve infiltrated various of the album’s other tracks. As it stands, the bulk is simply too mannered and soporific to unreservedly recommend.
[Steeplechase titles are available direct through Stateside AT prodigy DOT net]
~ Derek Taylor
Apparently far from empty, the Steeplechase Jam Session archive unveils another pair of multiple-horn conclaves, one familiar in instrumentation the other singular. Triple trumpet team-ups aren’t a new development in the series, though Marcus Printup and Joe Magnarelli are fresh recruits to the format. Ryan Kisor has a slight edge having participated in the highly felicitous meeting released as Volume 17, but the rhythm section comprises the true veterans of the session, chalking up the following counts: pianist Andy Laverne (15), bassist Steve LaSpina (8), and drummer Billy Drummond (13). All three brass men are distinctive stylists, but the back-to-back solo structures of four out of the seven numbers tends to undermine the differences. An obligatory ballad medley does a decent job delineating each player’s sound in neutral standards settings, though the readings of the tunes are cursory in comparison to the ensemble cuts.
The session includes tribute to past trumpet greats by encompassing selections from the songbooks of Thad Jones, Kenny Dorham and Lee Morgan. The three principals attack each one with audible ardor, though the biggest creative returns come through a lengthy reading of Laverne’s “Impromptu”. As arranger he makes sure to annex shares of the solo space for himself and LaSpina. By comparison, Drummond’s role is fairly circumscript but he does an admirable job putting a personal stamp on each piece through nuanced accents and the occasional drum break. Dates like this one seem to dare the listener to entertain the question of what qualifies as too much trumpet. Unlike, say, a session of multiple saxophonists, the limitations of valved brass en mass can lead to occasional homogeneity in terms of timbre and range. Printup, Magnarelli and Kisor wage a valiant battle, but ultimately end up arriving at stalemate with these strictures as often as they vanquish them. Trumpet buffs probably won’t take pause at such perceived trivialities. Other listeners may not be as forgiving when faced with the revolving wall of brass.
Steeplechase liner staple Mark Gardner references Coltrane’s Dakar date in his comments for Volume 26 and the comparison isn’t off-base as Conrad Herwig harbors a heavy Prestige-period Trane fascination. J.J. factors in too, though Herwig has lighter in tone with a phrasing as lubricious as olive oil. The double-barreled baritone attack in the frontline is the other obvious analogue. Ed Xiques and Jay Brandford are easy to tell apart on the big horns, the former sounding a bit like latter-day Cecil Payne in his textured cautious attack while the latter moves effortlessly between brusque Pepper Adams speak and a more velvety Mulliganesque manner. The arrangements aid in differentiation by inserting solos by either Herwig or Laverne between baritone statements on every track.
The session sat on the shelf for eight years and the sextet’s slightly rickety run through of “Alone Together” points to probable reasons why. Xiques, in particular, has trouble in his spotlight and seems to do better at slower speeds, such as his ballad feature “In a Sentimental Mood”, but even there Herwig can be heard lending a helping hand with subtle fills. The relative disparity between the two reeds is made all the more puzzling considering Xiques consistent positioning ahead of Brandford in the solo order. Brandford trumps his colleague’s primacy only on the closing two numbers. Laverne assumes his usual Mal Waldron-mantle as arranger and erstwhile ringleader, contributing serviceable solos alongside LaSpina. Drummer Darren Beckett’s lot is much the same as Drummond’s though his steady time is instrumental on the string of unisons and exchanges that galvanize “The Blues Walk” and he does get in a series of spirited breaks on a Latinized “You Stepped Out of a Dream”. As with Volume 25, the rote head-solos format favored for most of the session wears thin by the time the closer “It’s You or No One” hits, but the unusual instrumentation coupled with the quality contributions of Herwig and Brandford make this set worth a gander.
[Steeplechase titles are available direct through Stateside AT prodigy DOT net]
~ Derek Taylor
In appraising latter-day tenor tandems, reviewers (myself included) tend to heavily reference the past as context. Each saxophone pair gets compared to a string of predecessors: Player X is the Ammons to Player Y’s Stitt while Player A is Pres to Player Z’s Herschel Evans, and so on. Such shorthand name-checking makes for colorful copy, but it rarely leaves an accurate or lasting impression on the music described. Dave Liebman and Ellery Eskelin face plenty of precedent with their team-up. That they manage to at once embrace and supplant historical potential referents is a chief reason why this second outing hits on every cylinder for nearly the entire duration.
Granted, the game is stacked in their favor from the start given the rhythm section on hand, the sensible amalgam of one colleague apiece from each man’s working band. It’s also no coincidence that bassist Tony Marino and drummer Jim Black occupy positions on the marquee. Reason number one hits like a pallet of bricks on the opener “Cha”, a high energy groove number scripted by the drummer that sounds vaguely Masada-ish. Liebman doesn’t even pause for a theme, flipping the vertical launch switch in a rocket fuel solo that has Marino and Black working overtime beneath him. The duo have their revenge in the tune’s pipeline-riding coda, accelerating full speed into punk Surfaris territory with snapping slap bass and precision pummeling drums and leading to the natural listener affirmation- Kowabunga, dude!
So many times the facing off of like instruments, especially saxophones, leads to a simplification of strategy and emphasis. Outright combat, in the case of the aforementioned Ammons and Stitt, or dapper congeniality as was the frequent repartee of Zoot Sims and Al Cohn are the usual options. In either scenario heads often become disposable obstacles to solos. Eskelin and Liebman sense this skew and go out of their way to ensure the music maintains high standards of intrigue no matter what. Two takes of Dolphy’s “Out There” delve deep into the tune’s bop roots and revolve around a string of incendiary breaks. Again, Marino and Black personify that rare sort of rhythm section, one that risks ruin repeatedly by constantly inviting implosion and ratcheting the adrenaline output as a result. It’s not all fireworks, as the title piece tacks into chamber territory in its investigation of overlapping horn textures and commensurate rhythmic ambiguity. The nine pieces fly by, engendering an immediate desire to repeat the trip. Listeners with a sweet tooth for top-tier tenor shouldn't hesitate in taking this one home.
~ Derek Taylor
Despite semi-regular stops to the CIMP Spirit Room over the past decade, Odean Pope’s small group documentation remains relatively slim. Flip the calendar back further and sessions become more even more infrequent with much of his activity in the vein resigned to sideman work with Max Roach or in the fusion group Catalyst. In light of that history the appearance of this Porter compilation is a little alarming. The disc’s eight tracks appear to be pulled from a pair of previously released Pope sessions. Five come from Ninety-Six on Enja and three others from Ebioto, originally released on the Knitting Factory imprint. Both sources are apparently out of print, a troubling occurrence given their comparatively short shelf lives. Pope fronts two trios, the difference being the drum chair occupant, either Craig McIver or Mickey Roker, each of whom owes palpable debt to Pope’s former employer. Roker, a veteran session player and participant in classic Blue Note dates like Lee Morgan’s Live at the Lighthouse and Herbie Hancock’s Speak Like a Child fits well with Pope’s proclivities though his drumming is a shade more conventional than his younger counterpart. Longtime confrere Tyrone Brown handles bass in both cases.
Pope himself has a habit of worrying similar scalar phrases and licks across pieces. It’s a stylistic tick in common with Fred Anderson and like the elder Chicagoan, Pope makes it work through sheer soulfulness of delivery. “You Remind Me” and “Good Question”, for instance, are close cousins in terms of traveled terrain, but Pope still sows each with a sprinkling of fresh emotive soil. The usual Coltrane corollaries are present with Pope personalizing his inspiration’s “sheets-of-sound” vernacular and producing harmonic gold. Melody is central to the improvisatory schema as well with the sturdy heads coming swift and providing fertile grist for elaboration. Even the ballad “Cis”, penned in honor of Pope’s wife, exude a buoyant muscularity. The saxophonist’s lines are long and ropy but rarely ponderous, buttressed by the attentive accompaniment of Brown and the drummers. “WL” shows off his facility for vocalized effects and features some striking solo extemporization bracketed by Roker’s tensile press rolls and liquid cymbal splashes. Bass and drums are prominent actors in the aural drama, Brown's preamble to “For All We Know” paving a propitious path for Pope’s burnished entry. Points tally up too for the new packaging and what sounds like refurbished fidelity. Pre-existing Pope fans will probably find this Porter release redundant, but listeners new to the Odean omniverse are well advised to pick this set up in the event that the original albums are out of reach.
~ Derek Taylor
Though mostly known (if at all stateside) today for his jazz-choral and operatic persuasions, Finnish pianist-composer Heikki Sarmanto spent 1968-1971 in Boston studying at Berklee and engaging the cream of the local musicians’ crop in what would be the Serious Music Ensemble. In between dates for Finnish EMI (which Porter Records will also be reissuing), Sarmanto cut over an hour’s worth of improvisation with soon-to-be cohorts in Boston in December 1970. He’s joined here by regular foil, saxophonist Juhani Aaltonen, local drummer Craig Herndon and guitarist Lance Gunderson (who would also form the nucleus of the SME), and Czech bassist George Mraz, who was at the time also at Berkelee. The set is comprised of six originals, mostly segued from one to the next.
After a series of brief tenor-piano flourishes on “Top of the Prude” that allow Aaltonen’s throaty howl to get a little room, Sarmanto is off at a run atop the rhythm section’s loose clip. Sarmanto is a little hard to figure in terms of where he’s coming from, though Paul Bley and fellow Berklee-ite Keith Jarrett wouldn’t be unapt comparisons for how he mates floridness with bluesy turnarounds. Lush arpeggios and clanging ziggurats of instantaneous sacredness characterize his approach with a keen sense of architecture. As Herndon and Mraz shade around them, Sarmanto and Gunderson develop a curious dialogue of scumbled blues and erudite chords. There’s a brief tenor spot before Mraz’ engine gets to stretch amid rattles and plinks. A restatement of the theme leads into the pensive ballad “A Different Kind of Smile,” Aaltonen rough-hewn and skronky with multiphonics at the ready, imbuing the ensemble's languid glassiness with a high degree of tension.
In addition to Sarmanto, Aaltonen’s horns have graced heavy free platters by Peter Brötzmann (the infamous 1972 date Hot Lotta, on Blue Master) and countryman, drummer Edward Vesala. While his tone isn’t exactly reigned in anywhere on this disc, the introspective openness provided by Sarmanto’s compositions clearly gives his sandblasted muse another quality. Though the set weighs heavily on the leader's romantic postbop and interplay with Gunderson, Aaltonen's unbridled tenor is used much the way as Gato Barbieri was on Alan Shorter's Orgasm (Verve, 1968) - as a short-burst textural foil. Aaltonen is spotlighted on "Run" and the centerpiece "Ibiza," where his raw, reedy howls purify unaccompanied around the eleven-minute mark. His solo follows the guitarist’s blues-rock fuel as Gunderson upends and invigorates pianistic poise with crystalline fretwork.
Though sketchily outlined here, one can make out the symphonic framework that has been the basis for Sarmanto’s work since, the gospelized odes and light-filled masses at this early stage couched in dusky small-group angles. While the group continued on in Finland, A Boston Date provides a valuable window into the beginnings of their inter-continental and highly ordered collaboration.
~ Clifford Allen
Originally circulated on Byard Lancaster’s Concert Artists label in an extremely finite pressing, this 1979 solo manifesto is among the rarer Philly ‘free jazz’ artifacts. Filing it under that loose genre heading feels slightly suspect as jazz is only one of the stylistic kegs tapped in its creation. Lancaster folds in African, Asian and Native American elements as well as healthy of blues and soul. The Porter records reissue adds six tracks to the original vinyl nine, the new pieces having been cut in 2007 and sitting well with their antecedents. Lancaster hedges a bit on the album’s solo credentials, regularly employing overdubbing to couple and layer instruments from his arsenal. The plaintive “Miss Nikki” sounds more like a Terry Callier song with its cascading piano chords and soulfully sung entreaties. “In Lovingkindness” and “Dogtown” are the first of several flute numbers, the former piece adopting a meditative cast through twining trills while the latter aims for velocity and vigor via aerial acrobatics nearly on par with those of Rashaan Roland Kirk.
Accentuating the personal parameters of the project, each piece carries a postscript providing brief clues to its import and origins. “Brotherman” blends breathy bass clarinets. “Hoodoo” for alto and “What Friend We Have in Jesus” for soprano draw immediate comparisons to Joe McPhee in their spiritual mellifluousness. The two reeds voice in tandem on the lush ballad “Marianne and Alicia” while “Mind Exercise” pares back down to alto in a barrage of harsh upper register shrieks. Fast forwarding nearly two decades, the ’07 pieces find Lancaster expanding his palette and engaging in a curious avuncular commentary. “Prayer Cry” and “Tribalize Lancaster” play to the directives of their titles, mixing playful vocal effects, chanting and piquant flute with what Lancaster terms “percussion spiriting”. The first even weaves in sampled African tribal field recordings to explicate its case.
“Afro-Ville” and “Free Mumia” bring the afrocentric funk through further convergences of jousting flutes and recitations. Keyboard explorations power “Global Key” and “Loving You”, the former moving from modest beginnings to a full-scale piano and percussion avalanche while the latter threads in pliant flute. Heard as a chapbook of snapshots and musings, the disc delivers a great deal of listening pleasure. Lancaster isn’t preoccupied with chops and instead directs his energies toward sketching aural moods and pictures with digressions intact. Through the conveyance of such intensely personal cartography the veracity of the project’s title holds fast.
~ Derek Taylor
Manuel Mengis is probably tiring of the superficial Miles comparisons. Such shoehorn corollaries are only the tip of his trumpet, so to speak. His personal pastiche also probes Zorn, Vandermark and a host of others, pulling away choice bits and making them his own. The borrowings rarely feel forced and with a crack band at his disposal ruts are readily avoided. Mengis’ Hat debut dropped almost three years ago and he’s used the interim to assiduously plan and execute a second outing for his Gruppe 6. The role of rhythm is central to his constructions with ensemble voices arranged in lattice-like intricacy. That stacked and interlocking quality also brings to mind to the grid-guided interplay of M-Base. Drummer Lionel Friedli and bassist Marcel Stalder field a fluctuating series of trampoline grooves alongside the guitar of Flo Stoffner. The horns frequently sail atop, dovetailing and diverging through richly rendered lines.
The disc’s four pieces reflect a process of repeatedly shaving off and lathering up as players recede from and return to the action in episodic fashion. Altoist Achim Escher unloads a barrage of squawks and squeals atop burbling bass and mutating drum beats on “Tomorrow Will Be Colder”. The piece abruptly opens up into tightly channeled horn polyphony and ends on a tick-tocking shuffle. “Furry Buddy” relies on a similarly eventful schematic of intersecting and overlapping instrument combinations. Mengis shifts his own playing from wistful to sharply staccato, his brass threading through a range of moods and miens. Foland von Flüe’s subsequent tenor statement is almost anomalous in its relative simplicity and straightforwardness.
“Hide and Seek” builds from a madrigal-like opening of contrapuntal layers. The ensemble briefly explores an airy chamber trajectory before grounding on another elastic groove. Several minutes later all that remains of the formerly lush conversation is a skeletal semblance of a beat upon which the players once again build from the base up. After a series of ensemble explorations “Song for Violet” switches into an extended foray for Stoffner’s frets. After a strong start, his solo slips over into Satriani-style schmaltz, technically sturdy, but ultimately overwrought. Mengis’ authoritative but nuanced sortie in the final third registers as a potent counteragent. Though slightly less striking that its predecessor, this long-gestating session still carries plenty to recommend it. Miles may be an easy to peg antecedent, but Mengis is definitely his own man. Gruppe 6 will hopefully be making a return recording engagement under Hat auspices sooner rather than later.
~ Derek Taylor
Much of the emerging press regarding Michael Adkins stresses the singularity of his sound. Stuart Broomer writes in his liners of possible listener shock arising from the assumption of his arrival fully formed, such are Adkins' formidable powers with his horn. Summary judgment, while complimentary, excludes the years of study and scuffling undertaken prior to the “arrival”. To whit, this Hat album postdates his actual recording debut by a good six years. The vagaries of the industry and marketplace are partially to blame, but it’s also a function of sheer numbers. It’s certainly not the result of suspect talent. Joe Lovano is a prominent influence, coming through in Adkins aerated tone and often warmly oblique delivery. The saxophonist has a gently obfuscating habit of granulating his tone at unexpected intervals and subsequently revealing a spectral facsimile of his former self. It’s an effective tactic noticeable early on with the ballad “Their May Be Wings” that invests his lines with uncertainty and keeps his accomplished colleagues from getting to comfortable in their respective roles. Pianist Russ Lossing is another one of the Hat labels leading lights, possessive of an intuitive style of play that places reflexivity at a premium. Bassist John Hebert and drummer Paul Motian have fielded several sideman gigs from Hat and each is in his element here.
Adkins confidence carries over into a program comprised completely of original pieces. The opening title track trades on a cyclic motif ripe for dissection by his prodding reed. Motian keeps the rhythm fluid and free of anchoring weight while Hebert’s throbbing fills thread between Lossing’s darkly gilded chords. The pianist’s solo seems to slow down and open things up at once, an effective contrast to the leader’s earlier harmonic legerdemain. Other pieces present a comparable dynamic and the album as a whole has a bit of the flavor of some of Motian’s past projects with Lovano, particularly those done under the aegis of ECM. The four manage to generate a sizeable density and volume without sounding overly ornate or bombastic. “Silent Screen” walks the tightrope between optimism and melancholy, Adkins sounding effusive at one turn and contemplative at another. Once again, the rhythm section rises well beyond the role of support and the piece becomes a breeding pool for subtle and spontaneous interplay. “Pearl 21” follows in short order with roiling activity that periodically limns the fringes of free improvisation. Adkin’s fleeting Jekyll to Hyde transformation enhances the engrossing piebald flavor of the piece. The elegant “Forena” tacks in a more circumscript emotional direction, spreading a calming cool to its companion’s brazen burn. In the aftermath of an audience with this album, the hype machine seems for once to be right on target with the truth.
~ Derek Taylor
As much as the reissue market is saturated with re-packagings, often for the umpteenth time, of previously issued material to encourage followers of the music to purchase the same thing twice, there are those rare birds that render the original obsolete. Tenorman Frank Lowe’s debut LP as a leader, Black Beings, issued in 1973, was never a record that left one wanting for more. Sure, the recording was a bit muddy and the original vinyl pressing not that hot, but the music contained therein always felt prime, either a last gasp of post-Coltrane fire music or the first sweaty exhortations of “loft jazz.” Joined by Joseph Jarman on alto and sopranino saxophones, violinist The Wizard (Raymond Cheng), and the rhythm section of bassist William Parker and drummer Rashid Sinan, it offered something between movements and utterly sedimental on two full band cuts and one solo tenor piece. ESP sourced the original concert tapes, adding over fifteen minutes of material to what was originally issued. Not only that, but the remastering job is first-rate, lending the date an auditory power that goes beyond its creative significance.
The opening “In Trane’s Name” is a throaty call to arms from buzzing, gruff tenor and acrid, tart alto, violin clawing at the reaches of the upper register. As Lowe blows in contorted squeals and fire-and-brimstone blasts from the pit of his horn, Sinan is a many-limbed storm of bricks and pavement keeping tenor afloat in a dialogue that seems fit to lift an entire city. There’s an entirely different urban structure to Jarman’s alto, as he begins his solo in delicate sprawl and builds to obsessive repetition and extroverted peals over a crashing field of gongs, toms, wood and strings. Jarman moved to New York in the early ‘70s, and though he was far less the stereotypical Chicagoan in the architecture of his improvisations than Roscoe Mitchell, it’s clear that his feral-ness found a home in the lower Manhattan of Lowe’s band.
Part of Jarman’s solo was cut out of the original LP release to fit a side; more importantly, all of Cheng’s electric violin madness was excised. To say it’s a revelation is an understatement – less Leroy Jenkins and more Masayuki Takayanagi by way of Ornette, as his wide-interval leaps, seasick multiple-stops and torqued tones reach a frenzy that even Sinan’s stew can’t match. This is free string playing for the ages, and it’s a shame that more people didn’t experience it when the record was released. Cheng and Parker spar fiercely, the bassist’s levitational harmonics already in full force (this was his first appearance on record). Parker’s thrum is audible throughout the disc, though, and the newfound crispness of Sinan’s tubwork makes their tandem truly glorious. The drum choir that pipes up at around the twenty-minute mark is a perfect upping and altering of the ante from string solos (Sinan and Parker also hold court on Seikatsu Kojyo Iinkai, a corker of a session led by Japanese altoist “Kappo” Umezu for the SKI imprint). The front line engages in a high-register cutting contest of sorts over mallets and toms before the theme’s incantational blues takes the tune home.
There’s something to be said for vinyl, though – after a set this intense, a rest before flipping the side is important. Unfortunately, ESP didn’t figure out a way to give the disc a little mid-performance breather.
~ Clifford Allen
In historically criticizing the international breadth of improvised music, we’re still often quite apt to pigeonhole certain countries and regions as having a specific approach to sound. There’s the “Cleveland sound” exemplified by Albert Ayler and his cohorts, and the Instant Composers’ Pool defines jazz in Holland. The Germans blow their heads off and we all know what the English do. Of course, this is a patent fiction and thankfully there are records like the debut slab of Synopsis, first issued by FMP in 1974 and now in digital form on Intakt. The group consists of pianist Ulrich Gumpert, drummer Günter Sommer, trombonist Conny Bauer and alto/soprano saxophonist Ernst-Ludwig Petrowsky. Apart from two LPs in the ‘70s, they have recorded under the Zentralquartett moniker over the past two decades.
Being from the East of Germany and operating under the Iron Curtain, the appropriation of influences was a little different – sure, they could learn from records and from their local peers, but few other European (let alone American) improvisers made their way past the wall during the music’s infancy. Yet the East doesn't really factor into the idea of a uniquely "German" approach to free music, though the overblown paint peeling of Petrowsky’s alto may grant him kinship with Brötzmann. Such frantic pyrotechnics aren’t the basis for the group’s improvisations. But talking about what Synopsis is not doesn’t make much room for what defines them.
The set begins with “Krisis Eines Krokodils,” a poised counterpoint to the group’s immediate pan-continental kin as Gumpert’s delicate Monkian fancies jibe with trombone multiphonics and Sommer’s detailed, rattling propulsion. The fact that one is not waiting for a primed Bennink yell to break the silence enables one to relax and take in breath, coiled and tart sounds, upper-register plinks and massaging brushes. The piece ebbs and flows gradually in punctuated waves, Sommer’s tide a singular rhythm yet not indifferent to the circularity of African heartbeats. As Petrowsky screams and Bauer chortles, there’s an ease akin to rested breathing that makes their crescendos seem ever so natural. Sommer and Gumpert are a gorgeous tandem, symphonic arpeggios and a crystalline lushness, and their well-practiced duets offer a solid foundation for collectivity. Jaki Byard-esque rolling rings out from underneath Petrowsky’s alto whinnies, providing an introduction to a stately and unified head that closes out the piece amidst percussive thrash.
There are kwela-inspired folksy moments in “Take IV,” a transposition of Chris McGregor onto something of a parlor melody before racket ensues. “Mehr Aus Teutschen Landen” is a German folk song, winsome romance stomped on by Sommer’s toms before a trio of trombone, piano and drums take on the anthemic call as Petrowsky’s frantic skree hurtles over the top. A synopsis of exactly “what” might be the question to ask, for this quartet’s approach to improvisation is the antithesis of summation. Rather clearly, Synopsis/Zentralquartett are a musical launching pad.
~Clifford Allen
Taking their name from a Tolkien monster, the bass-and-reeds duo Ballrogg are far less fearsome than their rancorous moniker would suggest. A Norwegian pairing of altoist/clarinetist Klaus Ellerhusen Holm and bassist Roger Arntzen, Ballrogg’s debut features ten brief vignettes, most of which are from the books of Eric Dolphy, Ornette Coleman and Jimmy Giuffre. In addition, there is one duo improvisation and two pieces penned by Holm.
The set begins with a pensive and wistful reading of Ornette’s “Sex Spy” (not an obvious choice from his book), Holm’s alto cleanly eliding and harping notes in concentrated forms, building soft yet tensile structures far from the folksy melodies that the tune’s progenitor would’ve put together. And of course, there’s no reason to think of Holm or of Ballrogg as “required” to stick to the formulae.
“Out To Lunch” begins with a coda of harmonics from clarinet and arco bass before the melody creeps in, briefly, and is toyed with in engaging woody slaps and flights. Giuffre might seem like a model, minus the piano of his early sixties trio (indeed, they bouncily cover “Emphasis”), but the chamber dissection here moves from an apparently more direct, freer model – immediate and perhaps looking toward the jugular. In a context such as this, one might look for obvious connections between Holm’s alto playing and that of Ornette, Dolphy, or for that matter Konitz and Lacy’s soprano (which has influenced a huge amount of players). Clearly, he’s out of this tradition of wide interval leaps and curious, chirpy repetition, likewise smoothness and ebullient swing, but Holm is quite an individual voice. That’s crucial when approaching such a solidified repertoire such as this.
On clarinet, Holm is microscopic and winnowing as one might think, but again he somehow turns the theme of “Lorraine” into something klezmer-esque against the Garrison-like walls of Arntzen’s bass. It’s as though Ornette’s bluesy twang became transplanted into a filmic Jewish neighborhood in New York or eastern Europe, even as Holm’s solo plods, spirals and plots other sonic areas before returning to the dusky hovel of its theme. This is an excellent debut from a pair who have clearly not only set the bar high for themselves, but for the music as a whole.
~ Clifford Allen
This piece was the biggest surprise of last year’s Vision festival. It boiled with excitement and raw power that spread throughout the space in waves as the music rose and fell. Even the quietest moments were suffused with energy, and at climaxes, the volume and multihued textures were overpowering.
The studio recording of Mitchell’s tribute to a profoundly important African-American woman author does not convey the same sense of unbridled vitality as its concert performance. That said, the studio environment also brings advantages; the consistently rewarding Firehouse 12 label has released a finely detailed reading of the work, one in which Mitchell’s fine orchestration is even more clearly evident than it was at the premier. From the opening upward flourish of the first movement, the recording is imbued with a sense of purpose that underlies every phrase of the beautiful scoring. Yet, there is a sense of transcendent stillness, most likely engendered by the relative serenity of the studio. These ruminative moments are juxtaposed with the busy bass, drums and percussion work of Josh Abrams, Marcus Evans and Avreeayl Ra respectively, their numerous and varied exchanges heard to full effect in the crisp recording.
As “Smell of Fear” moves from a similarly anticipatory calm to the menacing pulse that underpins it, the slightest microtonal motion becomes apparent as Mitchell’s flute melds effortlessly with David Boykins’ tenor and David Young’s trumpet. The clarity and presence of each instrumentalist is amazingly evident even on a track like “Adrenalin,” where Tomika Reed’s expert cello work graces the increasingly hectic mix.
The composition certainly invokes Mitchell’s associations with the AACM, the multimovement work clearly rooted in the multicultural conventions birthed by improvisational practices of the 1960s; however, Mitchell’s harmonies owe a large debt to contemporary classical music, and her effective blending of stylistic traits becomes more apparent upon repeated listening. Her playing is second to none, scaling heights of register and virtuosity and making the suite’s conclusion the powerful statement it is.
In concert, vocalist Mankwe Ndosi’s contributions provided the axis on which the piece turned, and she remains pivotal on disc. Even when her voice is buried during ensemble passages, it is an integral part of the textural, bespeaking and enhancing the many psychological states captured in Mitchell’s composition. Often though, that unmistakable voice rises, phoenix-like, to propel the music forward, her pitch range matched perfectly by the myriad vocal subtleties of which she is in command. Watch as her sobs, or is it nervous laughter, emerges from the multi-pulsed counterpoint of “Sequence Shadows,” to cite only one brilliant moment.
This is a finely detailed rendering of a wonderful piece of music, and the playing is first rate. I hope that the Xenogenesis Suite is only one of many such works to be penned by this talented composer and performer.
~ Marc Medwin
Trumpeter-composer Don Cherry’s multinational mid-sixties quintet created a body of work with an influence localized to the period that is still being unpacked. With itinerant tenorman Gato Barbieri, vibraphonist Karl Berger, drummer Aldo Romano and a rotating cast of bassists, the group ping-ponged between Scandinavia, France and the United States throughout their short existence. This second volume of recordings captured live at Copenhagen’s Café Montmartre with bassist Bo Stief is particularly interesting, for its contents go beyond the usual renditions of the “Complete Communion” suite and gives one a clearer picture of the breadth of their repertoire.
One of the crucial aspects of this recording is the inclusion of a suite of Albert Ayler tunes, brought from the Ayler-Cherry quartet of two years earlier. The mutual influence isn’t sufficiently talked about, for not only were Cherry’s pieces recorded by the quartet and at least one in Ayler’s later bands (“D.C.,” on Spirits Rejoice, ESP 1020), but the long form suite format of thematic elements heralded from improvisational quotes is something that both composers used heavily in their work of the period. One has only to place Bells alongside Complete Communion to see how forms occur
