Remembering McCoy Tyner

It just hit me that I never wrote a post saluting McCoy Tyner, after he passed away on March 6. Many other people have spoken more eloquently about the great pianist's legacy but if I'm going to salute Andy Gill and David Roback, I need to say a few words about Tyner. His music probably has as great an impact on my perspective as the other two, non-jazz players.

Matthew Shipp posted on Facebook recently, pondering what the world might have been like had John Coltrane not gotten Tyner in his quartet. They inspired each other to develop a musical that would not have come out the same way in a different context, Shipp explained. It's a perfect example of how jazz requires a musician to both interact with the players around you and to also develop your own strong individual voice, which feeds back into the group interaction, making it a powerful loop.

The first John Coltrane song I remember hearing, and knowing what it was him, was "My Favorite Things." It was the early '80s and I heard it on one of the evening jazz shows on WYEP-FM. It might have been the show "Fat Tuesday," the name of whose host escapes me. The choice of that song in a jazz context came as kind of a surprise to me - a lightweight tune from The Sound of Music that somehow got lumped in with the Christmas season. But the vamp that the rhythm section played underneath Coltrane gave it a more serious quality. I feel like the version I heard was the single version, because I have a vague recollection of the DJ talking about how he didn't have time to the whole 14-minute version. The idea that this tune could be played so long intrigued me. Someday I would need to check it out, I thought.

Time went by before I bought my first Coltrane album, but when I did, it was My Favorite Things. It was one of those moments where I felt like I had been given the keys to enter a new musical world that only certain people could understand. That vamp on the title track was every more exciting now. Plus, Tyner tempered that with some his own solo that had an almost regal feel to it.

I didn't quite grasp everything on the album at first. "Summertime" took great liberties with the melody and had a lot of tension and release that kept me scratching my head. But Tyner offered the one part of that song that kept me coming back. Following Steve Davis' bass solo, Tyner introduces a two-chord lick that offers a break for Elvin Jones to add some fills. That lick was so funky that it kept me coming back, realizing that the whole thing might not make sense to me yet, but it was slowly unfold. That album also made me appreciate the way subtle touches can make a great song go over the top in terms of excellent. The example I think of Jones' press roll at the end of "My Favorite Things." The way he releases it with a cymbal crash at the end absolutely slayed me. The same goes for the closing of "Everytime We Say Goodbye," which follows it on Side One. It says these guys are on to something and they're letting you in on it.

Tyner came to Pittsburgh in the summer of 1986. It was a Sunday night and he played some ballroom in Station Square because the tent where he was supposed to play outside had blown down, or something like that. I was worried that I wouldn't get in (I was a mere 18 at the time), but there was no problem. At this point my recollections of the show aren't too detailed. Emily Remler (living in town at the time) opened the show. Tyner played with a trio that I think had Louis Hayes on drums and Avery Sharpe on bass guitar. He was a big fellow with a deep voice. And he played with a thunderous attack on the piano. (Someone later told me that a piano has to be tuned both before and after Tyner plays it, due to his force on the keys.)

Chasing Trane: The John Coltrane Documentary only has a brief soundbyte of talking from Tyner, interspersed with a live performance. When he speaks, he explains that the quartet played the way they did because they had to, as if playing that way was required in order to live. That devotion to music is something to which we should all aspire.

Thanks, Mr. Tyner. I hope the Quartet has reunited and you're all playing together again. 

CD Review: Tim Berne's Snakeoil - The Fantastic Mrs. 10

Tim Berne's Snakeoil
The Fantastic Mrs. 10
(Intakt) www.intaktrec.ch

Charles Mingus called several of his albums "the best thing I've ever done," as a session was being committed to vinyl. The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady and Changes One and Two both have this assessment stated in their liner notes and there are several others that escape me at the moment. On one hand, it seems funny that the great bassist and composer would say this every few albums, as if he either changed his mind about the previous release, or that he was simply speaking in the moment.. Yet it could also be seen as proof that Mingus always challenged himself to build on past accomplishments. (He certainly challenged his musicians that way.)

The Fantastic Mrs. 10 brings Tim Berne's Snakeoil to the Swiss label Intakt after four albums for ECM. He made his first Intakt appearance last year with Michael Formanek's Practical Trio. Along with Berne, Oscar Noriega (bass clarinet, B-flat clarinet), Matt Mitchell (piano) and Ches Smith (drums, percussion), the group includes Marc Ducret (guitar), Berne's bandmate from several projects, the most significant being Bloodcount.

The feeling of Bloodcount (Berne's '90s group with Formanek, Jim Black and Chris Speed) is in the air early on, and not merely because of Ducret's presence. The title track has asymmetrical line, with Berne and Noriega winding through the rest of the group in a way that recalls the previous ensemble. Listening closely, it sounds like Ducret and Mitchell might be adding quickly to the theme while also adding side comments (the guitarist) and playing chordal foundations (the pianist) at the same time.

Behind everything, Ches Smith is almost settling into a backbeat, focusing on the snare and high-hat  that grooves even though it isn't exactly in 4/4. This is where they leave the Bloodcount comparison behind. Had Jim Black been behind the kit, he would be splattering percussives in all directions. Consider the whole thing a new wrinkle in the Berne canon, and a strong opening to boot.

As with many Berne pieces, the aforementioned scene is really just one section that quickly changes before one can settle easily into it. The same thing happens in "Surface Noise." The first half of this 11-minute track feature the quintet creating a large almost choral sound, with Smith's vibes adding to the melody. The second half  pits Noreiga's bass clarinet against some sharp interjections from Ducret before Berne's free solo gradually pulls the group together into a theme, eventually ending abruptly. Smith does some more groove permutations in "The Amazing Mr. 7," later in the set, after playing a series of gongs, more vibes and Haitian tanbou (a barrel drum that sounds like conga).

Midway through the album, Berne cleverly includes a quick reading of "Dear Friend," a piece by his alto saxophone mentor, the late Julius Hemphill. At just three minutes, it offers a compelling break from the multi-leveled originals that surround it, and provides a reminder of the sensitivity that exists in this music even when things get noisy.

The liner notes to The Fantastic Mrs. 10, which are book-ended by two limericks about the band (not merely cute but actually truthful), consist of block quotes from each band member about the group. As I reached the end of them while spinning the album, Berne's final quote stood out: "I think this is the best one yet. That's a stupid thing to say, but it's kind of a culmination."

Maybe he and I were thinking on the same level or maybe I read that a while ago and only recalled it subliminally while thinking about the album. But Berne is right on the mark. The Fantastic Mrs. 10 has the bite and fury of his Bloodcount combined with the expansive sonic quality that has been a big part of the Snakeoil albums. If Berne pulls a Mingus and says the same thing a few albums from now, I wouldn't doubt him either.

Covid-19 Cancellations

This week I wrote a story about saxophonist Ken Vandermark to preview his show on Monday, March 16. Now that show is cancelled because of the Covid-19. Here's the story to read anyway.  Check it out because Ken is a pretty fascinating artist.

Earlier this week, I interviewed Roger Miller, the great guitarist from Mission of Burma. He was going to play a solo show of music based on excerpts from a dream book that he keeps. That interview was going to turn into an article that I was going to publish here on the blog. His April 3 appearance at the Andy Warhol Museum has been cancelled, with a possible rescheduling in October. During our talk, he casually mentioned that Mission of Burma is no longer together, by the way.

Jonathan Richman took part in an email interview with me a few weeks ago, with the intention of previewing his March 25 show. I hadn't written it yet, but I had a few good headlines up my sleeve for that piece. (Since the piece could happen at a later date, up my sleeve they will stay.)

I want everyone to be safe. But it's really hard dealing with these cancellations and the feelings in general of not being around people. I miss people already.

CD Review: David S. Ware New Quartet - Théȃtre Garonne, 2008

David S. Ware New Quartet

Théȃtre Garonne, 2008

(AUM) www.aumfidelity.com

David S. Ware wasn't in the best health when his quartet journeyed to Toulouse, France in 2008. In his liner notes, guitarist Joe Morris says that Ware reluctantly accepted rides on carts and wheelchairs though the airport on the trip, even if it meant he was acknowledging that his kidney problems were taking a greater toll on his day-to-day activities. It was surely a hard realization to make, but it meant that Ware was saving his strength for his performance, which doesn't hint at any indication of what the brawny tenor saxophonist might have been dealing with offstage.

Ware's New Quartet was documented on the studio album Shakti, but that group is arguably overshadowed by the number of releases the tenor saxophonist made with his longstanding group of pianist Matthew Shipp, bassist William Parker and drummers that included Whit Dickey and Susie Ibarra. Théȃtre Garonne, 2008 catches the band road testing the material they recorded just a few weeks prior for Shakti. 

Along with bassist Parker and guitarist Morris, the group is completed by veteran drummer Warren Smith. Whereas Matthew Shipp's piano filled vast areas of sonic space in the original group, the new quartet has more of a sonically open feel with Morris as the second melodic foil. His clean lines reinforce the groove of "Crossing Samsara," a 26-minute performance that gets divided into two tracks to give equal space to the two themes.

Morris might not play with distortion but he doesn't play it safe, either. He responds to Ware's initiative with some aggressive lines in the upper register that fit right in "during the first "Samsara." The same thing happens in "Durga." After stating the theme with Morris, the saxophonist steps back to let the guitarist explore the possibilities of the line. He responds passionately, occasionally touching back down on the melody to clarify. Smith's fleet movement across his kit keeps the music moving rapidly. He and Parker, heavy as always but never overbearing, get some quality duo time at the opening of "Namah." 

Ware always had a way with overtones and he certainly did on that May evening in 2008. The final solo in "Reflection" finds him working with several overtone combinations, manipulating his horn like a guitarist would with feedback, keeping the intensity flowing. The results might intense in execution but Ware never forgets that he's playing a ballad. Elsewhere during the set he reveals his skill with gruffer tenor sounds, akin to R&B honkers. Considering what he was dealing with at the time - giving himself dialysis treatments in hotel rooms after the show - it's all the more impressive.

Of course Théȃtre Garonne, 2008 shouldn't be regarded as an album that's good despite Ware's health issues. The quartet was inspired that night because they were all thinking on the same wavelength. While Morris states that he didn't get to hang out with Ware much offstage aside from airport rides, they clearly had some deep discussions on the bandstand.

RIP David Roback

Pittsburgh Current polled its contributing writers for last year's Valentines Day issue, asking each of us for what we considered the "Sexiest Song." (Proving how one letter can make a world of difference, my original email accidentally asked for the most sexist song, which naturally was Burt Bacharach & Hal David's "Wives and Lovers.") Rushed to come up with one quickly, I chose the Stooges' "We Will Fall," a long, sensual and somewhat dangerous sounding number about loving and leaving (I hope).

A year and a couple weeks later I realized the drastic oversight I made. "We Will Fall" is pretty steamy, but kiss for kiss and sigh for sigh, I think side two of Opal's Happy Nightmare, Baby takes the love cake. That's actually four songs total, but after "Supernova," it's hard to stop. Layers of guitars, droning organs, some dirty riffs and that ever-so-seductive deadpan voice of Kendra Smith is hard to resist.

Sadly, all this came to me because I pulled the album off the shelf this week after hearing about the death of David Roback, the other half, with Smith, of the brains behind Opal. The guitarist was a mere 61 years old. Although the cause of death wasn't immediately released, Roback's mother confirmed that it was metastatic cancer, according to the New York Times.

Roback came to prominence first in connection with the so-called Paisley Underground, the community of California bands that borrowed heavily from '60s bands of both the pop and psychedelic sides of things. He was a founding member of the Rain Parade and also appeared on the highly collectible compilation Rainy Day, playing songs by Neil Young, Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix with kindred spirits from the Dream Syndicate, Three O'Clock and the Bangles.

He found his greatest attention with Mazzy Star, who had some mild mainstream success in the early '90s with their second album So Tonight That I Might See and the single "Fade Into You." But that group's template was set in place by Opal, which began under the name Clay Allison. (Pittsburgh history note - Clay Allison's sole Pittsburgh appearance in 1984 at the Electric Banana was also the debut of the original Cynics.) Happy Nightmare Baby, the group's one album released during their lifetime (a compilation of singles followed later) has more of a raw, visceral feel, giving the feeling that the group is still discovering what is possible for them. "Rocket Machine" opens it with a riff straight out of a T. Rex song. "Magick Power" follows, built on a slinky groove that gets pushed in an Eastern direction courtesy of the organ, before breaking into a double-time freak out.

And then there's side two. The title track is the album's understatement. Aside from a few slide guitar leads from Roback, all ears are on Smith, who could be either cruel or loving, judging from the lyrics. Two other songs prove that sometimes you can lean heavily on just one or two chords as long they occasionally change into a powerful release that heightens the mood. That happens in the sensual "Supernova" which bounces between C# and D, with only a short break that leads back in.

"Soul Giver" is essentially a guitar freak out, closing the album in much the same way So Tonight That I Might See's title track would do the same six years later. But while the latter tune beat one riff into the ground, "Soul Giver" has guitars and organs tumbling over one chord, some of them never sure if the song is major or minor. Then every time Smith returns to sing a verse, it's followed by a chord change that keeps things from ever getting tedious. When it ends, eight-and-a-half minutes later, there's no climax. It feels right when it suddenly halts.

Released by SST Records in 1987, the album has been hard to find in the ensuing years. Part of that could be Roback's doing, as he was supposedly stubborn about letting his work get reissued. (Hence Rainy Day's collectablility too.) One story about his passing mentioned that both Happy Nightmare Baby and the Early Singles compilation might finally be re-released. If so, it would be a good way to rediscover the elusive, creative Mr. Roback.

Thanks for the loving, David.

CD Review: The Westerlies - Wherein Lies the Good

The Westerlies
Wherein Lies the Good
(Westerlies) www.westerliesmusic.com

The Mamas and the Papas used to say that when they harmonized together, their overtones added a fifth voice to their sound. That same sort of harmonic reaction seems to happen at various spots during Wherein Lies the Good, the third album by the brass quartet the Westerlies. The rich sound feels like the result of more than just two trumpets and two trombones. It doesn't feel the group overdubbed extra tracks either. Sections where it seems like flutes are creeping in the background is built on another technique where they let air escape from the sides of their mouths while playing (a process which is called "fluting"). The music just expands with sound, in a delightful, ear-tugging manner.

The Westerlies - Riley Mulherkar and newest member Chloe Rowlands on trumpet, Andy Clausen and Willem de Koch on trombones - reside at the corner of chamber group and jazz. They play composed pieces and, although improvisation might not be a major part of their work, they nevertheless depend on personal approaches to the instruments to bring their scores to life. On top of that, the four of them  can move like a single unit, as needed. The best example of that comes in "Golden Gate Gospel Train" where they create a singular wail of joy, building up to it and popping the cork with jaw-dropping precision.

That particular track introduces a five-song suite of gospel songs originally performed by the Golden Gate Quartet, a vocal group from the 1930s. All but one of the tunes lasts under two minutes, and while the melodies are built on bright, cheery lines, the Westerlies give them depth. This suite appears after another extended piece, the title track which was written by pianist Robin Holcomb, a long-time supporter of the group since their young days in Seattle. Consisting of 11 movements, "Wherein Lies the Good" includes quick fanfares, warm trombone melodies and moments where the group sounds like they're inhaling and exhaling as one, creating some effective dissonance as they go.

Along with other interpretations that speak volumes about the band's scope - two by Charles Ives, one by obscure singer-songwriter Judee Sill, one by avant pop singer Arthur Russell which they punctuate with dirty growls - each of the Westerlies contribute originals. Clausen's "Robert Henry," inspired by his nephew, features a minimal trumpet below the melody that eventually gives way to a slow section where a whine edges up before returning to the first part. Rowlands' "Laurie" expresses love for the late trumpeter and teacher Laurie Frink. De Koch's "Chickendog and Woodylocks" playfully recreates a childhood story from his grandmother and Mulkerhar's three-part "Entropy" closes the album with power.

CD Review: Johnny Griffin & Eddie "Lockjaw" Davis - Ow! Live at the Penthouse

Johnny Griffin & Eddie "Lockjaw" Davis
Ow! Live at the Penthouse
(Reel to Real) www.cellarlive.com

When two charismatic tenor saxophonists get together in a band, it doesn't have to follow that they'll engage in nothing but battles or cutting sessions. It can also result in a sharing of ideas, or as a way for peers to politely push each other to higher levels that bring out their individuality. That seems to have been the case in the quintet that put tenor saxophonists Johnny Griffin and Eddie "Lockjaw" Davis side by side during the early 1960s. Their discography speaks a great deal about their work ethic: in a mere two years the "Tough Tenors" cur nine albums, including four that captured them live at Minton's

Ow! is a newly released performance by their quintet live during two shows at Seattle's Penthouse Club in 1962. The rhythm section driving the music consists of Horace Parlan (piano), Buddy Catlett (bass) and Art Taylor (drums). No mere lo-fi historical document, the disc (which also appeared on vinyl on Record Store Day last fall) was recorded for broadcast live on radio station KING-FM. Taken from the original tapes that were in the possession Charlie Puzzo, Jr. - whose father ran the Penthouse - they feature sound akin to classic Village Vanguard recordings, down to the crystal clear sound of Catlett's walking bass lines.

Following a brief radio introduction and a chorus of "Intermission Riff," the quintet kicks into the jaunty "Blues Up and Down" (originally a Gene Ammons/Sonny Stitt workout, but one that became the title track of a Griffin/Davis album too). The performance can give one the feeling of discovering some long-lost treasure, eliciting a "where have they been all my life" response. Davis takes the opening solo - which he does throughout, making it easy to distinguish him from Griffin - playing with a gruff tone that he uses to deliver a torrent of ideas, stopping on a dime, wailing and adding vibrato in appropriate places. If that wasn't enough, Griffin jumps in and spends most of the time playing double-time, like it was a simple undertaking. And the momentum doesn't wane a bit during the following 50 minutes.

No pianist sounded like Horace Parlan, due largely to the way he overcame the effects of polio, which robbed the strength from a few of his fingers. To compensate, Parlan developing his own unique voicings which add some bright spirit to this music, and evokes the feeling he delivered a few years earlier on Charles Mingus' Mingus Ah Um. The faster pieces, like the closing "Tickle Toe" are no problem for him.

Art Taylor comes across as a solid journeyman, driving the tenors. Buddy Catlett might not be as well-known and the other players, but he became a Seattle fixture after playing with Ben Webster (whose influence is felt in this set), Louis Armstrong and Quincy Jones. He delivers some solid work  that drives pieces like "Bahia."

Ow! represents a significant find for a few reasons. First is the obvious fact: The album unearths a top-notch performance that might have otherwise been lost to the ether. Co-released with Resonance Records, its elaborate packing includes detailed notes about the Griffin-Davis quintet's history, reminiscences by people involved with the live session and interviews with musicians who offer a greater perspective on the players. But it also serves as a motivation to track down the other recordings the Tough Tenors made at that time. Because we could use more.

Here's hoping that Reel to Real also has access to John Coltrane's mid-'60s performance at the Penthouse which came out a few years ago on a imported, probably illegitimate and definitely muddy sounding CD. 

Andy Gill RIP

While listing some albums for sale tonight, I figure Gang of Four's Solid Gold album should playing. So it is. For some reason, I know Entertainment and Songs of the Free really well, in terms of  full albums, but not this one. It has nothing to do with what I think of the album. Hell, I'm really digging the steady, unflinching groove of "What We All Want" right now. But by the time I got the album (I think someone gave it to me when I was in college), I put it away, thinking that there would be some other time when I'd immerse myself in it.

Andy Gill was one of maybe three touchstone guitars who epitomized a certain sound for me. (For the record, the other two are D. Boon and Roger Miller.) He could make a lot of noise on the guitar without going over the edge or forsaking the groove. I think the only person who ever had that brittle sound is Marc Ribot.

I haven't seen Gang of Four live since their reunion in the early '00s but like many people I still hold the band dear to my heart. The first time I saw them was in early 1983 at Pittsburgh's Stanley Theater, with locals the Five opening for them. My brother John took me, which was cool in and of itself, being the 10th grader hanging out with the older punks. The show was great, with several encores, which irritated me at the time because I understand how that worked at the time (the idea of the band leaving the stage and letting the crowd hoot and holler before they'd come back onstage). By this time Sara Lee was playing with them and she was funky as hell.

The show was on a Sunday night and got done close to 11:00 pm, which was not cool for a kid who didn't want to deal with parents who would chew him out when he got home. But John insisted we grab some food first on the way home. It turned out to be Primanti's, a Pittsburgh institution which is know for putting french fries and cole slaw on their sandwiches. (Any Pittsburgher worth their salt knows exactly what I'm talking about).

About eight years later, my friend Steve and I were drinking past closing time at Chief's Cafe, a local dive that was always filled with characters, most of whom were in bands or went to see bands. As Steve and I made our way out some time after 2:00, we noticed a guy who looked like Andy Gill coming out a few steps behind us. When we heard his English accent we realize it was Andy Gill. I think they had played at Graffiti, which was just down the street, earlier that evening. I'm not even sure if it was a Gang of Four show or not.

Steve went up to Andy and introduced himself, thanking him for his music and saying it had been an inspiration to him. Andy was gracious and thanked him. I was too inebriated to say something to him. Instead, after we walked out to the street, we started thinking of similarities between Andy and Davey Williams, the guitarist in the prog-jazz band Curlew. Only I got the name wrong and referred to Davey Johnstone, the guitarist who played with Elton John in the '70s. It was all very hilarious to my snockered mind. You had to be there.

All music nerd wisecracks aside, thank you for everything, Andy.

Who Did I See at Winter Jazz Fest? Well.....

Yesterday I penned a report on Jazz Congress for Pittsburgh Current which should be up on their website soon. They asked for 500 words. I delivered about 850. It was that kind of event - hard to sum up in a small space without oversimplifying everything. With that completed, I figured I better talk a bit about the events at Winter Jazz Fest that I was able to check out. Specifically the marathon night that took place in Brooklyn. Luckily for me, everyone I wanted to see was performing at the same venue, the Sultan Room on Starr Street.

Last year, one of my Winter Jazz Fest evenings began with Tim Berne in a trio setting (with Michael Formanek's Very Practical Trio) and the same thing happened this year. And much like last year's show, Berne began the set with a plastic bottle in the bell of his horn. From there, the similarities end. Big Terminal was a whole different sonic dish, with Berne's paison David Torn on guitar and Aurora Nealand on accordion. Dressed in a hoodie for most of the performance, Nealand also seemed to have a microphone mounted on her instrument and added some vocals. She also banged on a few mental cans with a whisk.

Big Terminal's set recalled some of the frenzy of Sun of Goldfinger, the album Torn and Berne did with Ches Smith. After some barbed growls, Berne was playing some rapid lines that recalled his Bloodcount work (a quick listen to the new Snake Oil album features that too). Torn alternated between joining the saxophonist's melodies and mucking it up with his always entrancing effects work. Nealand proved to be a strong contributor to the group. She often supported Berne by shaping the structure with rich drones. At other times she pumped out staccato notes on the keys and rapidly tugged on the bellows with her left. It's not a disservice to say that it was sometimes hard to distinguish her playing from that of Torn. Except when Torn let fly some ear-splitting harmonics. 

Jessica Pavone's Quartet performed their set without amplification. No pickups on the string instruments and no microphones pointed in the direction of the two violins and two violas. Their unfiltered sound of their instruments' wood could be felt in the whole room. The audience was quiet too, save for the clicking cameramen who were omnipresent at the edge of the stage.

Pavone, who came to Pittsburgh in 2008 with Anthony Braxton, lead the group through pieces that were built on simple figures spread out among the players (Pavone and Abby Swindle on viola, Ericka Dicker and Angela Morris on violin). The first piece was built on arpeggios that were repeated and staggered between the players. Sometimes the quartet coalesced and sounded like a droning chorale. But other pieces got too repetitive, relying on sliding notes that didn't have as much of a payoff.

Wayne Horvitz's composed his 2015 album Some Places Are Forever Afternoon inspired by the poems of Richard Hugo. It was an amazing song cycle that included bassoonist Sara Schoenbeck in a group that also included cello, cornet and guitar. Hearing the pianist and the bassoonist together in duo brought back the power of that album during their set. Together they were graceful and lyrical, yet still penetrating at the same time. Any preconceptions about what a bassoon should sound like go out the window when Schoenbeck starts playing. It almost sounded like a bass clarinet, as she could easily go from guttural growls to lighter melodic moments. With Horvitz's strong writing and equally arresting approach to the piano, the duo had the audience sitting on the Sultan Room's concrete floor in rapt attention.

With Neil Peart's passing at the beginning of the year, it made me wonder who young aspiring drummers will admire and emulate in years to come. The answer came with the next set: Dan Weiss. His Starebaby band followed Horvitz and Schoenbeck, with a set that was both heavy and whip smart, in terms of technical facility. Ben Monder (guitar), Matt Mitchell (keyboards) and Trevor Dunn (bass guitar) joined him, introducing a set that leaned heavily on an album coming out this spring on Pi Recordings.

Weiss' knowledge of Indian beat cycles again seems to play a major role in his composing. But the group peeled off the time signatures like they were nothing. Monder and Mitchell added some heavy solos, throughout. The latter player had a voicing that sounded like a clavinet and it worked in a situation like this. The self-titled Starebaby album from 2018 was a tad dark for me. But after this set, I'm looking forward to their next release.

A late dinner kept me from most of the set by Salami Rose Joe Louis, the stage name of keyboardist Lindsay Olsen. Her quartet, who appeared to be in the 20s, played a funky groovy set with vocals, bass, drums and horns. After Starebaby, anything would probably seem anti-climactic but Olsen's set seemed a little closer to a lighter, ambient groove pop. Heads were bobbing in the audience, so the vibe was being felt, but nevertheless, they seemed like an odd addition to Winter Jazz Fest.

Chris Lightcap's SuperBigmouth brought things back around with a group that had to work to get everyone onstage. With two drummers, two guitarists, two tenor saxophones, keyboards and the leader's basses (upright and electric guitar), they brought together both of Lightcap's other bands, Superette and Big Mouth. This music might have had some progressive rock coursing through its veins but there was plenty of room for blowing too. Plus the way Lightcap used the instrumentation made things sound bigger.

The group didn't get on until close to 1:00 AM but once they did it was hard to leave, even though I was feeling dog tired. (Lightcap is pretty much a homeboy, having grown up in Latrobe, and since I never see him in town, I felt like I needed stick it out.) The majestic opening and rolling rubato drums of "False Equivalency" and layered voicings in "Zero Point Five" were worth the effort.

Getting home that night seemed a tide dicey. The L train into Manhattan was only going so far into Brooklyn before heading back to the city, so there were shuttles taking people to that subway stop. That late at night, it felt like we were going all over Hell's half acre - turning left, turning right, turning left again but not necessarily going in a circle. Luckily I wasn't the only one in the same predicament and I finally got on the train.

EPILOGUE

Saturday night, Winter Jazz Fest was winding down. One week, a lot of subway rides, a bunch of donuts and coffee later, the bus ride home was just around the corner. The Beat Music Improvisations at Nublu didn't seem quite my thing but it featured the festival's artist in residence, drummer Mark Guiliana, who has played with everyone from David Bowie to Brad Mehldau. Considering I missed the Manhattan Marathon, I figured I better check this show out.

When I got to Nublu, on Avenue C, the first set had already started and the room was at capacity. But the doorman said if I went to the room upstairs I could hang out and they'd let us know when space opened up. Good deal.

Upstairs, a tenor trio was playing to about a crowd of at least a dozen and maybe upwards of 20 people. Some were listening, others were in the corner talking. The trio was on fire. When they finished one tune and went immediately into the next, I started to wonder: this guy is doing what JD Allen does. He's also playing off a groove but drawing on some sort of post-Coltrane tenor stylings. Is this JD Allen?

Sure enough, it was. One of the best blankety-blank tenor players in jazz is playing to a room of less than 20 people during a jazz festival. What the hell is up with that? People should be leaning on every note this guy plays. A lot of people. I realized later than night I should have asked if he had CDs for sale because I need to get caught up on his last one or two. But at the time, I felt like the only thing I'd end up saying to him would have been, "Oh my God, you're JD Allen?! Wow, man!" I only caught about 15 minutes of his set before they wrapped up. From the looks of things, they were packing up for the night too. Before long, we were told that we could get in to the lower floor.

A short time later, I was in Nublu with a bunch of other young folks and the band kicked into a heavy 4/4 groove with some samples floating around it. I couldn't see if Guiliana was behind the drum kit, if Nate Smith was or if both of them were playing together. What I could see were Jason Lindner and Big Yuki laying down some ambient sounds while Stu Brooks started a groove going on bass. A lot of heads were wagging along with the beat but it felt more like - and maybe this description shows I'm a little out of touch - a techno show with some live instrumentation. If there was improvisation going on, it wasn't being felt. And it probably wasn't the point either.

Over those last seven days, a wealth of events transpired. The NPR Jazz poll finally came out, and the results favored a number of artists that took musical risks, rather than handing the kudos to more traditional performers. At the same time, Rolling Stone unearthed an internal memo from IHeartMedia that discussed massive layoffs from the monolithic broadcast company, again furthering the idea that commercial radio is moving towards a bland, limp landscape.

At Jazz Congress, a panel on the balance of art and commerce leaned more towards the commerce side, without drawing on the imput of, say, ESP-Disk Records - a label that has spent more than half a century releasing wild albums and just happened to be set up around the corner from the panel - or Pi Recordings or Sunnyside, two labels that show up frequently in the NPR poll.

I'm not trying to put down Guiliana and Co for their set. Or anybody. A lot of it could have been the mood I was in by that time of the week. But when JD Allen - no hyperbole here, one of the best in the business - can't draw a big crowd on a Saturday, it kind of makes you wonder about the audience for this music and what they'll really go out of their way to hear.

But, really, I had a good time.

Here's a pic of JD Allen. Take a good look and then go find one of his albums.

Tales from New York: The Stone and the Village Vanguard

It is forbidden to take pictures at the Stone, the New York venue founded by John Zorn that is devoted to experimental music. So you'll just have to take my word for it that I was there this past Tuesday, January 14. 

The venue used to be located on Avenue C in a storefront that was very easy to miss, even if you weren't looking for it. Since early 2018, it's been located in the New Glass Box Theater on the campus of the New School.

Drummer/percussionist Ches Smith had a week-long residency there last week. On Tuesday, he performed with pianist Craig Taborn and violist Mat Maneri, a group that released The Bell on ECM a few years ago. The trio also had a special unannounced guest that a lot of people in the know seemed to be expecting - guitarist Bill Frisell. (He has shown up the night before on a Winter Jazz Fest bill too, from what I heard.) 

When Smith, Taborn and Maneri recorded The Bell, and in two shows I caught around the time of that 2016 release, the music was very loose and open. In Pittsburgh, Taborn used an electric piano instead of an acoustic, and he was able to manipulate the sound a little more. On Tuesday, the music was still pretty loose and open but there was more movement within it. There were times that the sound would put focus on particular players, but then it would shift the action to somewhere else at a moment's notice. Smith started off playing vibes, sometimes bowing them. Not being able to see everyone's hands clearly, meant that it wasn't always possible to tell if Maneri or Frisell was providing more ambiance or atmosphere to the sound. Some low end bass notes wound their way into mix too, and then it was clear that Maneri was responsible for that.(He utilized some of those octave-dropping effects when the trio played Pittsburgh).

Then Frisell would start with his trademark volume pedal work which gave everything a dreamy sheen. When Smith sat at the drum kit, he frequently played grooves, sometimes in odd meters, sometimes in more measured tempos. Either way it came as a surprise because it added more of a shape to the sound. The whole thing made me forsake my notebook, and just get lost in the music, hoping my memory would hold me. Sometimes things moved glacially, but the music - which Smith told me afterwards were all newer pieces - had more direction and action built into them.

Until Wednesday night of this past week, I had never set foot in the Village Vanguard. It was a hard thing to admit, and one friend couldn't resist poking me about it. In a way that razzing is warranted: What's keeping me from going?

Well, the venue doesn't take part in Winter Jazz Fest so I'm usually hopping from one place to another during the marathon nights to catch several different sets. Since Wednesday night was a night off from WJF events, it felt like the right time to go to the legendary space that appeared on so many equally legendary album titles.

Guitarist Julian Lage was in the middle of a week-long residency, with a trio of Bad Plus drummer Dave King and bassist Jorge Roeder. I showed up around 9:45 hoping to get into the 10:30 set and I'm glad I didn't come a minute later because there was a line forming next to the awning. And that was just the line of people with tickets. A smaller "stand by" line was queued up on the opposite side of the awning. Luckily it wasn't cold or rainy.

Note: there is a number "1" right where the flash appears in the picture above. More than 23 people are allowed in the Vanguard but 123 people seems like a small crowd for such a place. If you're going there, you're probably walking in thinking that money is no object. But just so you out-of-towners know, the cover was $35 and there's a one drink minimum. If you don't have a ticket, you just pay later at your table, where you'll likely to be in close quarters with someone you don't know. Me, I was lucky because I squoze into an aisle chair in front of a table and no one was sitting next to me. On top of that, the minimum drink was THE BEST TASTING GIN AND SHANLEYS I'VE EVER HAD. ("Gin and Shanleys" is the nickname given to my usual drink of gin and club soda. There's more to that story but now isn't the place.) It was the unnamed house gin too. I ended up having two.

It's true that there isn't a bad seat in the Vanguard. At first it felt like the room was triangular because the two side walls seem to come to a point at the stage. But the stage, with its red curtain backdrop, has its own fairly long wall behind it too. Everything can be heard and seen. Those side walls are adorned with pictures of legendary jazz musicians.

After the set I had to get one of my beloved Cecil Taylor. There are also a couple sousaphones mounted of both of the side walls. The look of the place seems historical without looking like it's in need of renovation. You do get a sense of the history naturally. There doesn't need to be a plaque to explain it.

The set began with Roeder hitting a vamp in the upper register of his bass and King playing his kit with one hand and one stick. Lage plays amazingly rich melodic lines, peeling off fast runs in a manner that reminds me of something I've heard in Joe Negri, where he soars an octave and a half up the fretboard and only then starts a proper phrase he hears in his head. He began one tune unaccompanied, going through a series of complex figures with that rapid approach. There were some tortured guitar faces but consider what he was conjuring with his instrument, he can look any way he wants. When the opening salvo was over, it was pretty impressive that the song that followed this testimony was "I'm Getting Sentimental Over You." It wasn't a wry statement or anything flashy. Lage was figuring out how to make this chestnut still sound current after all this time. And he succeeded.

King and Roeder were enjoying themselves as much as Lage was. They went in a free direction where King was doing the driving. Earlier in the set, the drummer also proved how hard he can swing when the situation calls for it. Roeder added some beautiful bow scraping to a ballad without getting too heavy. In one intriguing moment during said ballad, Lage landed on a tritone and bent the note far enough that it quickly went back in tune. The guitarist didn't back announce much of the set but after this one, he mentioned Peter Ivers and the film Eraserhead, so maybe it was "In Heaven (The Lady In the Radiator Song)"? There's an interesting choice for you. Regardless, I'll take it.

Some of the tunes that night felt a little poppy and folk-like, built on some very major changes. But even when the heads seemed a little light, the interplay between these three lifting things higher.

Nels Cline came into the Vanguard prior to the show with a guitar strapped on his back, so I thought he was going to sit in. No such luck. He was just there checking things out. He wasn't the only one from what I could tell. At the bar, in the back of the room, Cline and several other musicians were hanging out, checking out the music. I guess that can be a typical Wednesday night at this place.

It was a short walk back to the hotel, which gave me time to really soak in the music and the space.

Almost Forgot to Include This

As I went to post a link to the last write-up on Twitter, I saw the faces of Kris Davis, Val Jeanty and Terri Lyne Carrington staring at me, in a link to the NPR Music Jazz Critics Poll, for which Davis' album Diatom Ribbons took top honors. "I saw them play on Sunday night," I thought. "Why didn't I include that in that last post?" Dumbass strikes again.

After I threw my suitcase on the bed in the hotel room on Sunday, I ran out to the Sultan Room in Brooklyn and caught probably about half of their set. Wish I could've seen all of it (again with the bad planning) but it was enough to satiate me at least a little. Tony Malaby roared on the tenor. Davis (in the trippy picture above) made an upright piano sound like a baby grand and Jeanty (seen below) added some wild textures. This is the same Val Jeanty who came to the Andy Warhol Museum with Ravish Momin early last year. It was interesting how there were moments when Davis started a groove going in "Reflections" which got Malaby improvising. But at the same time, Davis' variations on that riff made her the center of attention in the piece.

My Visit to New York, Part One

Right now I'm sitting in my hotel room in Manhattan, where I've been, off and on, since Sunday night. January means it's time for the annual trek to the Big Apple for both the Jazz Congress conference and Winter Jazz Fest. This year, however I was a couple days late and beaucoup dollars short.

Last year, the festival kicked into full marathon gear - with two nights of shows happening throughout Manhattan - a few days after Jazz Congress. There were a few stand-alone shows in between. This year, though, the Manhattan marathon started last week, preceding the conference. I realized this only after the Megabus ticket and hotel room had been booked and after the days off from work had been requested. The silver lining is there is another marathon night happening tomorrow in Brooklyn, and I'll be there for that.

But I was here in plenty of time for the Jazz Congress, from which the badge up above came from. Not sure why they didn't put "JazzTimes/Pittsburgh Current" on the badge. Maybe press is press. Maybe I should've done what Curly did in the one Three Stooges film where he, Moe and Larry pretend they're members of the press to get into an event: Moe and Larry get "Press" buttons from the men's room. Curly, ever the resourceful one, has a badge that says, "Pull."

Is this thing on?

One of the panels at Jazz Congress saluted Charlie Parker: "Bird at Beyond: Celebrating Charlie Parker at 100." The panelists included drummers Will Calhoun and Terri Lyne Carrington, saxophonists Rudresh Mahanthappa and (pictured above) Charles McPherson. Rather than rehashing stories about Bird, they helped get to the essence of why Charlie Parker is still relevant and inspirational all these years later. The one thing that the panelists really pondered but I don't think anyone could really answer was what Parker might have accomplished had he lived longer. It's nice to imagine that, but you never really know. He could have turned more pop or he could have gone more experimental. He could have invented Third Stream. But who can really say? Not me, so I'll stop there. (I'm going to write at length about the Congress in the next week. So a full report is forthcoming.)

The Bushwick Public House's weekly Monday Night Improvised Music Series was not part of the Winter Jazz Fest, but it was on my list of shows to check out. Hosted by tenor saxophonist Stephen Gauci, the event features six bands (!) every week. 

Multi-instrumentalist Daniel Carter (seen above) played with two groups on Monday. One included bassist Francesco Marcocci, saxophonist Dan Blake and drummer Francisco Mela. The other featured him together with baritone saxophonist Dave Sewelson and a second baritone player, Josh Sinton, who also doubled on bass clarinet. I like all these guys anyway but hearing them together was really great. Sinton initiated a couple of ideas, Sewelson picked up on them and Carter added great textures to them.

Gauci's trio with drummer Kevin Shea and bassist Adam Lane was just setting up when I got there, They unleashed some intense, sometimes brutal free jazz, but it had a lot of momentum to carry it forward. Or should I say, the delivery shoved the music forward. Following that group, before Marcocci's group, drummer Jeremy Carlstadt and guitarist Anders Nillson offered a spacey respite from the squonk.

To be continued...

Catching Up With Kris Davis, Dave Douglas and Avram Fefer

Pittsburgh Current posted a few thoughts from its staff writers reflecting on the music that happened during 2019. Click here and scroll down to read some of my thoughts about shows I really liked last year. 

It's been awhile since I penned a proper album review here - and I'm still not ready to do that. These three albums have been out for a while anyway. But at the same time, they all have some great things going for them so another mention or two can't hurt. If it gets one more person to check them out, then I've done a good deed. 

Kris Davis

Diatom Ribbons

(Pyroclastic) www.pyrclasticrecords.com

With every album she makes, pianist Kris Davis seems to create something entirely different from what preceded it. Diatom Ribbons' title track opens the album with some clanking prepared piano and a voice. Not just any voice but that of Cecil Taylor, offering some philosophy about his music. For a person who thrived by being intentionally vague and obtuse, this excerpt gets to the heart of his work. And it's nothing compared to the performances of both JD Allen and Tony Malaby that follow him.  The whole arrangement creates a blend of adventurous jazz with turntable sampling work (Val Jeanty works the decks here and throughout the album). 

The album features an assortment of players coming and going throughout the album. Besides Davis, drummer Terri Lyne Carrington is the one constant. Esperanza Spaulding appears on two tracks but  she left her bass at home and uses her voice. She sings Michaël Attias' "The Very Thing" and, in "Certain Cells," she recites Gwendolyn Brooks' poem "To Prisoners." Trevor Dunn plays on most of the tracks, alternating acoustic and electric basses. In addition to putting Allen and Malaby together on a few tracks (including a phantasmagorical 12-minute reading of Julius Hemphill's "Reflections"), both Nels Cline and Marc Ribot also pop up, separately and in tandem on "Golgi Complex." Sometimes things get spare and wide-open, while other tracks like "Reflections" move along at full speed.   

Dave Douglas
Engage
(Greenleaf) www.greenleafmusic.com

Within minutes of playing Engage, it felt like it was headed to my Best of 2019 list. For what it's worth, Douglas often ends up faring impressively in such lists, but "Showing Up" has something really magical in the three-chord riff that drives the song. It moves almost like an Americana indie rock song, driven by Jeff Parker's guitar. (He is something of an indie rocker anyway, what with his role in Tortoise.) Douglas' trumpet uses that foundation to create one of those yearning moods that just tugs at the end. The circular riff doesn't seem to resolve exactly, so maybe that's part of the allure.

The rest of Engage lives up to its name too. "In It Together" features some strong group improvisation. "One Sun, A Million Rays" has Anna Webber playing some moody flute lines before the piece eventually fades with an ominous march. "Where Do We Go From Here" is built on a tense 6/4 vamp that almost unravels during Webber's tenor solo. With titles like "Free Libraries" (where Douglas plays some languid lines and Parker takes a clean, "jazzy" solo) and "Faith Alliance," with its overdriven guitar, Douglas is clearly working to motivate people to take action through his music. It can be hard to take that step but Douglas is a good motivator. 

Avran Fefer Quartet
Testament
(Clean Feed) www.cleanfeed-records.com

Listening to "Song for Dyani," from Testament, brings to mind Ask the Ages, the late Sonny Sharrock's summit meeting with Elvin Jones, Pharoah Sanders and Charnett Moffett, where that quartet sounded like they were playing heavy rock. The pedal drone of "Dyani" inspires that comparison in saxophonist Avram Fefer's quartet, though they race along at twice the speed of Sharrock's band, driven by the multi-directional playing of Chad Taylor, who composed the tune, and bassist Eric Revis, who gets aggressive here.

But Testament has more happening than just this particular moment moment. Fefer, alternating on tenor and alto, finds a good foil in guitarist Marc Ribot, who digs into the boppish swing of "Dean St. Hustle." The leader plays it cool for the straightforward theme of "Essaouria" and then adds a strong growl to his tone during his solo. "African Interlude" gives Taylor a chance to swing really hard too.

Fefer has worked with Taylor and Revis on previous albums but this was the first time he and Ribot worked together on the saxophonist's originals. Hopefully this won't be just a one-off event.

It's New Year's Day and I'm Feeling...

....like I need to get things in order. Though I'm not sure where to start. That particular brand of agoraphobia is the thing that cripples my brain on a regular basis: "It's a day off and there's a lot that I want to do around the house. Let me figure out what to do first. I'll put on some music. Oh, I don't know what to put on. I should listen to something I want to write about. But I don't want it on in the background......" Half an hour goes by and I haven't gotten anything done and I put on some album that I played from my college days.

But anyway, 2019 is over.

There was good stuff that happened to me. After trying for over a year to get something together, I'm finally part of a new band, the Harry Von Zells. We played our first show the day after Thanksgiving, and it went really well.

I transferred back to the Whole Foods where I worked for 11 years until I got laid off. In early 2018 I came back to company via the South Hills store but the commute started to kill me. I was also missing out on shows that I alternately wanted and needed to see. (Biggest regret of 2019 was missing Bob Mould. I was always a casual fan of his solo career but that recent album hinted at a great show.) So I'm literally right back in the place where I was 15 years ago. But I'm okay with that. Work is fine.

Pittsburgh Current continues to chug along. The paper is small but it's mighty.

Then there is that batch of albums that I bought over the summer. I know that one should not find their life affirmations in material objects, but records can do that for a person.

But there were definite downsides to the past year. For one thing, this year had the smallest number of blog entries since I started doing it. Even less than the year my son was born. I'm realizing part of that is related to how I approach writing now - feeling like I can't dive into it without a significant amount of preparation. When it comes to albums, that means I need to do a lot of listening (four or five spins) and usually taking notes. Listening to music, sadly, is not what it was in my 20s where it was easy for me to sit in my bedroom and just get absorbed in music, liner notes and any press releases that came with an album. Now listening is something I tend to do on the fly. In the car, where I've realized the sonic range can be pretty limited. I'll listen on the laptop but that usually means being trapped in a seat for a long period of time, which makes me restless. I want to hear everything through the good speakers on the full system at home. (I don't know what you call that anymore. I like Hi-Fi, though.) It all sends me a vicious circle where nothing gets done.

I resolve to be a better listener, who isn't too neurotic and is able to write without over-preparing.

Maybe that will help me discover me more music too. I looked through the list of Best Albums of the Year in JazzTimes and felt out of touch. I didn't know any in the Top 10. None of albums on my list showed up until about #14. Just in case anyone wonders, no I'm not that type that intentionally lists obscure albums for the sake of throwing a monkey wrench into the tally. This is what I like.

One really big downside to the year was the number of musicians who died. Yes, we've all got to go sometime and many of them were up in years, but jeez oh pete, it was a rough one. I paid tribute to my late friend Ed Boytim in a post during the summer, but I will raise my mug to him again.

I was again reminded of Ed because we were both serious fans of Neil Innes, who died on Sunday, December 29 at the age of 75. Innes is up there with the Beatles, Minutemen and Charlie Parker as someone who had a profound musical impact on me. It all started when I saw All You Need Is Cash the mockumentary about the Rutles, a Beatles parody in which Innes played the John Lennon character and wrote all the songs. I was in fifth grade at the time and the Beatles were all I lived for. Rather than seeing the Rutles as a band that made fun of my faves, I picked up on the humor of the whole thing.

A few years later, I bought a compilation of the Bonzo Dog Band's career, and discovered where Innes came from. Half the time, I wasn't sure what was going on with that band, which sounded like a collision of 20s jazz and Monty Python humor, which of course it was. In addition to Vivian Stanshall's zany frontman performance, Innes would jump in with a song or two that had excellent pop sense with a lyrical outlook that could be charming or dryly hilarious. He wrote the band's one hit "I'm the Urban Spaceman," but as good as that one was, he wrote several that were even better. Also, it became a hit in part because the song's producer, Apollo C. Vermouth, was none other than Paul McCartney.

One more word about the Bonzos and Ed. Ed was always coming with ideas for songs or shows, many of which were just pipedreams. When Viv Stanshall died in 1995, he joked about doing a Bonzos tribute show. That was all I needed to hear. I recruited a bunch of horn players and started transcribing Bonzos songs from the records as best I could. Ed and Rob Rayshich, who had a duo called the Minimalist Love Gods, were the rhythm section. At the time I had a copy of the Bonzos' Gorilla album that was warped and could only be played on my '70s turntable that was normally reserved for 78s. But I used it to figure out how to play "I'm Bored" and "The Equestrian Statue." Everyone was into the project, which fueled my obsessive nature.

The first time we staged the Vivian Stanshall Memorial Orchestra it didn't go that well, mainly because things started late and we got cut off after just about five songs. That was also the night of the final Bone Of Contention show. But a few months later, when the Minimalist Love Gods released their CD, the Orchestra opened the show and played a whole set. It was the first time I ever pulled off some big project and, as my first real band was organically wrapping things up, it gave me the courage to pursue other things. It also gave me the bandmates with which to do it, as future Mystery Date members Aimee DeFoe and Bridget Jakub were in the Viv Orchestra.

Speaking of future endeavors, it's time to figure some out now, which means this is a good place to stop. Actually I have to get ready to work today, but that's usually when I remember things I want to do anyhow. So I'll just try to keep my calendar book nearby and make lists for myself.

Happy New Year everyone.

Antonio Hart in Pittsburgh, and Records

I sold some vinyl last Sunday at the Pittsburgh Record Fest #23, which happened in the afternoon at Spirit. It went really well, with a lot of vendors and a lot of buyers. Plus, I went in with four boxes of albums and a box of singles, and left with just two boxes of albums and a thinner box of singles. I naturally came home with a few things, but they were all pretty inexpensive. In fact, I obtained three of these albums in a trade for two A Certain Ratio albums, which is a pretty good deal, methinks.

The thing about a Record Fest though is that it takes time to prepare for it, if you're going to do it right. That means pricing things, which often means doing some research to figure what's a good price to fan impulse buys, without making things too inexpensive. (I didn't take anything high ticket stuff because most people aren't going there expecting to drop megabucks on a single record.) Because of all that, the time that I spent getting ready was time that I didn't spend right here, talking about new records and shows.

It was a foregone conclusion that alto saxophonist Antonio Hart would offer a good time to everyone who came out to his show on December 7. But his sextet took it even further at the New Hazlett Theater. They pumped up their straight-swinging sound with some deep melodic exploration and energy in two exciting sets.

Hart was flanked by trumpeter Freddie Hendrix and trombonist Robin Eubanks. Hendrix came to town with Billy Harper back in 2015 and released his own Jersey Cat album in the months following that show. If he hasn't made a name for his own self yet, his performance with Hart made him a name to remember. Eubanks has been around for quite some time, releasing albums on his own as well as supporting people like Dave Holland. Hart referred to him as a supportive older brother, who met the saxophonist when the latter was a Berklee student.

The rhythm section was a little  younger than the frontline but it consisted of players that give a listener hope for the future of this music. In particular, pianist Miki Yamanaka really fit that description, due to the way she comped aggressively behind the soloists, building up the music without intruding on anyone. She attended Hart's jazz program at Queens College and he joked that she wasn't his best student since late nights hanging out in jazz clubs made her miss a lot of classes. Clearly he knew, though, that her field work paid off, and so did the audience. Bassist  Alex Ayala and drummer Vince Ector also did a lot to create musical nets that pushed the horns forward.

Beginning the evening with the brief invocation "Peace, Harmony and Love," the group dove into a set that included "Black Children," a Hart composition that dates back to one of his earliest albums, Don't You Know I Care. The saxophonist's tone was a blend of crispness with a thick, beefy quality that comes from his early Cannonball Adderley influence. Hendrix also sounded bright and crisp.
But everyone in the sextet has worked to develop their own personality in their playing. Ayala's solos were extremely melodic. During "Down and Up," he spun a web with Ector during Hart's solo, and switched to walking when it was Eubanks' turn. 

The second set offered the most rewarding moments of the night. "Nine Weeks" was inspired a tour of that length that Hart endured a few years ago in Europe. This slinky number, in which Hart played soprano, eventually pushed towards freedom as everyone soloed together, expressing the tedium of long tour, but doing it in a way that was a blast to listeners. Eubanks' "Sum of All Parts" gave him a chance to show off his trademark blend of blowing and growling vocally during his solo. Yamanaka's "Early Morning" began pensively, with harmonies that created the sound of phantom horns early in the theme. It was a tender piece though it had enough aggression to consider it a ballad.

It was another fine evening presented by the Kente Arts Alliance.

Appreciating Caroll Spinney

By the time Sesame Street aired the segment that talked about store owner Mr. Hooper's death, I was in high school. I kept watching the show long after I aged out of it, but by that time, it was more of a joke. And I recall laughing with some friends about the segment - without, of course, having watched it. The thought of Big Bird dealing with death just seemed like it had to come off as maudlin.

Then, around the time that youtube was running whole hog, I saw the segment. And it crushed me. By just thinking about it, I have the same reaction I get when thinking about, or seeing, George Bailey pleading to Clarence that he wants to live again in It's A Wonderful Life. (When his brother Harry toasts him in the final minutes of the film, I have the same reaction.)

The writers of the Mr. Hooper story are largely responsible for pulling off a smart but difficult task, but a lot of the credit goes to Caroll Spinney, who portrayed Big Bird from the very beginning of Sesame Street. He conveys the reaction a typical six-year old might have while coming to grips with death. "Why can't things be like they were," he demands. It's the heaviest line in the whole scene because it sounds real. The whole segment was done with skill and grace. It doesn't dumb it down for the kids. The first time I saw it, I was bothered that Gordon explains it away with "just because." But I later saw an interview with Roscoe Orman, who played Gordon. That "just because" refers to a previous segment where Big Bird explains while he's doing a funny walk down the street: "just because." It was seen as something a kid would say when they're just doing what they want without any cares. Maybe it oversimplified the discussion of death, but it's done in a way that kids could understand.

Now Caroll Spinney has joined Jim Henson and Jerry Nelson at the Television Workshop in the sky. It's the end of an era.

Full disclosure: Big Bird was never my favorite character on the show.  That distinction probably goes to Cookie Monster. Yet his constant flubbing of Mr. Hooper's name, while the shop keeper was still on the show, was comedy gold to me. Especially since Big Bird carried on blissfully even when Mr. H barked out the correct way to say his name.

Besides, Spinney also voiced another fave on the show: Oscar the Grouch. I loved that Spinney based the voice on a grumpy cab driver who asked, "Where to, mac?" on his first day of work on Sesame Street. And Oscar's low, "heh-heh-heh" laugh was something that I took away from that character. I also thought it was hilarious when Oscar called Big Bird an "overstuffed bag of giblets." I didn't know what giblets were as a kid, but I didn't need to. It was funny.

All of these anecdotes from the show date back at least 35 years. Maybe I'm just the unusual type to keep these things in my memory bank, instead using that brain space for more productive things. Or maybe Caroll Spinney was really good at what he did and knew how to make an impression on viewers.

Either way, I salute and thank him for his work.

Where Have the Last 4 Weeks Gone? or The Harry Von Zells Make Their Debut

Shameful. Awkward. It's been a month since I've done a damn post about anything, let alone new releases or previews. The more I thought about it, the worse I felt about it, rather than channeling those emotions into action and that action into words. Not that I'm beholden to anyone with the blog but me. Maybe that's the problem. 

Not that there hasn't been a lot going on. There's been plenty. I have been writing for Pittsburgh Current over the last few weeks and getting a review or two penned for JazzTimes. Then there's the holidaze. Thanksgiving usually takes a lot out of me. In fact, that happened literally a couple years ago. My asthma was acting up so bad that after dinner, I drove myself to the ER because I felt short of breath and my inhaler wasn't doing it for me. (The wine with dinner didn't seem to help.) Plus, Thanksgiving is equated with loss in my brain. When I was 14, my great-aunt - who was like a surrogate grandmother on my mom's side - passed away the day before Thanksgiving. The way I found out made it even worse. I was out collecting the weekly fees for my paper route from customers. I got to the house where my aunt lived on the top floor, and my mom met me at the door and told me they found my aunt, who had apparently had a heart attack and died. Her sister, who lived with her for years, had passed five months earlier. 

Then five years ago, my dad passed the week before Thanksgiving. I think I've covered that in other blog posts, so I won't revisit that too much. I might have also talked at length about my aunt too. 

A few weeks before this Thanksgiving, I got word that a local jazz drummer, Carter Freije took his life. I had just seen him play with Michael and Peter Formanek and Patrick Breiner. Five days later he was gone. From what I've heard, he had been doing everything he could to keep himself from falling off the edge. It's hard. Let's look out for one another.

On a brighter note.....

....I finally got back onstage with a new band last week!! Yeah, that's me up above for anyone who might not realize it.

The Harry Von Zells made their debut at Howlers on Black Friday. The band is named for the late great radio announcer Harry Von Zell who also appeared on TV on the George Burns and Gracie Allen Show. In broadcast history, one of his big claims to fame was that he accidentally referred to President Herbert Hoover as "Hoobert Heever." I know him from a record of radio broadcasts featuring the Marx Brothers, in which Von Zell cut up with Groucho on Birds Eye Open House. My wife and I both thought it would be a hilarious band. Knowing that it might just be us that liked it, I was pleasantly surprised when I ran it by the band and they were cool with it. There's another local band called the Zells, but one of them works with me, and he gave me the okay when I ran the name past him.

This is the result of a collaboration with guitarist Erik Cirelli that goes back over about a year. He and I first got together to do some free improvisations. Then I thought it'd be cool to play rock with him. As the Love Letters came to an unceremonious close, Erik and I started looking for people to play with. We lucked out because Michael Cunningham, who sang and played keys in the band Neighbours, was interested in getting back in the saddle too. Then Erik remembered a cat named Nathan Figlar, who had played with in a few sessions.

Practices were dicey because we're all adults with adult responsibilities (I'm guilty of having the most inhibiting work schedule too) and gone are the days when live revolved around getting to the practice space, come hell or high water. Speaking of which, we realized that it would be better to have a practice space rather than do it in my basement, where we would be limited by my son's sleeping hours and where I'd have to do battle with laundry piles prior to having the guys over. It's been over 20 years since I've rented a space but it's nice to have one again. We're at a Guardian Storage building, which means that in my mind, that company make my brain automatically think about music, since the record collection I bought over the summer was being stored at a Guardian building. Now here I am making music at one of those places, able to crank up to an uninhibited volume level. The dopamine is flowing in my brain.

After a show, I usually find some element of it that gives me some sort of let down: turnout, mix, something about the way one chorus sounded, etc. That didn't happen last week. None of it. Some friends, from far-flung corners of my life, came out for the set, which always puts me in a good frame of mind. Plus there were others that I didn't know who were there. (I think our volume cleared the room for a bit, but hey, I'm okay with that.) And we played really well.

It was an eight-song set, which ended up being about 35 minutes total. We kicked off with a cover, though only about two people in the room probably recognized Big Dipper's "Stardom Because." I've wanted to cover that song for several years, and even got an accurate set of lyrics from Big Dipper's Gary Waleik and Steve Michener. Years ago, I might have been superstitious or self-conscious about launching a new band with other people's tunes, but I've always had a fondness for the song's musical question, "What ever became of all of the famous, who never got started?" I relate to that line - not because I have delusions of fame but because I feel like the bands I've been in have always kind of missed the boat. I also feel it encompasses Big Dipper, not to mention the co-composer of the song, Michael Cudahy, who played in the greatly underrated band Christmas, in the '80s/early '90s.

So, yeah, it was a good start to a new band. No upcoming gigs scheduled yet. At this point I'm gearing up for the Pittsburgh Record Fest #23, which is happening a week from today. For the first time in two years, I'm going to be selling at it., with a bunch of things from the big purchase of the summer. That preparation has been another thing swallowing up time. Hopefully more posts will come though.