Shows I Saw in the Past Few Weeks

I was on a good roll for a while, posting reviews and album purchases. Then it all fell by the wayside again. The past two months have been marked by various degrees of sickness (and the lack of motivation they bring on), as well as what felt like a healthy dose of winter doldrums. AND, I was one of the ringmasters behind a talent show at my son's school last week. No wonder my doctor told me my blood pressure was up last week. 

Things look better now. Besides, during all that, I did have a good run of articles in Pittsburgh City Paper. In fact, this week, I have no less than three things in the arts section: a profile of jazz guitarist Mark Whitfield; the Local Beat column, which mentions the salute to Dave Vucenich and the Unread Records show; and a preview of Patti Smith's Horses show. Follow the links and you can see what I'm talking about.

After seeing Battle Trance over the weekend, I realized I never mentioned anything about the last show I saw at City of Asylum's Alphabet City venue, which is now up and running in full effect. So here's a little something on both. 

 

Mostly Other People Do the Killing hadn't come to town since about 2009 or 2010. At that time, the group featured bassist Moppa Elliot, drummer Kevin Shea, saxophonist Jon Irabagon and trumpeter Peter Evans. In the studio, the band has grown to include pianist Ron Stabinsky, bass trombonist Dave Taylor and banjo player Brandon Seabrook. Evans has left the band, with Steven Bernstein assuming trumpet duties on the new Loafer's Hollow. 

When the group pulled up at Alphabet City on February 22, the lineup was reduced to the trio of Elliot, Shea and Stabinsky. After the frenetic interplay between Irabagon and Evans, not to mention the expanded arrangements with the larger group, the trio almost sounded like a different band. Even Shea, who specializes in careening drum crashes that always catch themselves before they fall completely down the stairs, sounded a little more subdued. This was a piano trio, albeit one that still lives life on the musical edge. 

And while the band's zaniness always made for a good time in the past, the new lineup gives more attention to Elliot's compositions, which have gotten more elaborate even as he chooses to throw a quote from "Mercy Mercy Mercy" or "Misty" into them. Now that they've been at it for over a decade, some of the "how dare they" dust has settled, and there is time to catch up with the back catalog and fully appreciate them. 

Last week was a banner week for touring bands that play adventurous music. Australia's the Necks came to town last Friday. I totally missed them due to the aforementioned Talent Show. But I did make it back over to Alphabet City to check out Battle Trance on Sunday. (Prior to the shows, I wrote a double-preview of them in City Paper.) 

Battle Trance played "Blade of Love,"  the same piece 45-minute piece that I saw them play in New York back in January. Hearing it again made me realize that I pretty much walked in to the New York show without missing much more than seeing them stand on stage quietly for two minutes, somewhat entranced, before the piece began.

Anyone who has gone to see a symphony and picked up on the full sound of, for instance, four upright bassists can understand the power of several musicians playing the same note. (The same can be said for works by Glenn Branca or Rhys Chatham too, I'm sure.) The sound starts to swell and slight variations on it can make a big difference. Travis Laplante (the composer, on the far right picture) knows that and exploits it with their music. One of the best part of the piece came in the final third of it, where all four of them shifted from altissimos to high register wails, which they adapted with various levels of vibrato. The other favorite part for me, since I knew it was on the way, occurs about 15 minutes in, when all of their swirling arpeggios suddenly turn into low honks, which they land on together, seemingly out of nowhere. It was extra suspenseful for me, since I knew it was coming, but I wasn't sure exactly when.

A couple sitting in front of me left after about 20 minutes. Or they at least walked over to the restaurant section of the place. I was in the second row, so I can't say how many other people followed them. Granted it is intense music, that requires a little more patience and a willingness to explore the possibilities of sound, rather than following melody lines or chord changes. But you have to give it a chance.

Cruel Frederick and Greg Hawkes - Two Albums I've Needed for Awhile

In the past two weeks, I picked up two albums that have always intrigued me from a distance. One was an album that was hard to find. In fact, prior to purchasing it, I only saw a physical copy once, and that was in the library of WRCT-FM, the radio station at Carnegie Mellon University. (Who knows if the record is there anymore?) The other is an album I've read about and heard about from friends, who gave it mixed reviews: It isn't all that good, it's fun, it's OK. Nevertheless, I decided I could no longer live without it.

Here are their stories.

The first record I mentioned was Cruel Frederick's Birth of the Cruel. The band was something of an off-shoot of the San Francisco group Slovenly. They started life as Slovenly Peter, a character in a European folk tale that also included a character named Cruel Frederick. So it only follows that the horn section of Slovenly (Peter) would go off on their own, recording under the name Cruel Frederick.

The group consisted of Lynn Johnston (saxophones, clarinets), Jacob Cohn (alto sax), Guy Bennett (bass, trombone) and Jason Kahn (drums). Johnston continued to appear on Slovenly's albums on SST Records (which also released Birth of the Cruel). In fact all three of them got some blowing space in "What's It Called" on the triumphant We Shoot for the Moon album. They also guested on a couple albums by Universal Congress Of, the best of the punk jazz groups on SST, which also featured Kahn (also a member of Trotsky Icepick for a time) and guitarist Joe Baiza.

Birth of the Cruel came out in 1988 and didn't get much distribution by some accounts. Maybe Greg Ginn figured most college stations and record stores, wouldn't know what to do with it. It could be due to the fact that, unlike Universal Congress Of, this wasn't groove-based jazz. This was free jazz squonk, plain and simple. And it was delivered with punk rock aesthetics, meaning things were loose and kind of sloppy. In an overall sincere take on "Moon River," Johnson's alto flubs the melody in a way that casts it more in a minor key,  not really following the arc of the Henry Mancini classic. In "The East is Red" he attempts to blow the melody in the register above his horn's natural key - and doesn't quite pull it off.

But for all its frenzy, time has been kind to Birth of the Cruel. There is a great deal of fun to be gathered from the album. "Jukebox in the East River" takes its name from the item that was allegedly tied to Albert Ayler when his body was pulled from that body of water, and Johnston utilizes the wide vibrato approach of his forefather. (This melody also sounds remarkably like the unlisted coda on UCO's Prosperous and Qualified though I could be wrong.)

The group's cover material, more than half of the album, puts their influences on display. Along with Mancini, they tackle Ornette Coleman ("Lonely Woman"), two by Ayler ("Ghosts," "Bells") and an explosive "Amazing Grace." In some ways, these seem like obvious choices, the "greatest hits" of free jazz. But remember that back in 1988, this music wasn't all readily available. Ornette's The Shape of Jazz to Come was, but one had to dig for Ayler recordings, hoping to make a score in a used record bin or on a questionable import reissue of an ESP album.

A few years before the CD boom reissued everything, these tunes still had some faint allure. It was an indication that these.... cats... were hip to something a little more esoteric. They all strike a chord with me because, at the time, I was still weighing the idea of being an alto saxophonist with a punk streak. (As opposed to a bassist in a post-punk band.) I, too, knew how to play "Lonely Woman" and "Ghosts." Had I heard this album, I might've pushed more for the punk-jazz side, trying to find these guys and play with them.(A couple years earlier, Saccharine Trust came to Pittsburgh on their final tour and got stoked when Joe Baiza and I got into a conversation about jazz. To a 18- or 19-year old music school dropout, it was good to know he was a kindred spirit.)

Or maybe not. Nevertheless, Birth of the Cruel is a fun album, due in no small part to the way Jason Kahn keeps things in focus. When I saw the album on Discogs, I knew it was time to pick it up, especially since it was only $5, and in beautiful shape.

Every nine months or so, I get on a Cars kick and pull out one for their first three albums. Panorama is my favorite. I thought for sure I had done an entry about it, talking about how it's an unheralded classic, with Ric Ocasek taking a sharp left turn, going for the weird blend of lyrics, new wave ideas and rock hooks, before he cashed in his chips and went all pop with Shake It Up and Heartbeat City.

I got Panorama for my birthday in 8th grade, a few months after it came out. My brother Tom had the first two albums on 8-track (!) so I knew their stuff really well and felt like we were keeping up with them. By the time Shake It Up came out, my tastes were changing, it was low on my priority list and I never bought it. (I did buy in for $1 about 15 years ago, but never got around to listening to it.)

This is a lot of back story, but it's worth it.

During college, my friend Joel was on a Cars kick and he and my friend John got me to fully appreciate  Panorama for the artistic work that it was. Up until then, you could say I was just taking it for granted. As we expounded on it, I remember the subject veering towards Niagra Falls, the solo album by Cars keyboardist Greg Hawkes. I recalled a lukewarm review in Creem when it came out, and everyone in the room seemed indifferent to the idea.

Well, the Cars kick resurfaced several weeks ago, and was still going strong last week. Really strong, as in listening closely to these songs I've heard dozens of times (I pulled out the first album and Candy-O too) and marveling at the song arrangements. Greg Hawkes' keyboard parts really stuck out so on a whim, I looked him up on Facebook. Why not strike up a friendly - not creepy or smug - conversation with him. A quick search of youtube yielded a video interview where he seems pretty down to earth, and funny. HE PLAYS THE UKULELE!

Sure enough, he has a personal profile. But my hopes of being a friend were thwarted because he couldn't accept any more requests. FIE!

This course of events made me all the more curious to get a copy of his solo album, Niagra Falls. Surely Jerry's Record would have a copy or two of it. The answer is yes, but it took some hunting. In the Cars section - nothing. The H section - definitely nothing. I think I even scoured the new wave H section. One option remained - Back stock.

Sure enough, right next to Richie Havens, there was Mr. Hawkes, four copies of him in fact. And they went back to the days when Jerry priced his records at $2.83, since tax took it up to $3 exactly. I opted for the copy still in shrink wrap with a sticker on it (as seen in the picture.)

Time has also been good this record. While it might not be a gem that was unfairly neglected at the time, it's nevertheless a fun listen. Hawkes plays everything on the album - keys, a little guitar, drum machines, a few vocals, sadly no saxophones - but it's more than a bunch of sketches with a bunch of overdubs piled onto them (the solo album syndrome). These are instrumental songs. "Ants In Your Pants" has a bit of a videogame sound, but it's catchy too. The vocoder vocals on "Voyage Into Space" beg the question: Does Tobacco, the reclusive Pittsburgh musician who also records with Black Moth Super Rainbow, know about this album? Did it inspire him? If not, he should get up to Jerry's and grab one of the other copies.

Even the lyrics on "Jet Lag" ("Jet lag/ it's a real drag," and that's it) are forgiveable. While he might have been slagged at the time as "no Ric Ocasek in the lyric department," today it sounds more like Greg knew what he was doing. Part of the fun was that it was so ridiculous a couplet.

On the same day I bought Niagra Falls I found the Cars' reunion CD Move Like This at the library, which is also really great, just like one might hope. And I also finally listened to Shake It Up. It was time.

Mostly Other People Do the Killing - Bonus Tracks, um, I mean Bonus Quotes

You can't print everything. That's a valuable lesson I learned from a journalism teacher during college. It's something I think about a lot after doing a great interview and knowing that only a few, choice quotes will make it into the article.

This week, Pittsburgh City Paper ran my interview with Moppa Elliot, the bassist of the jazz group Mostly Other People Do the Killing, who are coming to town next week. With a 500-word limit, I could only put so much in the article, and tried not to delve too deep into technical details of their music. So I figured it's time to bring out some thoughts that were left on the cutting room floor. In particular, I wanted to spotlight Elliot's thoughts on Blue, MOPDtK's note-for-note recreation of Kind of Blue, Miles Davis' revered classic. In some ways, Elliot had a lot to say about it, but I also wish that I had gotten him to open up a little more, and that I had asked a few devil's advocate questions. I also included his thoughts on why he names his compositions after Pennsylvania towns (though not the "big" ones like Philadelphia or Pittsburgh). Details on the show can be found in the CP link.

Tell me about Blue. How did it come about? Were you guys just sitting around and somebody said that it was a cool thing to do?

Elliot: That's actually exactly what happened. We do a lot of sitting around talking about a lot of crazy random things to do, 90% of which we don’t do because they’re stupid. [Blue] was one where we came up with an idea and some time went by, and we brought it up again. Instead of sounding stupider and stupider like many of our ideas do, it sounded better and better. The more we thought about it, the more interesting it revealed itself to be. 

And it’s proven to be this never-ending wormhole of… I think it’s a really good piece of art in that it means all kinds of stuff to all kinds of people. And it facilitates all kinds of thinking about all kinds of things. Everywhere I go, that’s what everyone wants to talk to me about. And everybody wants to talk about it for a different reason. Which I think is a testament to the fact that it was a good idea. Everybody has a strong opinion and very few people’s opinions about it overlap and I think that’s all good.

We thought about it for years before we did it and it took us four years to do it. So that idea was floating around for a very, very long time. Which was part of making sure this was a good idea before we actually did it.

Why did it take four years - for accuracy?

Elliot: Well, that’s a whole angle right there, where it’s like, we could keep working on it the rest of our lives and it would never be right. It’s literally impossible to do.

The document that we released was as good as we could get it right then. We’ve also jokingly – and this does not seem like as good an idea as a joke -  of doing it again. It would be, you know, better but still not the thing. The thing that’s out, that people can listen to, is the document of the best we could do right then, given the constraints of time and having lives and the whole thing.

I wondered if it was supposed to be a piece of artistic commentary, relating to jazz as "America's classical music" and what that would mean if you really stuck to that idea.

Elliot: That is one very solid angle that I’ve thought a lot about: Taking certain aspects of the jazz world and pushing them to their logical extreme, and then everyone freaks out. And you you think, "Oh, okay, cool. So where’s the line?" At what point between here and, you know, Branford Marsalis redoing A Love Supreme or Chick Corea redoing Return to Forever, or …. I could list any number of tribute projects right here. Where does it stop being okay? That, I think is an incredibly interesting conversation because everyone will give different answers. But I think a lot of the other things I mentioned are equally stupid. But obviously not everyone agrees with me and that’s awesome!

Are you always going to name your songs after cities in Pennsylvania?

Elliot: I’m in no danger of running out. I think trying to give profound titles to instrumental compositions is a little bit silly. It’s a little bit manipulative because you're telling the audience what to think before they hear the music. Titles create association. I wanted to have something completely unrelated and arbitrary as a titling system so that anyone trying to read into meaning in the titles is clearly barking up the wrong tree because they’re just dumb names of Pennsylvania towns. So that way there is no connection and now we can just listen to music. Either that or you do the [Anthony] Braxton thing where you give [the compositions] weird codes and numbers that mean something to you but no one else. That’s another good strategy. 

CD Review: Rodrigo Amado Motion Trio - Desire & Freedom

Rodrigo Amado Motion Trio
Desire & Freedom
(Not Two) www.nottwo.com

"Freedom is a two-edged sword of which one edge is liberty and the other is responsibility, on which both edges are exceedingly sharp."

That excerpt from Jack Parsons' Freedom Is A Two-Edged Sword appears on the liner of Rodrigo Amado's new CD. It was published was in 1946, a good decade and a half before free jazz of any type came into its own. Parsons most likely wasn't talking specifically about music when he wrote it, but of course it does speak directly to the music. While some might think disparagingly that free improvisation does away with any type of listening skills and just goes for broke, the best examples of it betray an unspoken understanding between the participants. They have a responsibility to each other and the music to use their musical liberation in a way that leads to some new conclusion.

Rodrigo Amado understands that connection. The tenor saxophonist is a native of Lisbon, Portugal where he's been an active part of the free jazz scene, taking part in the earliest releases on the Clean Feed label. (More biographical info can be found here.) I reviewed a previous disc by the Motion Trio that added Jeb Bishop back in 2014. They've also performed with trumpeter Peter Evans. Desire and Freedom features the trio - Amado, cellist Miguel Mira, drummer Gabriel Ferrandini - stretching out on three tracks which take their names from ideas in Parsons' treatise.

"Freedom Is a Two-Edged Sword" sounds spontaneous yet it begins with Amado working on an idea that he reshapes and bends, returning regularly to a center. His tone is clear, not rough and noisy, but after about four minutes he starts blowing staccato altissimo notes. The trio never gets too frenetic, though Mira consistently plucks rapid countermelodies behind Amado, and Ferrandini does cut loose.

"Liberty" comes at it from a different angle. Cello and drums begin with upper register plucking and clattering respectively, while the tenor eventually slides in, ruminating with long, tender tones. The contrast between the rhythm section and the saxophone keeps things exciting. Eleven minutes in, the trio starts to get a bit wild but Amado still resides in a melodic area rather than going from shrieks.

"Responsibility," the longest track at 20 minutes, begins with a two-note tenor line that sounds vaguely reminiscent of an Albert Ayler theme. Amado doesn't go for that over-the-top delivery but the trio delivers the disc's wildest moments here. But even when they sound free, all their lines still feel connected, like their rapport can be heard, even on a recording. Interestingly, they sound like they reach a crossroads around 11 minutes, as if they could wrap things up right there. Instead they reconvene and assess - going back in for another excursion that includes a cello solo and more tenor wails. It was well worth it.

In addition to a compelling set, Desire & Freedom comes, like other Not Two discs, in a heavy cardboard gatefold sleeve similar to the layout of the US International Phonograph label.

CD Review: Ingrid Laubrock - Serpentines, Crump/Laubrock/Smythe- Planktonic Finales

Ingrid Laubrock
Serpentines
(Intakt)

Stephan Crump/Ingrid Laubrock/Cory Smythe
Planktonic Finales
(Intakt)
www.intaktrec.ch

As I began this post last night, the Grammy Awards were being handed out. Downloads of music were reportedly greater than CDs sales over the past year. That means most people listen to the music in a completely different way than they did ten or more years ago. Albums don't really matter, and forget about cover art. That went out with the 20th centure.

Don't mention this to anyone in Europe, especially the jazz fans. On further thought, do tell them. I'd like to hear what their reaction is. They'd probably say we Americans don't appreciate a good thing, treating music like disposable, expendable bits of entertainment.

While record labels continue to be antiquated by the general public in the states, one label in Switzerland continues to churn out albums at such a rate that even their devoted supporters (Hi!) have trouble keeping up with them. A quick look at this blog will show that I get the chance to write about a release once in a while, but there are plenty more out there. Aside from the ones I reviewed in the past twelve months, I dug the Fred Frith Trio's Another Day in Fucking Paradise (for, among other things, a great album title), the Musical Monsters disc (which unearthed a 1981 performance by Don Cherry, John Tchicai, Irene Schweizer, Leon Fancioli and Pierre Favre) and Jim Black's The Constant. Black also just released a new electric project called Malamute (look for my review in an upcoming JazzTimes).

Saxophonist Ingrid Laubrock released her Serpentines project in November, followed this month by her collaboration with bassist Stephan Crump and pianist Cory Smythe, Planktonic Finales. Both discs complement each other while also showing different sides of the creative composer and improviser. Any label that will invest in an adventurous artist in that short a time period isn't going to have any regard for mass acceptance or sales anyway, just the music.

Serpentines puts Laubrock's tenor and soprano (and bits of glockenspiel) in the company of Peter Evans (trumpet, piccolo trumpet), Craig Taborn (piano) and Tyshawn Sorey (drums). Rather than utilizing a bassist, Laubrock brought in Dan Peck on tuba. Also along for the adventure are Sam Pluta (electronics) and Miya Masaoka (koto), who float in and out of the five tracks. Come to think of it, most of the players do that as well. The two-part "Pothole Analytics" begins with pointillistic sounds from the horns, jutting out without really cohering just yet. Things start to gel in part two, with soprano, trumpet, tuba and piano moving in parallel lines. Even Sorey, who can fit into any setting, seems to have a written part that drives things along. As quickly as things picked up, they also die down in the final minute.

"Squirrels" could have been banded into two tracks, like "Pothole Analytics" since the 15-minute piece has two distinct parts. After another rollicking soprano/piccolo trumpet conversation that appears to move from free to structured, the second half of the piece gets spare and open. Peck's tuba and Masaoka's koto create a pensive sound to which Pluta adds some electric static. Sometimes musical, sometimes noisy, it adds to sound and, at one point, makes the disc sound like it's defective. The rest of the band slowly eases in, with Laubrock casually joining the crew to close it up.

The group stretches out on the other two tracks with some fine moments, though things come up a little short. "Chip in Brain" is a dark tone poem built largely on low, long tones from Peck.  The combination of Taborn and Masaoko create some harplike sounds but as Evans moves from intermittent blasts to his own long tones, things never completely catch fire. The title track starts at a high level - with two minutes of free band blowing. Then things pull back to feature the piano and koto in an understated combination. It's engaging in its spareness but it doesn't end on any type of grand statement; it merely winds down.

Stephan Crump (who plays with Vijay Iyer and leads his own Rosetta Trio and quartet Rhombal) has released several intimate, free improvised discs for Intakt (with Steve Lehman and in Secret Keeper with Mary Halvorson). The seeds for Planktonic Finales were sown when Laubrock invited Crump and pianist Cory Smythe to her rehearsal space to play. Smythe has a background in classical music but played on Tyshawn Sorey's two recent albums, proving his flexibility as an improviser. The natural chemistry between the players worked so well that they attempted to recreate it - or perhaps continue it - by going into the studio.

In some ways, Planktonic Finales resembles Serpentines. It often moves slowly, casually, so as not to rush anything. "With Eyes Peeled" opens the album like an exposition, with each player figuring out the space between them. But more direction comes with each track, as if the whole set was originally recorded as a complete 54-minute piece and divided into 11 tracks later.

When Laubrock switches to soprano on "Sinew Modulations" her languid tenor sound is likewise transformed into a plucky attack, followed by some walking bass from Crump and some Monk-like interjections from Smythe. On "Through the Forest," the piano rises and falls, abruptly dropping out at one point, which gives the music a good accent. After exploring the space methodically for awhile, the trio finally cuts loose and wails on "Bite Bright Sunlight," but in another sly maneuver, they stop just shy of two minutes, knowing there are other roads to take.

Both of these albums keep the surprises coming. Some of them might not be discovered until you've made several returns to the disc. That type of approach might not be rewarded with statuettes, but as long as it keeps coming, let's consider ourselves lucky.

Remembering Dave Vucenich

In two months, I've now lost three friends from the local music scene.  Richard Schnap passed around Christmas and Karl Hendricks also passed on January 21. Now this week, the news came that Dave Vucenich has left us too. At 50, he was about my age (I'll be there in October), a little older than Karl, younger than Richard. All of them were way too young. Scott Mervis wrote a great obituary about him for the Post-Gazette here. Dave and I weren't tight but we were friends because with a personality like his, it was easy to warm up to him. So I wanted to share a few thoughts.

Dave, affectionately known as Dave V around town, played bass with the Mt. McKinleys and, for a time, the Cynics. He also worked at a few landmark record stores around Pittsburgh, Eide's Entertainment and Jerry's Records. Like many garage rockers, he was well-versed in the all sorts of obscure bands that had put out great singles that one might otherwise miss. Instead of being jaded or snobby about his knowledge, Dave was always very down-to-earth, as excited to share information with people, much like he probably was when hearing those records for the first time. In fact, every time we talked, I think Dave always had a smile on his face and an upbeat mood, always willing make small talk about music.

I don't often bust out the Electric Prunes' Underground album but on the rare occasions that I do, I think of Dave. One time I was wandering around Jerry's Records when that album was playing, and the two of us shared thoughts on it. In particular, the Prunes' goofball country song "It's Not Fair" was on. In a moment that could only be attributed to vinyl fanatics, I can remember that it was clearly a stereo copy of the album because the spoken word part was only coming out of one speaker so it was easier to hear, unlike my mono version, where it's a little buried. Dave and I probably talked about that fact. There was also one time, when a mono copy of Velvet Underground and Nico was on and we talked about the mono v. stereo case for that. I almost offered to buy the record off the turntable, though I eventually thought better of it. (I had a stereo copy at home and figured the mono would be a tad pricey.) All of this really is minutiae but talking to someone like Dave made it both interesting and fun, something that you enjoyed sharing with others.

But Dave should go down in history for his bass playing. The man was solid, with a sense of time that was ideal for the type of music he played. And the wild thing about Dave was that he usually played in the upper register of the bass. That was definitely not in keeping with garage bands, which are usually all about a low, raunchy bottom-heavy sound. In the early '90s he had played with the band Uncle Sydney, but I didn't really take notice of him until a few years later when I saw the Mt. McKinleys. Watching him play an octave higher than you usually hear, I remember thinking, what are you doing, man? But he did it with such authority - a full sound, excellent time - that he altered my idea on it. To the point where, when I take things up an octave like that for variety's sake, I think about Dave doing the same thing.

I'm realizing now that I never got to tell him that. Damn.

Thanks, Dave. I hope you and Richard Schnap are hanging out, trading Cynics stories and listening to music together; music that Karl is handing you.

CD Review: Bobby Previte - Mass

Bobby Previte
Mass
(RareNoise) www.rarenoiserecords.com

Bobby Previte has never been a musician to stay in one place. Feel free to jump back to a review of his 2010 album Pan Atlantic here, to get a full grasp of his oeuvre, and my thoughts on it.

If you don't read the link, that's fine too because nothing will prepare the ears for Mass, which re-imagines 15th-century composer Guillaume Dufay's choral piece Missa Sancti Jacobi in tandem with the inspiration of Olivier Messiaen's pipe organ music. The Rose Ensemble, a 11-piece chamber vocal group appears throughout the whole album. Their performance and the blend of inspirations, in and of themselves, don't sound too far-fetched.

The group Previte put together is another story altogether. Guitarists Stephen O'Malley, of Sunn O))) and Don McGreevy, of Earth, factor heavily into the music. In fact, they threaten to mow it down, along with Jamie Saft (guitar, keyboards), Mike Gambale (guitar), Marco Benevento (keyboards) and the leader himself (on his usual drums, although he doubles on everything else at some point throughout the sermon).

It wouldn't be too out of line to say the band plays metal - progressive metal or just plain old heavy metal. These are definitely power chords that build thick musical slabs. Of course, being Bobby Previte, the music is more than that type of description. Only one song features anything close to a stock metal solo, with hammered fretwork and sprays of notes. "Offering" briefly goes into that, but it comes halfway through the album, and O'Malley also steeps his solo in feedback. The cliche factor is nonexistent.

The music shifts between the tranquility of the choir - indeed they sing beautifully, almost as if they're oblivious to the rabid guitars that surround them, sometimes playing in completely different time than the voices. Benevento alternates between the Messiaen-inspired pipe organ and the Rheem organ, which in nothing else recalls Richard Wright's textures with Pink Floyd. While things shift frequently between dynamics and textures, the various sections get repetitive at times. Of course, this shouldn't be surprising because Dufay didn't know about verse-chorus-bridge structures back in the 1400s. Besides, the way the guitars bounce, in "Offering," between a chugging power chord and stop on a time for a 3/4 break gets catchy after awhile. Previte adds some other striking sections, like "Agnus Dei" where the Rose Ensemble is accompanied only by his wild drumming. And the pipe organ ends that movement on an ominous note.

The heaviest, most challenging track is the final one. "Communion" starts with a droning pedal chord that sustains for the entire 12 minutes. O'Malley unleashes a vicious solo of feedback (created with a wall of amps in the studio), followed by two solid minutes of nothing but the droning organ, creating suspense - or exhaustion. After the choir returns to bring it all together, O'Malley goes back for a little more noise, and the moment that seemed inevitable from the beginning finally happens: The 11 members of the Rose Ensemble scream like the cathedral is collapsing onto them.

Then there's 17 seconds of silence.

Then it's over.

Mass is not an easy album to listen to. But no one said expressing maintaining faith is easy. (Somehow the release of this album so close to Martin Scorsese's Silence seems like more than coincidence.) Besides, this is hard to turn off, even in the most brutal moments.

Winter Jazzfest - My Report

And another thing that showed up this week - my lengthy report on traipsing around New York City for Winter Jazzfest 2017 last month. Here it is. 

City Paper Story on Karl Hendricks

Following on last week's personal stories about Karl Hendricks, I wrote a piece for Pittsburgh City Paper, with memories from his bandmates, collaborators and dear friends. The article can be found here, though if you're in Pittsburgh, I strongly suggest getting the hard copy. That way, you get to see Wayno's cover art in all its big, tactile splendor.

I usually get wigged out when trying to write anyway. This story was particularly challenging to my head, as I wanted to make sure I produced a good, wide-ranging portrait of what Karl meant to people. There were several kudos online the morning it hit, so I suppose I did pretty well.

Last Saturday was the memorial for him. The comment I heard from a few people was that it was the most uplifting memorial that ever was. Brillobox was wall-to-wall people when I got there, around 4:00, two hours into the "friends and family" portion of the event. I don't see shows there often that are that jam-packed. People came from as far away as Portland for it. Actually, one guy was in from Finland, but he wasn't just in town for the memorial. His sister-in-law just had a baby.

While most of the folks that I saw might not have exactly been really tight friends with me, enough time had passed that we were just glad to see each other again, which kind of goes with my credo about the way to cope with the loss of a loved one - look around you at who's here and appreciate them. I think Karl would appreciate that.

All That's Left Is a Song - Remembering Karl Hendricks

Karl Hendricks - beloved Pittsburgh musician, former record store owner, teacher, author, family man - passed away this past Saturday, after a long battle with oral cancer. He has suffered a long time and I'm glad he won't suffer any longer. But still, it hurts knowing that he's not around.

He leaves behind a devoted wife and two daughters. And legions of friends. Legions, who rallied together to help pay his medical expenses a few years ago. And of course there were the Karl Hendricks Trio fans, who were moved by the poignancy and wit of his lyrics, as well as the visceral crunch of his guitar. I'd like to think I was in both categories.

In the summer of 1989, I was finally working as DJ at WPTS-FM, the University of Pittsburgh's radio station, doing a jazz overnight shift. Karl also did an overnight, I think on the evening before me (I did Wednesday night/Thursday morning, so he must've done Tuesday/Wednesday). He also did the 11:00pm-1:00 am shift before I came on. I'm not sure if that's where we met officially or not. But I do remember, in addition to new bands like Buffalo Tom, he'd thrown in things like Tom Waits' melancholy "Nobody" towards the very end of his shift, which made a great segue into my show. I also remember him bringing up Joe Grushecky's newest album at the time, because his mom was a Gruschecky fan and he wanted to play it for her. I immediately respected a guy who was was cool enough to buck the usual indie rock format to send one out to Mom.

There was also a promotional breaker he did for his show that I practically remember, which even Karl forgot about when I brought it up years later. In person, he was normally soft-spoken and understated, at least with people like me who were like acquaintances. In the breaker, he poured on the radio charm and the comedy. He started off by saying he gets a lot of letters at the station from people asking him what he is really like. "My life is a lone-ly, puss-spewing pit of existence. In FACT," he went to to explain, his voice cracking on that last word, the only time our poor DJ felt happy was when he was playing music on WPTS. With that, a song cued up, which I'm pretty sure was Husker Du. And he breathed a big sigh of bliss.

I found the whole thing both funny and sad, wondering if there was a grain of truth in that promo. (Of course I always felt bad when cartoon characters got sad, so what do I know?) But mostly, I thought, "What a ham."

Around that time, I noticed a cassette on the music director's desk: Jolly Doom by Karl himself. One day when the production studio was free, I popped it in, and I was blown away. He played overdriven guitar, wrote catchy songs and sang sensitive lyrics that were also deep and funny. One song started with a long spoken intro that was a lot goofier than people would later expect from him. "Mom Interrupts" was actually a Husker Du-ish take on "The Times They Are a-Changing" (sans bass and drums) that came to a halt when his mother walked in on his recording session. And she wasn't there to tell him to turn down. As the tape was shutting off, she said, "No, that's ok. Keep going." "All That's Left" (which gives up the title of this entry) was a kiss-off song in which this mellow kid from Port Vue finished things by screaming his head off, like he was being crucified. And he double-tracked it, if I recall correctly. Forget all those generic hardcore bands, this was real! Great songs and another shout-out to Mom. I loved this guy. I wanted to be in a band with him, even though I already had my own band.

I got in the habit of drunk-dialing Karl on his overnight, talking about music as he played songs. We were both really into Slovenly's We Shoot for the Moon which had just come out. Somewhere along the way, I asked if he'd like me to play drums with him. I was a bassist most of the time, but instrument-switching in my band made me fluent enough behind the kit. He liked the idea and we got together a few times at my practice space. Before the summer was over, we played a show at the Sonic Temple, a short-lived venue in Wilkinsburg. Actually, Karl played half the set by himself and I joined him on the rest. Two of the songs ended up on his second cassette, Where the Dogs Run Free, although you can't really hear my drums on either of them. For a cover of Prince's "Starfish and Coffee," we kicked on a Casio drum machine and I moved to bass.

Our music relationship was fleeting though. We got together in the fall with his friend Ian Williams, with whom he'd been collaborating for a while. Ian would later drum in the band Sludgehammer with Karl, but at this point he was playing bass. I was a stick in the mud about those tempo shifts they were into. Those two might've been okay feeling a two and a half beat rest, but ol' man Shanley wanted to count up to four. Plus it was clear that I couldn't sustain the proto-hardcore tempos they were crafting. Oh well, I needed to focus on one band, as well as a schedule that wouldn't kill my health. (I was still doing an overnight and going to class the next morning after a two-hour nap on the floor at WPTS. And feeling sick every few weeks.)

The last night we ever played together was on January 27, 1990. I know the date because it was the double release show for Bone of Contention's 48 Points of View album and Karl's Where the Dogs Run Free tape. Among the memorable Karl moments of the evening, I convinced him to sing "Honeysuckle Rose" with only a drum accompaniment. I think it was the first song he ever sang in public, at a school recital. He started to introduce the song by saying, "So you're probably thinking, 'Karl, why did you wear a tie tonight?'" And he went into the anecdotal story about singing the song.

Right as he was ready to count it off, I whispered to him, "Karl! You never explained why you're wearing the tie!"

"Oh yeah! The tie! Well, this was the same time I wore the night I sang that song for the first time."

With that, we launched into it and I'll tell you what, with just my clunky beat behind him, he sounded great. And I think of him anytime I hear that song.

Thanks, Karl. For everything.

Preamble to Winter Jazz Fest and the Jazz Connect Conference

This time last week, I was sawing logs in a friend's living room in Brooklyn, with a day of the Jazz Connect Conference under my belt. Following day two, the Winter Jazz Fest would be in full swing, along with walks all over the New School campus and subway rides down to the Village and back.

I'm not ready to write up all the details of the trip yet, but I felt like I needed to do some sort of quick post to say, keep watching this space. The whole festival diary is going to appear on the City Paper's FFW blog site, but it'll, of course, take some doing.

The weather was good - until Saturday morning, when the snow started falling. And it didn't stop until about 6:00 that night. But unlike Pittsburgh, New York doesn't slow down because of the elements. Everyone just walks with their heads down, which I hated doing because you miss out on discovering all of the surrounding scenery.

Speaking of observations, I rode to and from New York on the Megabus, as I did last year. I splurged on a front row seat on the upper level, where my face was about three feet from the windshield. It's probably the best seat on the whole bus because even if someone sits next to you (I only had company for half the trip back, none on the way up), you still have plenty of room to stretch out, and you don't really have to deal with anyone else. The view on the way up was sunnier, but the view while leaving the city wasn't all that shabby either.

CD Review: Ravi Shankar - In Hollywood, 1971

Ravi Shankar
In Hollywood, 1971
(Northern Spy/East Meets West) www.northernspyrecords.com

This double-disc set of sitar master Ravi Shankar contains just four tracks. One clocks in at 10 minutes, two come close to a half-hour each and one goes on for 52 minutes. To some, this might seem like way more Ravi Shankar than anyone needs. In truth, the set serves as a great way to get immersed in Shankar's music, listening for nuances, discovering them and realizing that the whole performance has a hypnotic quality.

In Hollywood was recorded at Shankar's home on Highland Avenue, where it was not unusual for him to invite friends over and play a morning concert. What time of morning is not specified, but another allure of the performance comes when thinking about Shankar playing while the sky is dark and continuing as the sun came up, combining the tranquility of the music and nature.

The performance happened on June 12, 1971, so it's likely that George Harrison was one of the people in attendance. That period coincides with the time that the sitar master started talking to Harrison about the effect of Cyclone Bhola on East Pakistan (aka Bangla Desh), which lead to the Beatle's landmark Concert for Bangla Desh that August.

History aside, the album is far from a lo-fi home recording. Without any real post-production qualities added, it captures all the elements of the music, with Shankar, Alla Rakha (tabla) and Kamala Chakravarty (tanpura) recorded at close range. "Hollywood Raga Vibhas" opesn with some low, bent sitar notes, which, to Western ears, can draw a comparison between this music and American blues. The intimate recording adds some good bite to this passage. Shankar and the group move through rhythmic and tempo changes naturally, which still sounds impressive considering this is not music that could be written down. (Shankar once explained this to me in a phone interview, and I'm still trying to comprehend all of it. Sukanya Shankar [his wife, and mother of Anoushka] explains ragas in great detail in the liner notes, which add to the quality of the whole package.

For people looking to explore Shankar's music and legacy, In Hollywood offers a great starting point. Longtime fans should also revel in the spirited performances on it.

Remembering Richard Schnap

In the last post, I mentioned that a good deal of this year sucked something fierce. Well, it dug itself even deeper over the past couple of days. I'm not even talking about the death of Carrie Fisher and her poor mother Debbie Reynolds who, in all seriousness, seems to have died of a broken heart.

No. It's personal.

Last night, while looking at Facebook on my phone for the umpteenth time, I discovered that my longtime friend Richard Schnap had died. At this point, I don't know the details surrounding his death. I'm not exactly sure how old he was, though I think he was 58.

People on the Pittsburgh music scene, especially those who were around in the mid-to-late '80s, might recall Richard as a member of the Cynics, playing guitar and keyboards. He was with them when original singer Mark Keresman was still in the band, and also when he was replaced by Michael Kastelic. He added a great dynamic to the band, balancing the raw garage fuzz with some jangly Byrds-y kind of influence.

But prior to joining the Cynics, he played in a band called Toxic Shock that started life as an all-female punk band that actually got shut-off at the Electric Banana. When Richard and his friend Larry Anderson joined the band, the group was more of a scruffy Velvet Underground-influenced band with male/female harmonies -- and a lot of great songs.

Following his time with the Cynics (which I found out tonight was only a year - a virtual blip on the radar, considering the Cynics' 30+ year existence), Rich was involved with a handful of other groups, which often had a wild conglomeration of people, culled together more by friendship than anything else, again playing some pretty interesting songs: The Third Mind (which only last one show, in a set that opened with version of "The 39 Lashes" from Jesus Christ Superstar, in which vocalist Jeff Masko began with a Morrison-esque recitation before counting off the lashes); Graceland (with vocalist Dean Novotny, a natural showman with an operatic voice like Klaus Nomi, drummer/artist Scott Turri and metal bassist/funnyman Greg Bloom); the Shroud (which included Bloom and man about town Steve Heineman at one point); and the Side Orders (a duo with vocalist Alice Winn).

While some of these bands left people wondering what the hell was happening onstage, that query was often balanced out by the songs they played, which was written largely or altogether by Richard. He was a poet who had a knack for stringing together hooks and great stories when he put his mind to it. There were a few Toxic Shock songs that resurfaced in the Cynics, and probably in later bands as well.

I met Richard when I was in high school. Nine years my senior, he knew my brother John from Pitt, and he was also a fixture at the Record Recycler, a used record store in Squirrel Hill that was run by Keresman. (Richard and I were a few of the folks who would sit behind the counter when Mark needed to go out.) We hit it off immediately because we both loved talking about music and we were both interested in a lot of it. Back in those pre-internet days, one got their musical knowledge from magazines, books (the beloved Rolling Stone Record Guide, love it or hate it), college radio, in addition to good old fashioned crate digging. One day he played me a practice tape of Toxic Shock in the Recycler. I was really transfixed. They weren't punk, but they had a rawness that they balanced with some great songs. Not sure if this is revisionism, but I felt like they were closer to the ideas I had in my head.

All I wanted to do back then was be in a band, and Rich encouraged me every step of the way. Not only that, he helped me connect with some people that became very valuable in my life. Barb Madaus, who played/plays in Bone of Contention with me, had been the drummer of Toxic Shock. Not only was she a drummer, she was a singing drummer, a plus in my book. I only saw Toxic Shock once, but that was enough to convince me that, when looking for drummers, that Barb could be the one. Richard connected us, and I never looked back.

A few months after getting together with Barb, Richard came up to me and said, "I have a guitar player for you - Patty Pisula." We hadn't found a guitar player yet, and this Patty person, who also worked as the music director at Pitt's WPTS, played guitar but had never been in a band. Sign her up. More on her in a moment.

Not only did Richard help me connect with these people (and subsequently, with Lila Shaara, the missing fourth piece of the BoC puzzle back then), he became my running buddy of sorts. I was underage in the fall of 1985, but, don't worry, you'll be able to get into the Upstage, he said. Long before the 61C Cafe existed at the corner of Murray and Bartlett, Richard was convincing me to meet him there - at the epitomy of greasy spoons, George Aiken's - for coffee and talk about music and plans and hopes for the future.We'd also take in the local old gents from the neighborhood, pondering what their life stories might be.

Then the big thing came in early 1986. A telemarketing place had opened in Oakland, where he, Mark and about three other dudes from bands found work. They were calling for a few liberal organizations. By Christmas of '85, I was flat-broke, dropping out of Duquesne University and in bad need of a job. I wasn't eager to talk on the phone, but I was desperate to make money. Next thing I knew, this insecure kid from Squirrel Hill was working side-by-side with these cool music guys. A month later Patty started working there. Richard and I were hanging around each other three or four nights a week, starting at work and often ending up at Chief's Cafe, down the street. Or maybe we'd end up at Patty's apartment in Panther Hollow, till the wee hours of the morning. Six years later, I started dating a woman from Ohio who started working the same office, marrying her four years after that.

Most people don't last in telemarketing that long. Somehow I did it for 12 years, until greener pastures finally came along. And earlier this year - almost 30 years to the day that I started working there - I went back because times were tough. The other guys are all distant office memories, though Patty is there as office manager, and seeing her every morning makes the day go better.

I owe all of that to Richard. He talked the place up and built me up to believe that I could do it too.

I never believe that "everything happens for a reason" malarkey. But I do really believe that where you are on a particular day at a particular time can impact you life in long-term ways. And I think that Richard did that for me.

I once started an entry with my favorite quote from It's a Wonderful Life, which comes from Clarence, right when George is realizing what would happen if he had never been born. Now it seems appropriate to place it at the end of this post. "Strange, isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around, he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?"

Thanks, Richard.

And now the Year in Music

I've got a few particular albums that I want to write about, but I've been busy getting together an article about Andrea Parkins (found here in City Paper and in a show tonight) and working on a JazzTimes piece.

But the NPR Music Jazz Critic's Poll came out this week too. Since I participated I have to link it here. Suffice to say, 2016 was a good year for jazz releases, even if almost everything else this year sucked something fierce.

Take a moment to check out the list, along with the color commentary by Francis Davis. Then buy some of this music with the money you get for Christmas.

The Past Week in Music

In the past seven days, I saw locals Thoth Trio in an unfortunately too rare show, the Ritual Trio (David Murray, Kahil El'Zabar & Harrison Bankhead, above, left to right) and William Parker & Patricia Nicholson. Pretty good week for music, methinks.

Thoth played at a space that's actually called the Space Upstairs, a really nice looking loft that's apparently being hosting performances for ten years. Granted, ten years ago I was off the local music grid (Pulp was two years gone and I wouldn't start writing for City Paper for another year) but this is the first time I'd heard of the place. Dance seems to be a big part of what the locale is all about. Throughout Thoth's two sets difference dancers would move across the hardwood floor, responding to the music. It wasn't like cliched "jazzzzzz" dance. The women and men doing it were really graceful and their movement seemed to pay attention to what was being played. Ben Opie (saxophones), Paul Thompson (bass) and Dave Throckmorton (drums) were in fine form. Plus there was coffee, although it took them awhile to brew it.

Last Sunday, the Ritual Trio played at the James Street Gastropub. Locals will understand the raised eyebrow by the combination of venue and music. James Street is a strong supporter of jazz and a great space, but rarely does it host a group so avant as these three. The reason in this case is the guy who brought them to town couldn't get into any other space.

David Murray and I had a late night chat for an article the week before the show.After resigning myself to the idea that I'd have to write the article based on memories (albeit strong ones) of Murray's previous Pittsburgh appearances, as well as his records, my phone rang at 10:00 pm the night before the article was due. Our conversation went so well, David being very loquacious, that I scrapped what I had written and started over, the morning after we talked. The results are here. 

James Street was standing room only for these guys, which was really exciting since shows like that (especially on a Sunday night) don't always draw well. All three members of the trio had been to Pittsburgh within the last 13 months. Murray came with the World Saxophone Quartet in September. Bankhead came to the Thunderbird with a bass and drums quartet called the Turbine! back in November of 2015. Kahil El'Zabar was here in the spring with the Ethnic Heritage Ensemble.

El'Zabar uses the same template each time he's come to town: playing on song on the amplified kalimba/mbria, one on the trap kit, one on a hand drum - set one; set two might be close to that with some variation in order. It's always a great show, but it's set up the same way.

Putting David Murray into the equation and a bassist (EHE has two horn players) throws some key elements into it. Murray's strong personality fit right in with El'Zabar's vision. The tenor saxophonist stayed close to straight-ahead jazz at first, complete with chord changes. But he quickly tore them up and rebuilt them. With the droning mbira songs, he made sure that things never waned, especially when he was playing bass clarinet. "One World Family," a song Murray and El'Zabar have returned to several times over the years, was a  powerful groove number with a hope for a better world. Bankhead played the anchor of the group, adding some of his own strong solo technique to the music in a few instances too.

City of Asylum brought in bassist William Parker and dancer/concert organizer/artist/poet Patricia Nicholson Parker (husband and wife too) on Wednesday of this week. CoA is still putting the finishing touches on Alphabet City, a space on the North Side which will host a restaurant, book store and performance space. But despite the almost-but-not-quite-there aspect, this is where they hosted the couple and the intimate space presented a good vibe for the event.

The evening began with a performance - Parker on bass, Nicholson dancing and reading poetry. I'll admit that I'm more a fan of the music. Especially Parker, who epitomizes the ability to project your life experiences through a performance on an instrument. His command of his whole instrument is something to watch. Without any other musicians to cover up his nuances, you hear a lot more of what he's doing.

Like the dancers at Space Upstairs, Nicholson moved very expressively onstage, bending and reacting to the music. During the nearly one-hour continuous performance, she read poetry that could be both pensive and hopeful as well as energizing.

After the performance, the duo took questions from the audience. They wanted to keep the discussion on the topic of what role the artist has in society. The work these two in New York is admirable. Nicholson organizes the VISION Festival each year. Parker plays consistantly with a number of different musicians, having released over 150 albums.

That being said, Q&A sessions involved such detailed questions like "what's the artist's role" are things that I'd rather miss, in large part because there are usually detailed but ultimately vague questions by audience members. That did happen on Wednesday, though not all that much. It was good to hear them talk, although some references to the new administration brought back some of the dread I've been trying to keep at bay.

Of course it was great being up close and personal with the two of them. Plus, the event was free. And over by 10 pm!

It Was 36 Years Ago Today..... and Today

Playing right now: Ravi Shankar - In Hollywood, 1971 (Northern Spy)

[Written as Thursday night became Friday morning, which explains the use of words like "tonight" and "today."]

As if this hasn't already been a year when a huge number of influential musicians have died, I read this morning that Greg Lake has joined the list. My initial reaction was to curse to the heavens: NOT ANOTHER ONE. Yeah, I was never the biggest Greg Lake fan. He seemed like he was the one member of Emerson, Lake and Palmer who was still on a high horse after all the years of excess have fallen by the wayside. But, damn, that doesn't mean you have to take him too. And so soon after Keith Emerson's death.

And what about poor Carl Palmer? Is anyone rushing to his side to offer solace?

When Keith Emerson took his life earlier this year, I posted an appreciation of him and of the way that ELP's music impacted me. Greg Lake was part of that, of course. He was the voice of the band. He provided some levity after all the heaviness. Plus he was the voice of King Crimson, roaring through distorted speakers in "21st Century Schizoid Man," a thunderous debut if there ever was one. Not to mention "In the Court of the Crimson King," with its majestic chorus and sea of voices. I played that album earlier this evening (even the meandering "Moonchild") and it felt really good. You can feel the intensity of this young band, finding their sea legs and channeling their excitement into the music. You step back from the music, away from everything that followed it, all the stigma that's attached to it, and try to imagine the band itself. What comes through is that first-time energy.

That's why, despite the pompous quotes that I've read over the years from Mr. Lake, that I feel the loss. The way that music hits you - encapsulating that certain time that you remember really discovering it, coupled with that feeling of what it must've been like to play it - means you'll never completely forsake it. It's almost like the feeling you may have for a sibling: You might go through periods where you don't see each other. You might really dislike them. They might have said something to you decades ago that still burns you to this day. But you'll always come back to them because of that connection you have.

On top of all that, I was reminded that 36 years ago tonight, John Lennon was killed. A friend commented that it might not exactly be a "Where were you when Kennedy was shot" moment, but I think that it is INDEED that moment for people my age. At least those who are really into music. Sure, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison and even Elvis had already died. But none of them were shot by a deranged fan. THAT was the game changer, even if it took several years to realize what it meant.

I was in bed on Monday, December 8, 1980. I can't remember if I had fallen asleep yet or not, but my brother Tom came into my room. Being a somewhat jerky/wiseguy of a 13-year old, I got mad at him for bothering me. Then he told me why: they had just announced on tv that Lennon had been shot. Tom said they hadn't confirmed his death yet. Or maybe he soft-pedaled it, saying things were up in the air. But I recall laying there in bed, thinking, What if he is dead?

The next morning, I remembering hearing the phone ring while I was still in bed. It was my CCD teacher who was fairly young (at least younger than my folks) and pretty hip with us kids. She wanted to make sure I knew. Before long, I came down for breakfast (it would be a couple more months before I became part of the alleged Dawn Patrol and started delivering the Post-Gazette and had to wake up early) and got the word. Yes, John was dead. All day WDVE, the only station I listened to back then, was playing Beatles and solo Lennon music.

I had a reputation for being a Beatles fanatic at school, although by that time, my enthusiasm for them had waned a bit, replaced by the adolescent obsession with the Doors, which would die down in a few months as I discovered weirder strains of psychedelic rock, and eventually headed into punk rock. But years later, a woman who had ridden the school bus with me, recalled in a complimentary way that on that school day, December 9, I wrote "Lennon Forever" in the condensation of the bus windows. The respect was a bit too late to boost my insecure ego, but in retrospect, it was nice that someone noticed.

Because when you're in 8th grade - surrounded by kids who act like assholes because they're too afraid to admit that they're just as confused about life changes as you are - writing a name on a window is sometimes the only way you know how to express your gratitude to a musician who will never get to hear it from you directly.

Thanks, Greg. Thanks, John.

CD Review: Mark Dresser Seven - Sedimental You

Mark Dresser Seven
Sedimental You
(Clean Feed) www.cleanfeed-records.com

UPDATE: This review has been removed because I wrote another review that will be appearing in JazzTimes magazine in an upcoming issue.

CD Review: Wadada Leo Smith - America's National Parks

Wadada Leo Smith
America's National Parks
(Cuneiform) cuneiformrecords.com

"The parks are really something fantastic. The idea is purely American. It came out of American ideals. Preservation. But right now those right are being violated by Congress because Congress controls it and they use it as political hay to raise money. They sign out huge areas of it underneath to companies for wheat and all kinds of food growing things. So it’s a commercialization that we can’t really afford to have...It belongs to all Americans, living and dead and those that have come before."

Wadada Leo Smith told me all of that last spring, prior to his appearance at the Pittsburgh JazzLive International Festival. He was in the midst of recording America's National Parks, a two-disc set that features his latest suite, in six parts. It continues in a line of large scale compositions like Ten Freedom Summers (2012) and The Great Lakes (2014)  The current one pays tribute to three of the country's actual national parks along with three places or people that Smith considers to have merit equal to the parks themselves. 

His Golden Quintet for the session includes longtime bandmates Anthony Davis (piano), John Lindberg (bass) and Pheeroan akLaff (drums), along with newcomer Ashley Walters (cello), who adds a dynamic color to the music, working together with Smith's clarion trumpet work. While the concept of the music relating directly the subjects could be scrutinized and detailed, even without the titles and/or a background of each subject, America's National Parks maintains Smith's stature as a composer of powerful music that blurs the line between modern chamber music and free improvisation.

"New Orleans The National Culture Park USA 1718" opens the album with a multi-sectioned 20-minute opus. A rigid groove eventually gets more steady as Smith's muted trumpet solos over it, followed by cello and piano. His crisp horn work could keep going, but just past the half-way mark, following a Lindberg solo, the groove break into free time, which Davis, Lindberg and Walter all use with vitality, before restating the opening theme. 

"Eileen Jackson Southern, 1920-2002: A Literary National Park" takes its inspiration from the African-American musicologist who founded the journal The Black Perspective in Music, from which Smith has written. While not as long as the preceding track, its nine minutes still arrive with great detail, with beginning with rich long tones that are Smith's calling card. 

"The Mississippi River: Dark and Deep Dreams Flow the River - a National Memorial Park c. 5000 BC," which begins the second disc, is the longest section, with over 30 minutes of ruminations. The first half of the track feels slow and contemplative with steady drum crashes, droning and then searing cello and bass, then spareness. Midway in, the band sets up a vamp, and Smith jumps on top of it, blowing powerfully. 

The three other tracks take their names from actual parks: Yellowstone, Kings Canyon and Yosemite. Of these, the closing "Yosemite: The Glaciers, the Falls, the Wells and the Valley of Goodwill 1890" (all the titles are a mouthful and must frustrate writers who have to abide by a word count) has some of the most exciting moments of the whole disc. Smith stands alone following the opening theme, playing what almost sounds like an elegy, asking listeners to take his beliefs to heart, like the ones stated in the quote above. After some ringing piano chords and droning cello, akLaff takes an extended solo that also feels thunderous and joyous. The visceral and complex solo can make you want to hear more of the drummer's work.

Wadada Leo Smith's work asks quite a bit from listeners: time, open ears, understanding of, and empathy for, the inspiration for the material. But by following this lead, he not only delivers music heavy with a message and content, he shows how his compositions connect to things beyond the performance stage or the CD player. "Music is like air, you know. It pervades the whole space around the earth," he said in our interview. 

America's National Parks is proof positive of that deep connection between air and music. While that might sound like flaky idealism to a cynic, it rings true in light of the way our environment is treated these days too.

When A Plan Comes Together

When the payoff is good, that's all that matters.

I realized that this morning as I was finishing a quick preview article on saxophonist David Murray. I had been trying to get in touch with him for a couple weeks. Well, I started putting in a sincere effort maybe about a week ago. Murray had been on tour with Terri Lyne Carrington and Geri Allen in Europe and the only number I had for him was an overseas cell number. I'm always reticent to do interviews on people's cell phones as it is. The sound quality can be hit or miss and that can make me miss some subtleties of the conversation, which normally can deepen the discussion when they're heard. Then there's the time change difference, coupled with not knowing when someone might be asleep or not.

After a few attempts to leave texts at the international number, and a voicemail left on the same number (at least I think it was his, but I'm unsure since the outgoing message was a French female voice), I got Murray's domestic cell number from Kahil El'Zabar, with whom Murray will be playing next weekend. At the start of this week, Murray was back in the states. No luck. My deadline was already stretched and I was starting to pull something together last night, based on my knowledge of Murray's career.

Then, at 10:00 pm, the phone rang. There he was!

We wound up talking for half an hour, him being very candid about his partner El'Zabar (bassist Harrison Bankhead will be with them too, on Sunday, Dec. 11), about being a musician with an original voice and massive discography, among other things. So I scrapped the whole article I had started and began fresh. It was much better as a result. It'll run in Pittsburgh City Paper next Wednesday. Check it out, and check out the group that weekend. No one had to pay to see the World Saxophone Quartet back in September, so it shouldn't hurt to pay to see Murray, El'Zabar and Bankhead. 

CD Review: Charlie Haden/Liberation Music Orchestra - Time/Life (Song for the Whales and Other Beings)

Charlie Haden/Liberation Music Orchestra
Time/Life (Song for the Whales and Other Beings)
(Impulse/Verve)

"The whales represent all living creatures. They're so precious and so wonderful. Just like this universe is, like this planet is, and like you are. You have to never forget that. You're a part of it. We're here for a reason. And that's to make sure this universe stays beautiful. And wonderful. And brilliant. And it's so important to remember how precious this life is. Thank you so much."

Those words conclude Time/Life (Song for the Whales and Other Beings). They come from Charlie Haden himself, at a performance of "Song for the Whales," recorded in 2011. The message has weighed heavy on my mind over this past month, when considering the turn of political events in this country, not to mention the attitudes towards people and land in North Dakota. It's left me wondering, what would Charlie Haden think of all this?

Haden, who passed away in 2014, was not only an amazing bass player and composer, he was a guy with a big heart, who had a genuine care for humanity. Actually, he cared for all living creatures, as his words prove. I found this out first hand when I talked to him in 2003 prior to a Pittsburgh appearance. (You can find that here, along with some other thoughts about Haden and Ornette.) When he speaks on the recording, his voice sounds a little frail, but his thoughts are so strong and determined, it's easy to be moved by them.

Of course the Liberation Music Orchestra has always been about such things. In the notes to their debut (recorded in 1969) Haden dedicated the album "to creating a better world; a world without war and killing; without poverty and exploitation; a world where men of all governments realize the vital importance of life and strive to protect rather than to destroy it.We hope to see a new society of enlightenment and wisdom where creative thought becomes the most dominant force in all people's lives."

On the record there were moments of joy, humor and honor. They were also dark moments, the biggest being "Circus '68 '69" where the group recreated the chaos of the 1968 Democratic Convention, dividing into two sections which each blew like crazy. At the height of the noise, an organ starts playing "We Shall Overcome." After it all fades, the group reconvenes for a short ending theme, which sounds bleak. The closing track follows it: a one-chorus reading of "We Shall Overcome," as if to remind us that there is hope for a better future, if we follow what Haden said in his notes.

While that album - which no jazz collection should be without - had its darker moments, the LMO albums that followed it in 1982, 1990 and 2005 were more somber and thoughtful - ultimately hopeful. It felt as if Haden, his musical partner in crime and arrangements Carla Bley and all the members of the group, were done reminding of us of bleakness or hostility and they decided to move forward with the part about making the world a better place.

Which now leads us to Time/Life. Haden only appears on two tracks, "Song for the Whales" and its bookend at the start of the album, a version of the Miles Davis/Bill Evans classic "Blue in Green." Both come from the same concert at the Middelheim Festival in Belgium, recorded for Belgian Public Radio. Three lengthy studio pieces between the two live ones, recorded a day after a memorial for Haden last year. Steve Swallow takes over the bass duties on these tracks. Although they all have a pensive quality, they're also woven with the powerful lyrical quality that Haden projected in his work with his quartet with David Sanchez and Gonzalo Rubalcalba.

"Blue in Green," which was immortalized by its appearance on Kind of Blue, gets some strong ensemble coloring from Bley, who makes sure the group sounds lush but not lightweight. It features a Haden solo that sounds thoughtful and conversational, followed by lithe solo by Chris Cheek.

The three post-Haden pieces that follow all have a somber feeling to them, but it's never mournful, even in "Time/Life," which Bley wrote as a requiem to her friend. Tenor saxophonist Tony Malaby takes the spotlight for half of the piece, opening with the melody (which has faint traces of some old standard that I can't recall by name) and soloing for seven minutes. He builds slowly, moving into double time, as the Orchestra builds up under him. Drummer Matt Wilson takes over with a spare solo that almost feels like a chant or invocation. From there, 10 of the players each take an eight-bar solo, with the mood getting brighter and louder around the time of Seneca Black's trumpet solo. It may be a requiem but it concludes by sounding joyful.

"Silent Spring,"  a Bley piece that dates back to the '60s, opens with acoustic guitar solo by Steve Cardenas, then goes into minor dirge like something out of Sketches of Spain. That comparison is heightened by the way Michael Rodriguez's trumpet has a slow burning quality, much like Miles Davis used on that album.

"Ùtviklingssang" - "development song" according to an online translation - features trombonist Curtis Fowlkes and alto saxophonist Loren Stillman each playing the folk-like theme separately, with the Orchestra easing their way in with Stillman. Both of them solo over another minor vamp, creating some stunning performances, especially Stillman who gets a little more space.

Any free jazz enthusiast who yearned to hear Charlie Haden really cut loose will relish "Song for the Whales." It begins with the bassist bowing and scraping out a song that evokes whale noises, not in a ham-fisted or ridiculous way but in a manner that brings gravity to subject. He then starts the group on a rubato theme which recreates the spirit of Liberation Music Orchestra's original version of Haden's "Song for Che." This is due in no small part to a wild tenor solo from Malaby, who adds gruffness and shrieks to heighten the intensity. After Haden's final spoken words, Time/Life might leaves the listener missing the bassist even more, but the album also provides a celebration of his spirit, ultimately making it an uplifting experience.

Which can only be concluded with the word Haden used to show his enthusiasm: Solid.