What Happens When I Go Back Into the Recording Studio

A Facebook memory from nine years ago popped up in my profile today, in which I talked about playing along with a click track for the first time ever, while working at Machine Age Studios. That means my previous band, the Love Letters, had our first recording session a good two years and change before our double 7" single was released in 2015. There were many sessions involved with the four songs that we recorded, including several where we worked laboriously with engineer Dave Cerminara (now a Grammy-winning studio guy in California) to make sure two of the songs sounded as good as the two songs that were mixed by John Collins (New Pornographers, Destroyer, many others). But I couldn't believe the first session was that far back in time. 

Fast-forward to last weekend. Well, first, some context. 

The Love Letters drifted apart several years ago. Eventually I found a few guys who wanted to play together and we became the Harry Von Zells. (Despite being named after a guy who I consider to be a funny radio man from the '40s who was later on The Burns and Allen Show on tv, we weren't meant to be a joke band.) The band played one show, back on Thanksgiving weekend, 2019. Other shows were planned in 2020, but like everything else, they were cancelled. 

Somewhere along the way last summer, I hatched a scheme: Let's record an album. We can take our time with it and by the time the pandemic is over, whenever that may be, we can have a release show! We got together and practiced a few times (without using microphones) during the pandemic so we knew the songs pretty well. But then a month would go by and we'd miss practices, or someone wouldn't be able to show up. When we did reconvene, after we were all vaccinated, we were just spending time making sure we retained everything that we had learned in the past. Sadly, there was never enough time to devote to our cover of Van Halen's "Romeo Delight." (Don't knock it. These guys could pull it off.)

As I've gotten older, band practices and studio time become different things. I started wondering how hard it must be to record an album, getting the time to shack up in a studio to fine tune those things. How do you do it anymore? Personally, my psyche feels a big gravitational pull when it's time to leave the house for something other than work. Should I be doing this? Don't I need to stay around the house? The pandemic probably has a lot to do with that. But there are also other things that I feel like should come first. 

Plus the band was starting to unravel as I booked the studio time for us. Prior to our show on October 15, the four of us hadn't been in the same room for at least four months, probably closer to six months. We had one practice before that show, which pretty much came off without a hitch. It was a good night. But it was also the last.

However, the studio session was going to happen anyway. 

That being said, I was nervous about the whole prospect. It's been so long since I've done this. Things are so fragmented, bandwise. I don't have the confidence in myself that I once had. What's the point? I started putting it around that I'm done playing out, anyway.

So this is really where the story starts. Erik, our guitar player, was occupied getting ready for another album session with his wife Emily, which once again was going to take place at their house with none other than Kramer producing and playing on it again. (Emily is Emily Rodgers, incidentally, and Kramer's newly-revamped Shimmy-Disc label just released her album I Will Be Gone this year. It was recorded the same way.) Michael, our keyboard player, said he was available, but it seemed to make more sense to add keys after the basic tracks were down. That left me and Nathan, drummer extraordinaire.

It might be hard to tell, but
Nathan is twirling his stick here.

The two of us had a few practices with just bass and drums prior to the session, albeit it more than a month beforehand. The big takeaway from those practices was how much we both seemed to have the songs down. We knew what worked, knew all the changes, and we barreled through a whole set in one of those nights at the practice space. Maybe this wouldn't be so fearful after all.

We booked last Friday and Saturday night at Ice House Studios, a cool space tucked away in Lawrenceville. Drums could not be recorded until after 7 pm since there are neighbors in the building, but I had requested both days off from work, so my time was pretty open. Then Jon Miller, the owner of the studio, offered to let us set up on Thursday evening. We could set recording levels so we'd be ready to go on Friday. I had to work until 7 that night, but by the time I would get there, I figured Nathan might still be getting levels on his drums, so why not.

Jon (who has his back to the camera in the first photo in this post) made the whole evening feel relaxed and easy-going. He and Nate had the drums levels set by the time I got there, and we got my bass set up pretty quickly. Then the suggestion was made to try a song to see how it felt. It took a couple takes to get the feeling down, but it was there. Try another song? Sure. A few run-throughs later, we had the basic track for song number two. And we still got home at a decent hour.

Since I didn't work on Friday, I was able to have dinner and some coffee before heading back to the studio. (The coffee is the monkey on my back, these days.) Nathan and I were both ready to get some serious work done. Which is exactly what happened. We laid down parts for seven more songs, making sure we were happy with the performance before moving onto the next song. Having just two people playing also cuts down on the number of possibilities of a song screwing up. 

There was even time to do some fine tuning on a song. One of my songs sounds best if I use a pick on the verses, because I'm strumming to strings like a guitar. Anyone who knows me know that I never use a pick. Or at least I haven't since that fateful night in 1986 when Bone of Contention played on Flagstaff Hill and my fingers were bleeding so bad that I needed to use a pick. 

But that doesn't really count. "The Ultimate Treason" (named for a term Mike Watt was used to describe when a bassist leaves a band and starts another one where they play guitar) needs the strum, but I couldn't recreate my walking lines in the chorus with a pick. So we punched in the fingered chorus part after getting the whole track down. 

In another song where I play with distortion (Turbo Rat, for those of you who care), I added a second bass track, so I could do some feedback skronk at the end. That section starts with the second bass mimicking the first, and hearing the tracks back later, it sounded like an angry Moog synthesizer. Nate had only played that song a handful of times, but I think we nailed it in two, or maybe three takes. 

Once that was done, we had pretty much run out of material. There was one song I could have pushed Nate to do, but the time didn't feel right. And really, the nine songs we did seem like the ideal length for an album. (My songs are never as short as I hope they'll be anymore.) At that point it was clear, we didn't need to come back on Saturday after all.

Some of the songs that we did have been around the block many times. Like, through a couple different bands. I go through periods where I'm proud of them and other times when I think that maybe I should just put them out to pasture, and that maybe the quality of my songs are why it's hard to find people to play with me. Maybe they aren't that good. People have reminded me to just do what I want to do, musically. Do it for yourself. That's a good motto - but it begs the question, why even bother renting a practice space and working to get musicians together when you can just hear the songs in your head? 

That sounds bleak or sad sack-like. But that's not where I am. Now I'm at the point where I think, it's time to get these songs documented. Maybe I'll work on these recordings the rest of my life, like my own version of Orson Welles' Inherit the Wind. In the months leading up this session, I wondered if I'd have the focus for a song where I played almost everything, or a song where I got several friends to sing back-up on the songs. Anything is possible. 

But at least the first step has been taken, which seemed unlikely to happen for the longest time. 
 

CD Review: David Leon - Aire De Aqua

David Leon

Aire De Agua

(Out Of Your Head) outofyourheadrecords.bandcamp.com/album/aire-de-agua

In the weeks just before Aire De Agua came out, David Leon had already landed on my radar for his flute performance on Jason Nazary's Spring Collection album. His debut album as a leader, however, finds him sticking strictly to alto saxophone with a set of varied originals.

Debut albums often serve as the place where a musician introduces themselves by saying a good deal, either stylistically or as a soloist. To that end, Leon comes across as something of an anomaly. He doesn't sound tentative in the least, but he doesn't want to say too much. The eight tracks are short. with concise solos. Several of them have surprise endings, foregoing a closing theme in favor of letting a solo serve as the final word  Leon is more than willing to step backward or, in the the case of "A Hug Every Day" step offstage altogether and make sure the rest of the band gets equal time. It gives the music a bit of intrigue that offers a counterbalance to a few instances where the ambition outweighs the execution.

Leon's writing sometimes feels rhythmically free, with some element of structure keeping everything grounded, with allusions felt to the classics. The rapid, clipped melody of "Strange and Charmed" recalls the stop-start urge of John Coltrane's "Sun Ship," while "First You Must Learn The Grip" begins like a bebop homage before it jumps the track into a world that includes some reed shrieks and an authoritative piano solo from Sonya Belaya. 

Thanks largely to Leon's desire for everyone in his quartet to get equal emphasis, Belaya repeatedly deserves her attention, from the free, hornless "A Hug a Day" to "Bluest Blue," in which the way she strikes the keys has an emotional impact, and coaxes Leon back to take some deserved space. The two also play a melody together in "Horrible, Horrible Service" that eventually splits into separate melodies that each utilize bassist Florian Herzog and drummer Stephen Boegehold.

Although this rhythm section deserves its own space, the title track could have benefited from more of Leon, who limits himself largely to melody line, "Expressive Jargon II" gives each player a simple set of notes or beats which they repeat with slight variations. At seven minutes, it's the album's longest track and the least successful, feeling more like a chamber music experiment that needs some other element to liven it up.

Those details aside, Leon comes across as a performer well on the way to developing a unique voice. Crisp on some tracks like Lee Konitz, but just as willing to flutter- and slap-tongue the reed amidst some enjoyable squeaks a track later, this debut reveals a lot of his ideas are being put to work already.

CD/LP Review: John Coltrane - A Love Supreme: Live In Seattle

John Coltrane

A Love Supreme: Live In Seattle

(Impulse!)

When the first Beatles on the BBC set was officially released, it was a revelation to hear "new" versions of their songs after considering their original studio releases as the only versions out there. Granted there are live recordings of the Beatles playing the songs. Thanks to YouTube (which didn't exist with the first BEEB set appeared), it's now easy to find concert performances by the band. But these recordings can't touch the sonic quality, precision or excitement of the studio sessions the band produced in those early days,. Not merely because of all the screaming that overpowered the band either. To put it another way, live segments give you a show, while Live at the BBC gives you a band performance. And once you hit Revolver, well there is only one version of each song.

A similar feeling came to mind upon hear John Coltrane's A Love Supreme; Live In Seattle. The four-part suite is considered the high-water mark in his extensive catalogue. So much has been written on the work, especially over this past week, that there's no need to restate its backstory here. Anyone unfamiliar with the whats and whys of A Love Supreme is encouraged to enter it into Google or, better yet, find a copy of Ashley Kahn's book A Love Supreme: The Story of John Coltrane's Signature Album, which offers a great deal of insight into the recording and keeps the reader excited throughout. Suffice to say, this piece of music - in which Coltrane devoted his faith to God (though not a specific one) - has taken on a sacred quality in and of itself.

Once he recorded the album in December 1964, Coltrane rarely played the suite live. One performance, at the French jazz festival at Antibes in July 1965, was finally released in 2002, presenting an extended take on the piece to an audience that responded in some parts with boos. He also reportedly played it at a fundraiser for a Brooklyn church, which was not recorded. Only a select few people knew that when Coltrane set up at Seattle's Penthouse in the fall of 1965 that A Love Supreme was performed in its entirety on his final night, and that his friend Joe Brazil recorded the performance and held onto the tape until his death in 2008. 

The Antibes performance definitely added a new perspective to A Love Supreme, but in some ways, a jazz festival seems like the obvious place that Coltrane would revisit such a landmark piece. Hearing it in the intimate confines of a nightclub, the forum where Coltrane did most of his evolving as a musician brings the music down to the rootsy level  As Kahn says in one of the album's essays, "This was not just message music, it was community music." (Italics are his.)

That feeling comes early in "Acknowledgement," the first movement of the suite. Anyone used to the studio version's opening gong crash, followed by the tenor saxophonist's declarative four-note fanfare might be surprised by the casual launch at the Penthouse. More surprising is that the band doesn't immediately go into the tune. Quartet bassist Jimmy Garrison is joined by second bassist Donald Rafael Garrett, who bows while Garrison plucks. They intertwine, not getting in each other's way, adding an earthy groove that eventually morphs into the three-note vamp. Coltrane doesn't re-enter for several minutes, letting a relaxed mood take place. When does join in, the band raises the dynamics, showing that its time to get down to business. Nearly three times as long as the studio version, this "Acknowledgement" reveals a little more grit, and not just because Pharoah Sanders is along for the ride.

The two-microphone set up gives the recording a stereo separation that was naturally created by the stage but it also pushes Coltrane down in the mix. He can be heard, but he's definitely getting edged out by drummer Elvin Jones and pianist McCoy Tyner. Even Pharoah Sanders, who had just become a member of the Coltrane band following the sessions for Ascension a few months earlier, can't wail and shriek over Jones thunderous drum kit. That night the group was also joined by alto saxophonist Carlos Ward. He solos during "Resolution," playing with a hard tone that somewhat recalls Eric Dolphy (making him a good addition to the group) but playing in a completely different melodic area. The final section of his solo seems to quote or draw on a disparate melodic form that almost pulls the music in a more straightahead melodic direction.

Coltrane would engage in a deeply cathartic chant of "Om" during his stay at the Penthouse during "Evolution" which appears on the posthumous Live in Seattle album. .(Another posthumous album, Coltrane's Om, was recorded that same weekend as this Penthouse engagement and included Joe Brazil on flute.) But A Love Supreme didn't involve any verbal incantations, such as the chant of the suite's title during "Acknowledgement." Surprisingly, he doesn't even solo in part three, the raucous "Pursuance," after stating the theme (which had shown up in his "Acknowledgement" solo, incidentally). Instead, he lets Sanders and Tyner take over. After the younger tenor saxophonist unleashes a stream of wails, the pianist creates his own tidal wave of music that must have been mind-blowing to everyone in the room. Maybe Coltrane decided he couldn't follow Tyner and decided to step aside. 

Jimmy Garrison's bass solos were probably one of the few times during a set that the audience was able to hear him clearly, due to the velocity going around him. His solo after "Pursuance" provided a respite from the frenzy and this version has more edge and electricity than his studio performance. Garrison's signature strumming technique appears but he also plays with more focus that retains the feel from what occurred prior to it.

Likewise, "Psalm," the piece built around the poem that in the gatefold of the original album, moves with more passion and drive, without giving into the temptation to add some wails to the scene. (Sanders and Ward don't participate here either.) 

The moment that takes A Love Supreme off of the altar and into the hands of the people (so to speak) comes in the final moments of the performance. After Coltrane finishes his final statement and the audience applauds, the bassists keep on going. One of them asks, "Is that the end," to which Coltrane replies, "It better be! It better be, baby! Yeah!" 

The fact that the one of the most revered pieces of jazz music can end ambiguously, with the mighty John Coltrane casually calling one of his bandmates "baby," proves that this music could be revered and admired from a distance, but it was not so holy that  it couldn't be lived in and revisited and reshaped. 

Matthew Shipp Live in Cleveland + CD Review: William Parker/Matthew Shipp - Re-Union

The last eighteen months has really magnified the importance of live performances to me. (That much should be obvious from the last few posts that have appeared here, regarding Bob Mould and James Brandon Lewis.) So if a Matthew Shipp performance in Cleveland coincides with a day off from work, with no Pittsburgh stop on this tour, it's clear that a road trip is in order. Which is exactly what I did yesterday. 

The Bop Stop, the non-profit jazz space that looks a lot fancier that its status might imply, was the locale for the show. Arriving on the early side, I was determined to get a seat where I could see Shipp's hands as he performed because he has a signature approach to the piano and it adds an extra element of excitement when you can see it happen. However, next time I need to remember to find a seat that places me at more of a 90-degree angle from the piano, in order to see both hands clearly. 

A Matthew Shipp set, especially a solo one, consists of a continuous suite, figuratively speaking. One tune flows into another with plenty of improvisation coming amidst all of it. Snatches of melody might sound familiar, recalling one of his many albums or from a previous show. When a standard theme pops up, it might also seem like one he's recorded before, even if you haven't heard it. As he plays, Shipp looks a bit like he's in a trance, completely devoting himself to the music, knowing exactly where he wants to go next, or where his improvisation will take him. That all happened last night.

Decked out in blue jeans, a blue shirt and a pair of Reeboks, Shipp frequently moved both hands over the keys in a rapid manner that almost looks like he was dusting them off. But instead of gathering clustered keys together, both hands were interacting, sometimes one right on top of the other, sometimes with the left hand playing a snatch of a boogie idea while the right developed little cells of melody. Occasionally it felt tense, but that tension was always followed by release.

His newest solo album, Codebreaker (which will be released officially next month), there aren't as many thundering bass note jabs that often punctuate Shipp's work. He has admitting feeling more introspective, channeling the feeling of Bill Evans (of whom he is a fan). That delicacy was often in place last night. At the same time, he maintained an edge, frequently locking onto a mid-range chord, hammering away on it several times for a different kind of emphasis. (The tune in question might have been "Green Man" from Codebreaker, though I can't say for sure.) 

When he played the Matt Dennis standard "Angel Eyes" (which appears on the Russian-released album Creation Out of Nothing), he used the entire keyboard to reveal the full drama of the song's lyric. (When done right, this song is a very blue tale of heartbreak.) In the final chorus, his left hand built up a march that made it even more ominous - until the bridge restored the lightness of it. 

A similar approach came up during the old warhorse "Yesterdays." He constructed lines with several staccato jabs, moving through melodic fragments of all shapes and sizes. Another piece later in the set sounded a bit like "Meditations For Moses," a piano solo that Charles Mingus created spontaneously on Mingus Plays Piano that had a groove to its opening line. But that could be me reading into it. 

Following his set, Shipp took part in a Q&A with Matt from the Bop Stop, taking questions from the audience. When asked about how his set is constructed the pianist described how one tune "is like your crazy uncle, one is like your annoying aunt that no one likes,' and how the set is a way of "trying to balance everything out."

William Parker - Matthew Shipp

Re-Union

(RogueArt) roguart.com/product/re-union/179

Before hearing that Shipp was playing Cleveland, I had plans to review Re-Union, the recently released set of duets with his longtime friend and collaborator William Parker (bass). Like Shipp, Parker is having a particularly fruitful year in terms of albums. AUM Fidelity released Painters Winter and Mayan Space Station earlier this year. And both friends appear with drummer Whit Dickey on the Village Mothership set, which TAO Forms released last week.

As far as duets go, though, this is the first that Parker and Shipp have done in over 20 years. The last time they teamed up, the year was 1999 and the album was DNA (notable also because it was the first time that Shipp said he was going to stop making albums). Having worked together in the David S. Ware Quarter and Roscoe Mitchell's Sound Factory, these two already have a deep rapport. 

Re-Union evokes the famous story of Charlie Parker and Charles Mingus getting into a deep conversation backstage before playing a set. Realizing that it was time to play, one told the other, "Let's continue this discussion on the bandstand," understanding that, even though they were adhering to changes, the music they played was much deeper than that. 

This recording took place in a studio rather than on a bandstand but the discussion still runs deep. The title track begins with the pianist and bassist playing what almost sounds like a groove, already deep into the conversation. Throughout its 22 minutes, things pull apart, with one player unleashing a rapid string of notes while the other holds back, then doing the same thing while the first one steps back. This alone is worth the admission price, but the nearly hour-long set includes "The New Zo" (a nod to a previous duet album) and "Further DNA" which both feature some uninhibited bowing by Parker. "Song of Two" gets a bit more contemplative, perhaps leaning on that lyrical side that Shipp explored on Codebreak and at last night's show.

While it might be hard for some to determine where to start with all the albums both players have released this year, Re-Union ranks as one of the mandatory picks.

 

James Brandon Lewis/Red Lily Quintet at Alphabet City - What A Couple of Nights!

September 2021 marked the 17th year that City of Asylum staged a Poetry and Jazz Forum. What began as a one-night event that brought exiled Chinese poet Huang Xiang and saxophonist Oliver Lake together for a performance has grown in recent years to a month-long series with music and poetry comingling in CoA's brick and mortar space Alphabet City. This year's installment wrapped up last week with one of the most incredible performances I've witnessed in several years. 

I don't say that lightly either.

James Brandon Lewis' Red Lily Quintet released Jesup Wagon earlier this year. This tribute to the life and work of George Washington Carver will likely end up on a lot of Best of lists in a few months. (Click here for a review of it.) On September 28, Lewis and the Quintet performed several tracks from the album at Alphabet City. The following night, he and cellist Chris Hoffman performed duets and accompanied three poets reading their works.

Before the Tuesday night set began, Lewis told the audience he wasn't the leader of the band. "I'm just a vessel." He also added that, thanks to the pandemic, this was only the second time the quintet had been able to play this music live. That being the case, everyone played like they had stored up a wealth of energy and musical ideas and couldn't wait to let them out. 

The set started with "Chemurgy," named for a movement George Washington Carver spearheaded in the 1930s to find industrial uses for renewable resources. The melody, with a phrase or two similar in a way to Ornette Coleman's "Lonely Woman" featured William Parker starting off on the gimbri, creating some low melodic interplay with Hoffman's cello. The rousing coda had Lewis blowing some low wails while cornetist Kirk Knuffke answered in his upper register. 

Throughout the set, Lewis went deep into his horn for complex solos that combined the visceral frenzy of free jazz without ever forsaking a melodic foundation. It reminded me of some of the masters of tenor saxophone I've heard on recordings and live over the last 30 years, but there's no sense in namedropping here. Lewis is clearly his own person, driven by the desire to get these ideas out of his head and into his instrument. 

Drummer Chad Taylor was pushing things along, responding to the other players and challenging them to take it higher. It was clear there was electricity onstage. During Knuffke's solo in "Lowlands of Sorrow," Lewis leaned his head back and wailed. It wasn't for attention. He was caught in the moment. My first thought was - Okay, good to know it's not just me feeling this way. "Arachnis" was a rather melancholic ballad, but the rhythm was so energetic that it felt uplifting. And Lewis' solo could have continued all night and it would have been just as powerful. 

I almost didn't make it to the Tuesday night show but a scheduling mishap opened my evening, so I jumped on it. In retrospect, it was a lucky break because the Red Lily Quintet's set was the most moving thing I've seen since Mike Reed premiered the set of music that became the Flesh and Bone album at the 2017 Winter Jazz Festival. (Click here for info about the release of that music.) If I had missed the show last Tuesday, I feel like I would've missed the boat on a great leap forward in music. I've gone online telling people to put all their stock in Lewis and that evening was proof positive of that. He has an individual, fully-matured voice. 

William Parker, James Brandon Lewis and Kirk Knuffke,
from the video screen on the corner seating area at Alphabet City

The morning after the Red Lily show, I went online talking up Lewis, giving that night's set a hard sell. Usually such praise never gets a reaction but I was pleasantly surprised at the end of the Wednesday show to discover that I was seated next to a guy who went to school with me, from about 3rd grade on, and whom I hadn't seen since we graduated 30-plus years ago. He and his wife checked it out based on my endorsement, which was really cool to see.

It would be hard to follow Tuesday night, but Lewis and Hoffman really got into the feeling that night. Lewis added his own spoken word pieces to the music, full of verbal snippets that recalled the quick burst of Beat poets with modern observations and concern, no doubt fueled by the past 18 months. Taking a title from his own album, the saxophonist put words to An Unruly Manifesto, a personal declaration inspired by similar ones put forth by poets like Ted Joans and other musicians. 

Lewis was modest to the point of self-deprecating about his own literary work but there were passages where his words hit hard. "Self-Doubt of a 21-Year Old Reed" expressed a musician's uncertainty: "Not II-V-I enough...Not MFA, BFA or 'street' enough." Another featured the moving observation, "W is for War, not 'When Will This End.'" Hoffman held down the foundation on a lot of the music, plucking his instrument, walking fast and bowing some heavy double-stops. Lewis did plenty of speaking, but his still let his horn do the lion's share of the talking, for most of the set. Like the night before, it was an ideal balance of explosive honks and reflective lines.

 

For the second half of the show, Lewis and Hoffman accompanied readings by Joel Dias-Porter (seen above), Danielle Obisie-Orlu and M. Soledad Caballero. All three are strong writers, with Dias-Porter creating as especially compelling piece called "El Magnifico," which recalled the day in his youth when he heard about Roberto Clemente's death. The musicians interacted with the readings very effectively, holding back to elevate the words and not overpower them. The way each piece ended, with words and music concluding in tandem, proved there was effort put into the word, rather than merely improvisation behind them. 

The evening concluded with a tenor/cello reading of "Even the Sparrow" a Lewis original commissioned by the Jazz Coalition which the quintet had also played at the end of the previous evening. As things wrapped up, Abby Lembersky, the City of Asylum Director of Programs, told the audience - which included online viewers - that she hoped that everyone got something from the month's programming that they will take with home them. Two words can sum up the feeling on that idea - no doubt. 

CD/Blu-Ray Review: Anthony Braxton - 12 COMP (ZIM) 2017

Anthony Braxton

12 COMP (ZIM) 2017

(Firehouse 12) firehouse12records.com/album/12-comp-zim-2017

When The Complete Dean Benedetti Recordings of Charlie Parker was released in 1990, a reviewer for Musician magazine admitted that he put several of the discs (out of seven) into his CD player and let them spin while he was sleeping. The idea was that, perhaps subliminally, he would receive further insight into the myriad lo-fi recordings of Parker. Benedetti didn't have enough space to record entire tunes so he settled for the crucial parts - the solos.

The writer's approach made sense. This was a box of seven CDs, which have become known as the Dead Sea Scrolls of jazz. In those pre-internet days, writers still depended on getting a hard copy of a release by mail. Deadlines were tight, so chances are there wasn't time to really dig hard into a massive work like that. Or else, I totally missed the artistic license that the writer took in describing the music. We're going back 31 years, after all.

As hard as it might be to penetrate the Benedetti set, it has nothing on 12 COMP (ZIM) 2017, a dozen new compositions by Anthony Braxton, each anywhere between 40 and 70 minutes each. (The physical edition of the set presents all the compositions on one Blu-Ray Disc. The link above offers the chance to purchase high-resolution digital files.) 

12 COMP (ZIM) 2017 came out in June and while they're have been some pieces written about it, neither of the two main domestic jazz publications have printed a review. Perhaps my peers have been spending the past several months trying to delve into the work, figuring out how to say more than a few over-arching descriptions of the music. It's quite a bit more involved than, for instance, Braxton's own massive Charlie Parker homage, the 11-disc Sextet (Parker) 1993. But the thought of listening to Mr. Braxton's work while sleeping doesn't really seem like a good idea for anyone who already has regular anxiety dreams. The better approach - copious notes, taken while listening.

ZIM Music is Braxton's newest system based on his Language Musics. It derives from gradient logics, which are aspects of music that continually change, such as tempo or color (brighter and brighter or darker and darker). The notation of the music includes "extraction notation" which is technically impossible to play and requires the musicians to "extract" something from the music in their improvisation. How the players react is what makes a gradient process out of the performance.

The instrumentation on the dozen compositions ranges from a sextet (two of the pieces), septet (six of them) and nonet (four pieces). None of the lineups include bass, drums or any percussion instrument. They do all include tuba (Dan Peck), which offers low end foundation and another voice to interact or clamor with the other players. All of them feature two harpists (Jacqui Kerrod with either Brandee Younger, Shelley Burgon or Miriam Overlach). Accordion (Adam Matlock), cello (Tomeka Reid) and violin (Jean Cook) also show up.

As far as fellow horns, longtime Braxton member Taylor Ho Bynum (brass) is a mainstay, but the nonet tracks also feature Stephanie Richards on trumpet and additional saxophonist  Ingrid Laubrock. Braxton himself plays his usual artillery of reeds - sopranino, alto and bass saxophones, contra-bass clarinet and probably a few others. When the dynamics change in a piece, he is often the first to come to the sonic surface, brandishing a different instrument than he had moments prior.

The music features many sonic shifts along the way. At various times, the harps create textures that sound like music boxes. They also play in a manner that was once used in film soundtracks to evoke a screen shift into a dream sequence. These pieces all seem to be united with the regular use of group crescendos and the use of long pauses or breaks in the middle of a piece. The latter seems like the silence that comes between movements of a symphony, though the music doesn't always follow that trajectory. Those elements present what could be considered recurring themes between each piece, but it's unclear whether that was Braxton's intention. 

A 16-page booklet comes with the Blu-ray, in which the composer tries to explain his methods. This often proves to be as enigmatic as the music, especially when Braxton presents numbered points that describe "a five part decision construct" used to play the music. The most illuminated point comes in #1111: "The page order in the ZIM MUSIC can be rearranged to keep the music fresh. This is possible because every notated page is two measures long..." Others directions are even more vague, the best being: "The train in the tunnel is getting closer and closer - in other words get out of the way fool [sic]." Challenging yes, but Braxton wants to have fun too.

"Composition 402," the first track, feels like it has the most sense of direction. (Although this one likely had a decent amount of rehearsal since it premiered in Poland before being recorded at Wake Forest University in 2017.) Braxton plays powerfully, as he does throughout the album, especially on alto, where his rapid technique still sounds jaw-dropping. Here it sounds like the group is "accompanying" him in a more traditional way. In "Composition 419" his alto sounds gentle and a bit lyrical. "Composition 415" might be the most memorable track since it holds together like a piece, with different movements or textures (or gradients) sprouting out of it. Like the others, it's marked by a lot of those pregnant pauses.

A dozen album-length compositions might be something that draws the attention of Braxton fanatics exclusively. But the musicians on this work - not all of them avant players - understand the gradient logics and bring a lot of contagious energy to the proceedings. One good example comes in "Composition 414" where the nonet sounds like they're playing backwards in the opening minutes. Elsewhere it's interesting to try and discern Braxton from Laubrock or Bynum from Richards, so close in spirit do they play. 12 Comp might be a major investment, but it's one that yields many dividends. 

Just don't put it on before bed.

Bob Mould Takes Pittsburgh

When a friend texted me the list of Hüsker Dü songs that Bob Mould played at his 2019 Pittsburgh show, I swore that I would never miss him again. Not simply because I wanted to hear the oldies. Those songs (which included "In A Free Land," which we had played in our tribute band Hüsker Don't) were the icing on the cake that was Sunshine Rock, the solid album that he was supporting on that tour. 

Then Bob released Blue Hearts last year, on which he sounded just as pissed off as he had 40 years ago on Everything Falls Apart. I don't blame him one bit. It came out early last fall, at a time that I was feeling pretty down about the world and worried about the impending doom that was facing us in the election. He wasn't specifically addressing that on the album, but his fury helped lift me up and remember to do that we can to help us all survive. (For a better idea of what drove that album, check out this link to his FB page and read the plaque that he has pictured. It's more illuminating that I realized. Thanks, Bob, for continuing to enlighten me.) 

Having said all that, I was ready, willing and eager to see him this past Tuesday at Small's Theatre. As the tour started, Mould posted regularly on Facebook about how masking was required at his shows and how he wanted everyone to be safe. He could have lashed out at the idiots for posted snarky comments against masking but he kept his cool about it, and held firm. He might be angry, but he has class.

The trio Kestrels opened the show was a tight set of heavy pop. Some of their songs recalled Sebadoh, especially when they dropped some gonzo basslines, driving the power chords of the tunes. They mentioned that J. Mascis of Dinosaur Jr., helped them with one of their singles and that influence was noticeable as well, in the best way. 

Then Bob Mould's trio hit the stage. True to his beliefs, the man walked out with his mask on, hanging it on his mic stand before things started. He wasn't preachy about it, nor was he dead serious, but very matter-of-fact. Or, a better way to look at it might be that he was showing common sense. And courtesy. 

Then we were off. A whole slew of songs from Blue Hearts came out in full force, with very little time to breathe between them. That album should be experienced with lyric sheet in hand, since the vocals are mixed low. In person, my crazy ears couldn't always make out everything but the power of the group (with bassist Jason Narducy and drummer Jon Wurster) carried it.

From there, the band jumped all over the place through the Mould catalog. At least two songs from Workbook, his first solo album, factored into it - "Sinners and Their Repentences" and "See A Little Light," the latter with a message that seems especially true after what the last 18 months have been like.

Then it started. The band kicked into a stop-start intro that could only mean one thing - the moody Hüsker epic "Celebrated Summer." It seems a little maudlin to say that it made me a little misty but I only got to see Hüsker Dü once, and they weren't at their best (playing the entire Warehouse album from top to bottom.) So hearing this baby sung by the man himself was a little overwhelming. Even if he couldn't quit hit the high notes like he used to. (He knows his limits. Gotta dig that.)

The hits just kept coming. "Something I Learned Today" (a song which takes me back to September of 1984 when I bought Zen Arcade). "Hardly Getting Over It," the pensive not-quite ballad from Candy Apple Grey. "I Apologize." Hearing "Flip Your Wig" was meaningful too, since this was a song where Mould and Grant Hart traded vocals in the original. Narducy, who helped with harmonies and high notes throughout the evening, took care of the Grant lines well. When the evening finally wrapped up after about 75 minutes (longer than his last set, according to my accomplice for the night), "Makes No Sense At All" closed it up. Like everything, it still sounds plenty relevant today. 

I have to wonder how Bob feels since everything he sang in "Divide and Conquer" has become true. But that's a thought for another time. It was a great night, and like the jazz festival (see previous post), it was great to be among kindred spirits. 

2021 Pittsburgh International Jazz Festival - A Slight Recap

The Pittsburgh International Jazz Festival took place last weekend, spread over three days. One ticketed concert was staged on Friday at the Benedum (Chaka Khan) and the rest - aside from post-festival jam sessions - took place outdoors on Saturday and Sunday at Highmark Stadium at the far end of Station Square. 

In previous years, most of the performances were free to the public, taking place on stages set up around Downtown's Cultural District. This time, the outdoor events came with an admission price, which, considering what came with the purchase (and comparing it to similar events in other cities), was still a good value. It was also a way to make up for the lost revenue of 2020. Attendees could purchase VIP tickets to sit in a roped-in center-stage area, or a field seat, where you were free to roam across the whole field, or get a bleacher seat, which was from a distance from the stage but good for shade.

Like a goof, or someone who hasn't had the chance to going back to shaping the day job around live events like this one, I missed several chunks of the festival due to work. Chaka Khan isn't really my thing so I was okay with missing her show but it was kind of disappointing having to miss most of Saturday. (Though I could missed all of it, had my boss not switched me off the evening schedule, which was appreciated.) But enough about me. What follows is my dispatch on what I saw. 

Saturday September 17 was a beautiful evening. Not hot, not chilly as dusk started to fall. The perfect kind of evening to walk onto a field and set up a folding chair and listen to music. Gregory Porter was well into his set when I got there and my first thought upon walking onto the field was, It's so great to be around a bunch of people again. Most had masks and nearly everyone seemed safely distant. Within minutes, I ran into Gail and Mensah from the Kente Arts Alliance, two great people who always seem to cross paths with me at the right moment. 

The second thought was how great the set-up of the show was. Two huge stages were set up on the field, which meant there only had to be about 30 minutes between sets. That gave the audience enough time to shift their seats from one part of the field to another. This was really well-thought out and it won't surprise me if they stick to this locale and set-up for future fests.  Field seats were perfect because the line of vision was solid and the sound was great.

Gregory Porter (pictured above) is quite the dynamic performer, with a voice that makes you sit up and listen. That explains why he has become such a highly regarded and well known singer. And his set kind of takes some liberties with what fits into the jazz repertoire. There's a good deal of soul and contemporary R&B mixed in, without watering down the mood of the set. "No Love Dying" from his Liquid Spirit album, turned into a tribute to his brother, who passed away earlier into the COVID-19 pandemic. Porter's insistence that the audience join him in singing the chorus was an uplifting moment rather than a showbiz trick. It was also another reminder of how great it was to be among a flock of music enthusiasts again.

Bassist Marcus Miller closed out the night, following Porter. His set was heavy on grooves and massive bass lines, but his group didn't skimp on jazz chops either. One of the highlights of the set was when he brought out tenor saxophonist Winston Bell, the son of Poogie Bell, who drummed with Miller's band. The younger Bell (who is 18 years old, if my online research proves accurate) already has a rich, throaty tone on the tenor and fit right in with the band, especially on a reading of "Tutu," which Miller wrote for Miles Davis. 

The Sunday afternoon sun was beating down on Highmark Stadium as Jeff "Tain" Watts' group was tearing up the stage. Speaking of beating down, Tain's dear Steelers were in the midst of getting a beatdown across the river during his set. In hopes of cheering them on, he changed the last tune of the set on the fly, switching out a new piece for a groovy tune called "Steely McBlue," inspired by 'that mascot no one likes," he said referring to poor Steely McBeam. The groovy number included a sideways insertion of the city's infamous "Here We Go Steelers" cheer. It was clever and solid but alas, it didn't help the team.

Watts' set was titled "Pittsburgh Suite," as it paid tribute to his hometown. His group featured hometown native David Budway on piano, along with guitarist Paul Bollenback, bassist Robert Hurst III and tenor saxophonist Ravi Coltrane.  The group had a strong blend of acoustic sounds (piano, tenor) with more electronic effects (guitar) which really added to the weight of the music.

There's something spellbinding about hearing Eddie Palmieri's Afro Caribbean Jazz Septet in a setting like this. There are a lot of groups that incorporate Latin music with jazz. Some do it pretty well. But hearing the 84-year old pianist leading a group with two drummers (neither behind a trap kit; timbales and congas here), it feels like we're getting an unfiltered version of this music. It's tight and full of excitement, so much so that a few people in the audience got up to dance during the set, stealing Palmieri's heart in the process. (It says something that these two women didn't dance for the whole set. Moving like that can take it out of you.)    

Forgive the faraway picture of Branford Marsalis' quartet. The sun wasn't blaring down on us by the time they took the stage but it was still hard to look at my phone and see if the photo was good or not. And it was hard to get out of my chair. By now, you can see that I didn't exactly feel like my ambitious Scoop Shanley personality. (Then again, my day started at about 6 a.m. with seven hours on my feet.)

Marsalis was joined by longtime quartet members Joey Calderazzo (piano), Eric Revis (bass) and Jason Faulkner (drums). The driving energy of "The Mighty Sword," opened the set, with Marsalis on soprano. Two songs later he switched to tenor for a tune where he seemed to evoke the dry-toned leaps of Charlie Rouse. It made sense because the song in question was "Teo," a Thelonious Monk tune which the pianist recorded when Rouse was in the band. When Marsalis traded fours with Faulkner, the drummer's attack felt good and taut. Overall, though, it seemed like the saxophonist was playing it rather safe, opting for long, flowing tones when something with a little more rhythmic and melodic adventure would have lifted things up a little more. Things did get more exciting during a reading of Jeff "Tain" Watt's "Blue Tain." The drummer himself slid into Faulkner's chair and trumpeter Brian Lynch (from the Palmieri band) dropped in too.

When I discovered, a few days prior, who I was going to miss in the festival, I started wondering if I still wanted to go. Lakecia Benjamin (who did an online performance via Kente Arts Alliance earlier this year), Christian Scott A Tunde Adjuah, Christian McBride and Kenny Garrett were all people who I wanted to see, all but one of them appearing on Saturday afternoon. 

But part of the reason I still attended was to check out people I normally might not see. The thought I frequently have when listening to any new album, whether I like it or not, is usually, "I wonder how they sound live." For that reason, I thought I should check out keyboardist Patrice Rushen, who followed Marsalis. No doubt, she has chops to spare but I wondered if her sound might be a little slick for these ears. 

Turns out it was a little from Column A and a little from Column B. Rushen's sextet kicked off their set with a funky groove, delivered with enough volume to make Rayford Griffin's kick drum rattle your sternum. It might have been on the contemporary side, but that was a jazz piano solo that Rushen ripped off once the group got past the theme. Her clavinet sound in "The Hump" sounded like it was referencing either "Rock It" or "Chameleon" but it maintained some grit, as did the Rhodes break that followed. Alto saxophonist Eric Marienthal - who's had a lot of success on the smoother side of jazz - took the spotlight later in a tune that was in keeping with his track record, and Rushen opted for some rather moist sounding keys to back him. Marienthal's unaccompanied coda pulled out all the stops to wow the crowd: fast flurries of notes, long high wails. A little too showbiz for me, but I had to admire his range on that horn.

Dianne Reeves closed out the evening, but a pending deadline for JazzTimes pulled me out of there early. By that time, it had felt like a good investment anyway. Again, it was great to be around a bunch of jazz fans again. Here's hoping that more people will be smart enough to help squash this pandemic so that events like this will continue in the coming year. Hey, New York Winter Jazz Fest, any thoughts?

 

CD Review: Barry Altschul's 3Dom Factor - Long Tall Sunshine

Barry Altschul's 3Dom Factor
Long Tall Sunshine

(Not Two) nottwo.com

Of the five tracks on Barry Altschul's latest release, four of them appeared on the debut release by 3Dom Factor. My thoughts on the album can be found here, but for those whose attention is staying on this page, suffice to say it was my favorite album of 2013. A few years later, on their Live at Krakow album, they revisited three of those four tracks and, once again, knocked it out of the time zone. 

Which brings us to Long Tall Sunshine, named for the one composition that is making its debut on disc. In explaining the recurring set list, Altschul has stated that he believes more in "fresh" than "new" ideas that improvisations can create. He also admits being a little lazy. But, hell, when you're playing with the kind of gusto and invention that has always been a part of his work, the lazy factor clearly isn't hampering the music. There's nothing wrong with Altschul (who's just a few months shy of 80, anyway), Jon Irabagon and Joe Fonda taking another swing at "Martin's Stew."

That aforementioned Altschul composition appears at the end of the set, introduced and concluded by the leader's  drum solo. After all these years, he's still unique and dynamic, never totally out, always discovering new ways of making his kit sound fresh and vital. As many times as they might have released "Martin's Stew," this one has its own unique fire, from the way Fonda's bass enters in the wake of the drum solo to the way Irabagon lets loose with a non-stop flurry of tenor lines that seems like he could go for hours and never wane.

Earlier, the group revisits "Irina" with Irabagon switching to clarinet. At first, his attack sounds very close to his sopranino, which he played on the earlier 3Dom Factor version. Here, he puts some brawn into the b-flat instrument, keeping it gentle at the same time. 

In "Be Out S'cool," after a hard driving, elastic solo by Fonda, Irabagon trades his tenor for another another red headed stepchild of the saxophone family - the soprillo. It sounds like a sopranino at double speed (akin to the pitch-riding tricks Frank Zappa performed on Bunk Gardner's horns on Mothers albums like Uncle Meat). Once the initial jolt of the instrument's tone settles, Irabagon uses it for more adventurous tears through the music, highlighted by some rapid tongue action and some reed squeezing that sounds like it creates some high multiphonics. 

On top of being a propulsive drummer and leader, Altschul continues to excel in the composition department. The band's namesake tune, a rapid-but-catchy line among some wild three way chases in the music (some popping harmonics from Fonda, some too-smoochy noises sans mouthpiece from Irabagon), offers a reminder. But "Long Tall Sunshine" also gives the band a grooving AABA form that they devour with enthusiasm that can be felt by listeners. 

The performance features occasional audience applause, although the CD liner doesn't list what audience was lucky to be there that night, or what night it was. Turns out the band forget to document the date of this show. Oh well. It's nice to have a little bit of mystery after all that.

Remembering Tom, Don and Charlie

After church on Sunday, my mom would often make a quick stop at a convenience store to pick up something she needed for dinner that night. The time period I'm envisioning is late '70s/early '80s, before the term "convenience store" was actually a standard term. In Pittsburgh, we had Open Pantry, and my brothers John and Tom both worked at a few of them. 

One Sunday, we were making the trip and Mom had the AM radio on. It was must have late '70s because KDKA and WTAE were still playing music. There was a song playing where the guy kept saying, "I like beer." He had a weird voice and something about it made me think it could be the actor Harry Morgan, best known as Col. Potter on MASH or Bill Gannon, Joe Friday's partner on Dragnet. I knew Morgan wasn't a singer but that's all I could think of. Besides, I liked the way he proudly proclaimed his love of the suds, following the sound of a chorus.

Several  years later I discovered the real voice behind the song - Tom T. Hall. When I came across his Greatest Hits., Vol. 2 at a Carnegie Library record sale, I would have been a fool to pass it up. Not only does it contain "I Like Beer," it also has "I Love" and a beautiful musical question: "Who's Gonna Feed Them Hogs?" Damn - if Volume 2 was this crammed with goodies, what was Volume One like? Hall also penned the liner notes, which he titled "My Garbage" ("Before anyone gets the wrong idea, this is not an album review."), a hilarious list of items that can't be done justice in this short space.

The songs on this album struck some common ground with friends of mine from different backgrounds, like a local musician who knew exactly when to join the back-up singers during the "awwww" in "I Like Beer"'s third verse, or the friend who still gets really animated at the mention of "Sneaky Snake." But the biggest connection between me and these songs was when I played "I Like Beer," "I Love" and "Who's Gonna Feed Them Hogs" with my pal Sharon Spell in her comedy cabaret. Not sure if it was my idea or her idea, but it worked really well, especially when the gender change required her to change the line "It makes me a jolly good fellow" to include her stage name: "It makes me a much better Mama."

I came to the Everly Brothers a little later than most. Their music was always around but it wasn't until I found a greatest hits album that I came to fully appreciate them. The big hits were familiar but I was slayed by "Till I Kissed You," in large part because of the drum roll that followed the titular line. It acted almost like a rim shot. Then there was "Bird Dog" which had a little bit of punch to the intro, not to mention the low-voiced commentary between the lines. I liked the song so much that I talked the Pundits - a power-pop band I was in at the time, fronted by my pal John Young, a bigtime Everly fan - to cover it. We played it a couple times though I don't recall if we had some harmonies going. (Harmony wasn't my strong point and John could sing the pants off of me.) All I know is I got to deadpan, "He's a bird.... he's a dawwwg."

But the biggest way that the late Don Everly and his brother Phil affected me comes with "Devoted to You." It was clear the first time I heard that song that there was something really deep about it, lyrically and harmonically. When Jennie and I got married, that had to the The Song. Lila from Bone of Contention and her husband Rob (who for all intents and purposes was part of the band too, if you know our history) sang it from the rafters of the Homewood Cemetery chapel as we made our way down the aisle. It was swell.

I don't have a Charlie Watts story but I do have an observation about him, which begins with someone else. Even when I was into punk rock during high school, I could still dig the Count Basie Orchestra with my parents. We often joked about guitarist Freddie Green, who sat there throughout the set, plunk-plunk-plunking on his guitar, never taking a solo. (I seem to recall there was a joke that Basie would make during a show about Freddie finally taking a solo, which was followed by the man playing one note. Ho ho ho.)

My folks and I used to think that Freddie had the easiest job in the world, just playing those chords. Then it became clear that Freddie played a chord in every bar. And he was never off, making sure that there was indeed rhythm in the rhythm section. He was in the pocket, or to use the title of a song that Freddie wrote for the band, he was in the "Corner Pocket." 

To me, that's the kind of player that Charlie Watts was. He wasn't flashy, he wasn't bombastic. When he launched his own big band, he wasn't even the only drummer. He enlisted two others! (He also had the likes of Evan Parker, Alan Skidmore, Annie Whitehead and Jack Bruce [on cello!] in the personnel]. 

But if you wanted someone who was reliable and always there, elevating what you were playing, he was the man. It's great to have wild-ass drummers kicking you along, but you also want to have a drummer who listens to you and plays with the intention of lifting the music up. That was a big part of what made the Rolling Stones what they were. 

Thanks, Tom. Really got a kick out of your work.

Thanks, Don. Everybody probably tells you how music wouldn't be the same without you and Phil, but for me, it was personal too. 

Thanks, Charlie. Everyone knew that Mick was your singer. But it's good that you reminded him in such a classy way. 

CD Review: Anna Webber - Idiom

Anna Webber
Idiom

(Pi) www.pirecordings.com

The term "extended technique" pops up on this blog often (hopefully not too excessively). It describes a non-traditional approach to getting sounds out of an instrument. Noticeable examples include a trumpet player getting some sub-basement tuba growls on the horn or a saxophonist creating some banshee wails beyond the high F key (where the range of all saxophones, in the formal sense, end). But extended technique can be used in more subtle ways too, such as the use of alternate fingering on an instrument, which creates buzzes or microtonal shifts in pitch.

As a fan of untethered free improv, I can get into sounds created this way - most of the time. A while back, I explored an album by two trumpeters going at it whole hog, growling, whispering, splatting and generally sounding a little flatulent, and I had to turn it off after a quick preview of a few tracks. It was probably the moment, but it sounded like a free jazz equivalent to metal hammering on the fretboard and it soured me on the idea for a while. 

Saxophonist/flutist/composer Anna Webber based all of Idiom on specific extended techniques played on woodwinds. One of the pieces, "Idiom II," appeared on her 2019 album Clockwise. The other five pieces appear here, along with interludes. Once again, there are moments that feel pretty jarring but the forward motion of music pulls you in even when things feel tense.

The first of the two discs features Webber in a trio with pianist Matt Mitchell and drummer John Hollenbeck. "Idiom I" kicks things off with Webber's flute playing a rapid 7/8 ostinato which makes her breathing technique alone impressive. While the riff alone could be a bit much, the fascination lies in the way things keep shifting underneath it and the way the trio seems to volley the seven-note line around.

By contrast "Idiom IV" sounds spare, at least initially.. Mitchell plinks alone for 96 seconds before Webber enters with a single buzzing tenor note. Just shy of the three minute mark, the trio launches into an angular piece with Webber playing a series of lost notes. When Hollenbeck breaks away, it sounds like an extension of the tenor sounds. 

Running order is crucial on Disc One. Heard in numerical order the Idioms might sound similar in pitch, but Webber scrambles the set, breaking from the program with "Forgotten Best." The center track sounds the closest to a pure "jazz" piece, at times sounds like a ballad but never long enough settle easily into that, or any description. Like everything else, the point seems to be to keep the sounds flowing. "Idiom III" highlights several static techniques on tenor, with rhythms providing the variations. As Mitchell hammers on the lower end of the piano - and adding striking colors at the opposite end - it rocks, sounding much larger than a trio.

A 12-piece ensemble, of jazz musicians and new music players, join Webber on Disc Two to play "Idiom VI," a piece broken into six movements, with four interludes. With brass, reeds, strings, bass, drums and a synthesizer joining the leader (on tenor, flute and bass flute) dissonant clusters of sound bounce around, What sounds a bit abrasive and repetitive at the start of "Movement I" slowly comes together as an oddly engaging riff. The instruments rumbling beneath the proceedings provide the forward momentum this time. As one technique evokes the shower scene music from Psycho, the vibrations between pitches becomes more noticeable and add to the intrigue.

Only "Movement IV" gets to be too much, with the repetition of high synth note, that again recalls a cinematic moment, this time an eerie scene when a Theremin ratchets up the suspense. Here the note lasts less than a second and it repeats ad nauseum. 

Several players from the ensemble get solo spotlights. Unlike her part in "Movement IV" synth player Liz Kozack rips things apart in "Movement I." Trumpeter Adam O'Farrill also contributes a lot to one movement and to one of the interludes, the series of passages which create some rather beautiful moments of low drones in between. It all leads up to the final movement, where everyone seems to take an individual extended technique idea and creates a rolling wave of sound. 

Building a book of compositions from a set of extended techniques might sound like an effort with limited results. But Anna Webber has managed to take the edginess of these sounds and build a wide dimension of music from them. 

PS Anyone interested in Idiom is advised to check out Rectangles, a 34-minute piece by a Webber quartet released last year on Out Of Your Head's digital-only Untamed series. Quite different in many ways, but quite good.

CD Review: Broken Shadows: Tim Berne, Chris Speed, Reid Anderson, Dave King

Tim Berne/ Chris Speed/ Reid Anderson/ Dave King
Broken Shadows

(Intakt)   intaktrec.bandcamp.com/album/broken-shadows (for digital album) or screwgunrecords.com/album/broken-shadows-2 (for CD orders in US)

The release of Broken Shadows marks a major collision of worlds, two of which run in close proximity to one another, yet never seem to meet. I mean, here's an album on the Swiss Intakt label by two-thirds of the Bad Plus, along with Tim Berne and Chris Speed - AND BRANFORD MARSALIS WROTE THE LINER NOTES FOR IT! Woah! 

Don't get me wrong, I think this meeting of the worlds is great. I'm just kind of surprised that the opinionated member of that family would be interested in checking this music out, let alone penning a set of liner notes about it. Kudos to you, Mr. Marsalis. 

Broken Shadows captures Berne (alto), Speed (tenor), Reid Anderson (bass) and Dave King (drums) digging into a set of works by Ornette Coleman, Julius Hemphill, Dewey Redman and Charlie Haden. The quartet began as a gathering of friends doing gigs in Brooklyn only, with no rehearsal, playing other people's music. In other words, the ground rules were very similar to what might be found at a weekly jam session in days of yore, with the additional rule of keeping the solos short and concise. (Only two tracks last longer than five minutes and one is Hemphill's "Dogon A.D.," which requires a little more time anyway.) Ten of the 12 tracks originally appeared on the vinyl-only Newvelle label in 2019 with a different running order.

With just a couple exceptions the Ornette pieces hail from his late '60s/early '70s albums like Ornette at 12, Science Fiction and Crisis. "Una Muy Bonita" and "Ecars" go back to the Atlantic days. Berne, of course, ripped through a wealth of the Ornette book on John Zorn's Spy Vs. Spy project, so he's no stranger to this work. But it's interesting to hear his distinct tone (by now, a great blend of crisp and gruff) in the middle of these bright melodies. 

Speed frequently blows in a way that sounds like he's squeezing his reed hard, letting only the minimum amount of air get through. The rugged sound recalls Dewey Redman's blend of singing and blowing on albums like Ornette at 12 or the tenor player's own "Walls-Bridges." But Speed also tightens up on Hemphill's funky "Body."

Speaking of funky, Anderson and King know how to groove on this music, when to hold back and when to lock in with the horns on the themes. Known once for interpreting other people with tongue somewhat in cheek, they take this music seriously, even as they sound like they're having a blast. For a group that doesn't believe in rehearsing, the members of Broken Shadows really know the contours of this music. Only "Una Muy Bonita" seemed to miss a bit of the groove of the original.

If this was supposed to be a casual gathering of friends, the players came with a set of discipline. Playing works by the masters can have a stigmatizing effect when you're committed to original music,  ("I really like it when you play something I know"). The quartet is careful to keep the focus on the original without resorting to fawning over the work (a pitfall with many tributes) while simultaneously revealing their own personalities. It leaves you with a greater appreciation of both the source material and the people who played it. Maybe that's what Branford appreciated about it.

CD Review: Roy Brooks - Understanding

Roy Brooks
Understanding

(Reel to Real) www.cellarlive.com

In an interview with Cecil McBee that appears in the Understanding booklet, the bassist says that the group on this album - much like the similar lineup on the 1972 release The Free Slave - was not a regular working band. It was a simply a group of musicians which drummer Roy Brooks assembled and rehearsed for specific gigs, in this case for Baltimore's Left Bank Jazz Society at the Famous Ballroom. This tidbit of information says a great deal about the music on these two discs because the quintet works like a well-established group that knows how to lift each other up at the right moments. 

Brooks might be best known as a consummate sidemen. He appeared most notably on several Horace Silver albums (including Song for My Father, where drumming duties were split between him and Pittsburgh's Roger Humphries), Yusef Lateef and Chet Baker, to name just a few. Sadly, his name came up in more recent years due to his bout with mental illness. He passed in 2005 at the age of 67.

Understanding serves as an appropriate title for this two-disc set (which was also a three-album set released on Record Store Day) since it provides a deeper appreciation of Brooks' creativity. Not only was he a powerhouse behind the drum kit, the set's myriad interviews with McBee, saxophonist Carlos Garnett and others talk about his various project around Detroit, which could be compared to multi-discipline events staged by AACM members in Chicago.

Then there is the music. Two discs contain just six tracks, in which Brooks, Garnett, trumpeter Woody Shaw and pianist Harold Mabern dig into the music, exploring all facets without worrying about how long they take to do that. It wasn't a recording session, where time was a consideration. (The fact that it was taped, not withstanding.) First and foremost, this was a gig for people who came to hear serious explorations. 

The performance took place in November 1970, a few months after The Free Slave was recorded at the same place, at a time when jazz was being pulled in different directions. For the most part, the Brooks quintet plays it straight, guided by chord changes, though there are moments when free fire also seeps into the music. This comes most notably from Garnett's tenor, which frequently explores some low register overtones, influenced by Coltrane but using the ideas in his own rhythmical way. The group stretches his "Taurus Woman" out the longest, delivering 32 minutes of passion. Built largely on a vamp, the tune has a turnaround straight out of hard bop that comes just frequently enough to give it a hook and the right amount of contrast. Like most of the set, Harold Mabern's driving piano work really pushes the band.

Woody Shaw, at the time a month shy of his 26th birthday, plays with astounding clarity and ideas throughout the set, His "Zoltan," previously recorded with organist Larry Young on Unity, is played with extra speed and aggression. The album's opening track "Prelude to Understanding" forgoes any opening theme. Instead the group (sans Garnett) explores a modal vamp. Another 21-miute track, 11 of them find Shaw holding the floor, whose his use of vast intervals and melodies is nothing short of jaw-dropping. 

McBee (whose name Brooks pronounces "MAC-bee" rather than "mick-BEE," by the way) is a bit low in the mix, but when some of his careening lines cut through, it indicates how memorable this evening must have been. (Further proving how rewarding "just another night" must have been when a group like this got together.) Brooks' accompaniment to the other soloist sounds exciting enough but he also gets plenty of room to stretch out once everyone else has said their pieces. 

As time goes on, more recordings from the Left Band Jazz Society are being released, and each one has the high level of quality, showing what was possible on a Sunday afternoon in Baltimore. In retrospect, it shows how important gatherings like this were too. This one also shines a much-needed light on an artist whose commitment as a band leader might not be as recognized as other parts of his life. Dig in.