Revisiting some of the East vs. West Coast jazz criticism of the 1950s, I was reminded of several toss-offs I’ve read in the past 20 years about players in what Vijay Iyer termed New Brooklyn Complexity, players like Iyer himself, Rudresh Mahanthappa, Tyshawn Sorey, Steve Lehman, Matt Mitchell, Kate Gentile, Anna Webber, Miles Okazaki—for shorthand, maybe, the Pi Records crew, the post-Threadgill, post-Berne, post-Steve Coleman artists who really pushed the boat out in terms of composing dense, complex melodies and counterpoint, who sometimes even dared to appear at clubs and bars with sheet music.
In both cases, West Coast (specifically LA circa late 1950s to early 1960s) and Brooklyn (of all-time, probably), what you have are players who lean heavily into composing and arranging duties, who delight in new sounds and rhythms, but who nevertheless bring to bear all the bluesy, swinging heart of any group playing the same ol’ heads and changes. The NBC scene was often baptized on the bandstand, occasionally trial-running high-wire ideas live in person, much to the consternation and finger-wagging of more than a few earthbound critics. And so, last year, when pianist Matt Mitchell dropped a double-album of solo piano, Illimitable, many of us were rightfully knocked out. Over nearly two hours of improvised piano that effectively shut down any lingering criticism or doubt that Mitchell can swing like the all-time best. As a follow-up, Mitchell’s comparatively brief (only 55 minutes!) Sacrosanctity furthers what he has accomplished on piano, as he again delivers a moving, impressive improvised suite.
If anything, I find Sacrosanctity sounds like a true follow-up rather than some kind of Janus-faced twin—this despite the fact that the two albums were recorded on the same day, at the same studio. In truth, I have no idea what order the two sets occurred in, but opener “gnomic” plays like an interregnum, holding the listener in suspension before the gently roaming “hibernaculum.” Displaying his gift for patiently building drama, Mitchell unravels idea after idea, like a series of brief anecdotes linking each section. This was the genius on display on last year’s “unwonted,” and in its slightly contained state here, the strengths are amplified. The mid-album stretch of “glyph scrying,” “skein tracing,” and “thither” go to some intriguing lengths, Mitchell’s two-handed playing evoking at times Jarrett and Taborn (piano and electronics duet when?), while at other times bringing to mind the exceptional forward-thinking piano of Hildegard Kleeb, the great interpreter of Braxton, Lucier, Feldman, and Wolff. As an intentional and sensitive player, Mitchell is subtly giving audiences and critics an opportunity hear him outside the confines of NBC. And isn’t that the real complexity all artists strive for, to go beyond the artificial bounds we place on them?
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