I have been a massive Tim Berne fan for years now. I’ve seen him play a handful of times and his composition technique has been a big influence on my own. He might be considered an auteur – you instantly know if you’re listening to a Berne album – and yet each of his ensembles manages to present something fresh.
This year Berne has released a couple of archive recordings from his band Snakeoil, with Matt Mitchell on piano (of course), Oscar Noriega on Bb and bass clarinets and Ches Smith on percussion. Both were briefly reviewed last month by Gary Chapin, who hits the nail on the head by describing Snakeoil as ‘knotty’. The complicated lines weave carefully in and out, and the compositions move between the compositional cells that have become so synonymous with his music. The complexity of the compositions gives this music a lot of momentum. The album was recorded at ‘Carnegie Hell’ (sic) in 2012, so it is relatively early Snakeoil material, but these musicians exude nothing but ease with each other.
The first track, Son of Socket, is the longest track at just under 29 minutes. It showcases some excellent interplay between all four musicians, who merge seamlessly between the cells and the improvisations, and about halfway through the intensity reaches a brief peak that is wonderfully furious, before opening up some space out of which another knotty compositional cell suddenly bursts forth. These kind of moments show the telepathic connection this ensemble has developed. But I think the band is at its strongest when it emerges from the improvisational chaos and settles deep into a groove, as it does towards the end of the track, when Smith swings hard whilst the other instrumentalists get their fingers round the difficult figures. Holding together improvisational chaos with avant-garde swing is what makes Snakeoil such an enjoyable group to listen to.
The second track, Spectacle, is the shortest of three tracks, and is the sparsest as well. It features Smith on various percussion instruments and then Noriega and Mitchell in a subtle and intimate duo together. When Berne finally swoops in, with Mitchell and Noriega introducing the next cell underneath, it all magically comes together, in a really special moment on the record.
The amusingly titled Sketches of Pain rounds off the album on a real high. Texturally, it is the most inventive of the three tracks, with Mitchell playing with a force that wasn’t so evident on the first two tracks, and Smith really pushing the band forward with his driving rhythms. There is also a good solo bass clarinet improvisation from Noriega, although he never quite reaches the same extremes that Berne manages across the record. The track has a delicate touch that demonstrates the full scope of Snakeoil’s musical range, and the last few minutes are a touching conclusion to an otherwise raucous record. This album really does manage to show all of Snakeoil, from their most complex and intense to their most sensitive and beautiful.
My only complaint about the record is that the piano sits a little too low in the mix. I was having to strain to hear Mitchell’s playing and the recording felt slightly hollowed out at points as a result. So I would recommend it for Berne fans rather than newcomers to his music; if you want an introduction to Snakeoil, I suggest The Fantastic Mrs 10 (Intakt Records, 2020). But as always with Berne, every subsequent listen of this record provides more and more to get your teeth into, and there really are some fantastic moments of inspiration throughout.
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