Joe Morris, William Parker, Gerald Cleaver - Altitude (Aum Fidelity, 2012) ****½

By Paul Acquaro

Perhaps one reason I've been enjoying Altitude so much is that I suffered through the sweltering night at The Stone when AUM Fidelity captured the event. I kind of feel like I earned (and purchased) the recording.

It was hot that night, which is corroborated by Joe Morris in his liner notes. But more so, the music was sizzling. As I listen repeatedly to the recording, I'm reminded of much I didn't realize was happening in the first place. Passages like the somewhat legato section ten minutes into 'Thermosphere' had completely slipped my jumbled memory of the event. When Morris is on electric guitar, I've come to expect hypnotically winding staccato runs, however this has wonderfully confounded my assumption. And I'm pleased to say that I'm both correct and corrected repeatedly throughout this recording.

'Troposphere', which follows a long rhythmic and textural bass solo, begins with what I can really only describe as a 'micro groove' between bassist William Parker and drummer Gerald Cleaver, with Morris adding a subdued lead. It's Parker who shines with his thumping bass line, while Cleaver fills in the shadows with cross hatching. The music builds slowly, Morris's lines growing stronger, the rhythm gaining in intensity, until hitting full stride half way into the ten minute improv.

Equally as satisfying is Parker's extended solo in 'Mesosphere'. His vocalizations along with his rhythmic bass solo is a mesmerizing combination. He exudes an earthy aura, warm, inviting and adventurous. This happened during the second set, which was just too darn hot to stick around for.

The album is an impressive document of the night, capturing surprising moments, inspired flights, and the general beauty of the improvised set.

Totally recommended.

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Terje Rypdal - Odyssey - In Studio & In Concert (ECM, 2012)

By Stef   

In 1994, when ECM re-released Terje Rypdal's double LP "Odyssey" from 1975 without the twenty-three minute long "Rolling Stone", which ended the original version, I thought Manfred Eicher had gone crazy or senile, or both. He had taken away one of the best pieces of the album. A long track, sure enough, with some Mahavishnu references at the beginning and throughout, then turning into a mid-tempo psychedelic piece, propulsed forward by a simple and repetitive guitar riff, and some powerful yet subtle drumming. A perfect apotheosis and grand closer for this great album.

The band consists of Terje Rypdal on electric guitar, soprano sax and synth, Brynjolf Blix on organ, Svein Christiansen on drums, Sveinung Hovensjø on 4- and 6-string bass, and Torbjørn Sunde on trombone.

The album starts with the ominous "Darkness Falls", and it creates a universe of absolute desolation and icy coldness, incredible pace and some rough moments of drama that will keep the listener spell-bound till the very last notes of the now recuperated last track.

Like his Norwegian compatriot Jan Garbarek did on the saxophone, Rypdal managed to create one of the most recognizable sounds on his instrument : an icy, very expansive tone, full of reverb, in a way incredibly romantic because full of passion, but then of the kind that abhores intimacy but embraces distant horizons.

The re-release comes as a 3-CD box, adding "Unfinished Highballs", a recently unearthed 1976 radio recording of the quartet with the Swedish Radio Jazz Group, the station's big band. "Unfinished Highballs" is interesting, a kind of early precursor to "Crime Scene", and a total contradiction with Odyssey. The lengthy, merciless and expansive icyness of Odyssey is now replaced by dense, varied and warm horn tones, somewhat outdated synth sounds, and an overall musical quality that is hesitating between real big band and kitsch, somewhat failing in its ambition. There is no real tension, less sense of drama, no big surprises, no radical vision. Nice to have, though not essential.

But to have the integral Odyssey back on one CD, is a major happening.

Old men, enjoy!


 

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John Zorn – Nosferatu (Tzadik, 2012) ***

By Troy Dostert

Yet another release in the mind-bogglingly prolific output of John Zorn, who shows no signs of slowing down as he continues to release a wide range of recordings drawing on an even wider range of influences and styles.  This one’s based upon a recent Polish dramatic production of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, for which Zorn composed and performed sixteen pieces, with the help of Rob Burger (piano, organ), Bill Laswell (bass), and Kevin Norton (percussion, drums, and vibraphone).  In addition to alto sax, Zorn also makes his contributions felt on piano, Fender Rhodes, assorted electronics, and some really creepy breathing on “Nosferatu,” about halfway through the record.

Perhaps the most surprising thing about this release is its restraint.  For music written to accompany a production of Dracula, most of the tracks possess a pensive, almost tranquil quality, heavily relying on flowing keyboard passages (often supplemented by Norton’s vibes) that tend to put the listener in a relaxed, rather than frightened, state of mind.  That’s not to say that there are no moments of intensity and aggression here; Zorn’s trademark alto squeal is at the core of “The Battle of Good and Evil,” as Zorn lets loose over a bracing undercurrent of heavy noise and Norton’s blistering drumming.  When Zorn comes screeching in at around the one-minute mark, we’re reminded of how forceful Zorn’s alto playing can be when he really wants to wail.

But again, for the most part Zorn eschews the edgier side of his vision here, choosing instead to develop an atmosphere of foreboding through soundpieces that rely more on the building of subtle tension rather than visceral shock.  And while Zorn could certainly be commended for taking a less-obvious approach toward his macabre subject matter, the overall effect is unfortunately less than compelling.  Perhaps for its original purpose as a musical accompaniment to a stage production, Zorn’s score was more successful; but for a stand-alone product, the recording doesn’t do enough to sustain interest over repeated listenings. 

Especially for readers of this blog, some of Zorn’s pieces here are going to sound rather lightweight—as for instance the somewhat treacly piano/vibe tracks “Mina,” or “Jonathan Harker,” which wouldn’t be out of place on a New Age piano recording, and feature simple piano themes complemented by rather lackluster vibe accompaniment.  The tracks that do grab the listener, such as the aforementioned “Battle of Good and Evil,” or “The Stalking,” a dub-influenced track featuring an infectious Laswell bass line which has a nice groove to it, don’t do enough to outweigh the remainder, which are mostly forgettable and repetitious keyboard-based musings.  It might have worked well on the stage, but taken by itself, this one’s for Zorn completists only.


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Benoît Delbecq – Crescendo in Duke (Nato, 2012) ***½

By Dan Sorrells

Crescendo in Duke is jarring. Not in a ridiculous or repellant kind of way— after all, it’s a collection of Duke Ellington compositions. Safe enough. It’s of the high quality usually associated with French pianist Benoît Delbecq, too.  It’s just that it’s so straight-ahead, it’s all but unrecognizable as a Delbecq album.

Delbecq’s made a name for himself with his prepared piano, creating a catalog of unorthodox jazz that can easily silence any grumblings about the gimmicky nature of mucking around the inside of a piano. But aside from a loop that underlies “Portrait of Wellman Braud” and a quirky take on “Whirlpool,” there’s not much of that here. Just the usual big band business with a more modestly-sized band.

Well, two bands to be exact. Delbecq fashioned two groups to tackle his Ellington homage: a small group in Meudon featuring Tony Coe, Tony Malaby, and Antonin Tri-Hoang on reeds, and the excellent rhythm section of bassist Jean-Jacques Avenel and drummer Steve Argüelles, and a Minneapolis-based group with the Hornheads quintet, bassist Yohannes Tona, and drummer Michael Bland. The French cast doesn’t veer far from the lead sheets, as though they’re lightly treading on sacred ground. The album’s climax, Ellington’s lengthy “Diminuendo and Crescendo in Blue,” is an enjoyable, competent reading, but it seems as though the group is consciously avoiding any comparisons to what went down in Newport in ’56.  The American group is loud and funky, and the strutting rhythm section breathes new life into some of these pieces, most notably opener “Bateau.” Yet somehow, the drums in “Blue Pepper” still aren’t as funky Rufus Jones’ on Far East Suite, and the woozy take on “Acht O’Clock Rock” has none of the hard-to-place urgency of the original.

If I sound dour about Crescendo in Duke, it’s not because it’s a poor showing. The musicianship is as sterling as the line-up suggests. It’s just that the sound is so polished, so sweetly referential of Ellington’s classics, it becomes hard to see the edgy excitement that’s a hallmark of these musicians’ own projects. Still, there’s plenty to settle in with: a great rendition of the full “Goutlas Suite,” pared-down versions of “The Spring” and “Fontainebleau Forest,” and a salsa-tinged trio take of “Tina.” Every musician was inspired by some great music-maker before them, and Ellington’s influence is resounding even in the 21st century. Crescendo in Duke is a nice tip-of-the-hat. But after a quick look back, now it’s time to keep pushing forward.

Check out the Meudon group in the studio in this “behind the scenes” video:




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Glacial - On Jones Beach (Three Lobed Recordings, 2012) ****

By Martin Schray

One of my favorite documentaries is Werner Herzog’s Encounters at the Edge of the World, in which he tries to find out why people want to live in a polar station in the Antarctic. Herzog’s camera team (which also includes guitarist and professional diver Henry Kaiser) shoots pictures of incredible and unseen beauty, for example when they accompany divers exploring the water world under the ice or when they listen to the almost inorganic amazing sounds seals produce. In a very poetic scene two physiologists lie down on the ground and press their ears against the ice to listen to the music this world creates. What they hear must be something like Glacial’s On Jones Beach.

As unusual as the nature in the film is the line-up of this group. It consists of Sonic Youth’s Lee Ranaldo on guitars, The Necks’ Tony Buck on drums and David Watson on bagpipes, an instrument you usually do not find in free jazz or free rock contexts. But this is not the only surprise of this album, which consists of the single titular piece that runs almost 48 minutes.

The whole thing starts with a single chord that sounds like a foghorn, but it is an instable, shaky, and quivering one. Ranaldo cross-fades this tone into a long feedback before he uses heavy distortion and shrill sounds. Building up layer after layer of massive sounds you can almost visualize this psychedelic monolith which at the same time sounds like tender echoes from a distant Antarctic desert. The music is already full of energy here, but it seems to be really slow moving – like a glacier (to fulfill every stereotype you might have had considering the band’s name). In the following the band builds up an improvisation based on alternative noise rock riffs, drug-infused ambient drones, Glenn Branca minimalism, and free jazz madness, interrupted by a wind-chimish and lyrical drum solo for which Buck uses cymbals, bells and pieces of metal only. If you close your eyes you can actually see snowflakes, icicles, snow grains, and icy winds. The trio rides out on an ice storm of flageolets, single harsh guitar notes and bagpipe loops and after all this expressionist mash-up you can find redemption in clarity.

Even if you are somehow prejudiced against bagpipes you should give the album a try because you will definitely not find anything that has to do with Scottish traditional music clichés. Watson makes this instrument rather sound like a buzz saw. It reminds me even of Evan Parker using his legendary circular breathing technique (especially on the bonus tracks). It is one of the major achievements of this album that Watson has established this majestic instrument in an improv context.

The LP version consists of this track only but it offers a download as well, including three shorter live tracks. “On Friuli Island 1” and “On Friuli Island 2” are taken from recordings made at the Mimi Festival in France in 2003. “On Norfolk Street” was recorded in April 2006, at the legendary Tonic Club in New York City. The tracks are more contemplative in general, but still they have this raw dissonant power, they seem to be great finger exercises for the longer track.

On Jones Beach is published as an edition of 750 copies and is pressed on 140 gram vinyl.

You can buy it from the label.


© stef

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Steve Lacy: The Sun and Estilhacos

The Sun (Emanem, 2012) ****½     

Estilhacos: Live in Lisbon (Clean Feed, 2012) *****

 

By Tom Burris

The material on these two discs was recorded between the years of 1967 and 1973, and presents an astonishing range of successful experiments in various small group settings. The Sun is a compilation of studio recordings that features quintet sets, electro-acoustic free improvisations, and Lao Tzu and Buckminster Fuller poems set to the quintet’s collective skronk and roll in solemn protest of the Vietnam war. Estilhacos is a 1972 concert performance that is an absolute masterpiece of collective improvisation, easily the equal - if not the better - of any free jazz warhorse you care to mention. I will rave like a complete lunatic about this later.

The Sun opens with Irene Aebi singing scientist Buckminster Fuller’s “The Historical Attempt by Man to Convert his Evolution from a Subjective to an Objective Process” on the title track in a style that immediately made me think of June Tyson. It’s hard to avoid, as here is “the sun,” barely controlled collective improvisation bubbling underneath, and the singer is declaring statements in a dramatic monotone voice from a poem whose main statement is summed up in the lines “intellect may write every equation of physical behavior, but no physical or abstract equation will ever encompass intellect.” It’s Ra territory – at least on the surface; and like the Arkestra, Lacy’s quintet lays out a unified blanket of sound, the threads of which never cease moving.

“The Gap” follows with Karl Berger’s vibes paving the way to an onslaught of sound with trumpeter Enrico Rava taking over the lead after just a couple of minutes. The piece changes directions quickly throughout, slowing down and becoming sparse one minute, then turning spastic and dense the next. Aldo Romano plays a quick drum solo before Berger steps in and signals another slow and sparse conversation with the rest of the band members. This track runs headlong into “The Way,” a short vehicle for Berger which not only serves as a coda for “The Gap,” but also is a perfect intro to the next track, “The Way (Take 5?)”. Not an easy trick, considering that the next track was recorded by a different group in a completely different setting. Sure, the compilation has a unified anti-war theme (or anti-Vietnam-war, to put it in its original context) – but the attention to detail and excellent track sequencing are what make this a real album. (The liner notes are killer too.)

The next four tracks feature Lacy & Aebi with Richard Teitelbaum on synthesizer. Aebi sings from Lao Tzu’s “The Way of Life” while Lacy and Teitelbaum duel underneath. Teitelbaum works around the limitations of the first Moog synthesizer ingeniously, providing support and, when necessary, counterpoint to Lacy’s lines. Teitelbaum plays long passages of synth bubbles and spaceship engine sounds, again making the Sun Ra comparison inevitable. Later, on “Improvisation, Number Due,” Lacy makes successful attempts to meet the synth on its own wavelength; making it difficult to remember that this is an electro-acoustic collaboration.

“Chinese Food” contains more from “The Way of Life” and is evidently Teitelbaum’s first ever attempt at improvising on the synthesizer or anything else. Appropriately enough, he plays passages that sound like machine guns, bombs, helicopters, etc. On this track Aebi sounds like a strange hybrid of Abbey Lincoln and Dagmar Krause, as ridiculous as that sounds… This is also the earliest track on the album & was the first piece of protest music Lacy and Aebi put together.

“The Woe” is a long piece in four parts and is the real centerpiece here. It begins with “The Wax,” which is sort of a free jazz march, echoing Albert Ayler and the early Brotzmann trio. “The Wage” begins with a tape recording of war sounds. It quickly becomes apparent that the band is at war – with the recording, standing together and fighting the barrage of military noise with improvisational unity. This is no time for solos; the musicians stay together, contributing everything they can as a means of survival – empathizing with their brothers in the jungles of Vietnam. I don’t think I’m reading too much into it when I say that their blasts are also cries for their brothers and sisters on all sides of the conflict. The universal compassion is as evident as the sense of injustice and feelings of anger and rage. It’s an ugly, beautiful monster of astonishing emotional complexity.

Estilhacos is an absolute Mount Olympus of volcanic proportions. As in “The Wage,” it begins with a recording – this time of a man’s voice. The group begins playing an angular figure. A woman’s voice rises in the right channel. Again the band becomes unified, as if being attacked by the recording. The track ends with the same angular figure that was played at the beginning. This is the preface for everything that will follow.

“Chips” starts off in the same manner, as an angular melodic figure repeats and gradually distorts until glorious calamity ensues. The only misstep is that someone (Aebi, I think) blows and sucks on a harmonica in a way that sounds like a 10-year-old making a mockery of the proceedings. Obviously, one man’s music is another man’s noise – and I feel more than a little hypocritical drawing the line at a harmonica’s presence – but everyone has his preferences, right? Thankfully it doesn’t go on for too long and eventually the clamor becomes spacious, with the collective sounds approximating a walk through the jungle(s of Vietnam?).

“No Baby” opens with another angular line that sounds like the cadence of the title. Aebi saws mercilessly away at the cello in one channel while Lacy has a soprano conniption in the other. Noel McGhee and Kent Carter keep the whole thing in continuous momentum creating wave after wave of perfection for Lacy and Aebi to ride. Then “no baby” is sounded again to signal the end of the piece.

Long single note drones from the bass and cello introduce “The Highway,” before a two-note melody line from Steve Potts enters, with Lacy shrieking a one-note Morse code signal above. Crashing cymbals enter and Potts starts playing counterpoint around Lacy, who refuses to give up that note. The tension is incredible as one car horn after another screams by. Finally it breaks with the alto rising out of the traffic. Six minutes in, the music is so intense that the crowd erupts in applause. Another minute later, they cheer again. And again! As the band rises to unfathomable heights, the soprano and alto merge and collide with such intensity that for a few seconds you’d swear you were listening to an electric guitar feeding back. The crowd erupts. You can hear the normally conservative and reserved Lacy’s voice actually beaming as he hastily introduces the band and thanks the audience. Some of the band members aren’t quite sure if they’re finished yet as they continue to crash, bang and skronk randomly behind him, as if they’re searching through the wreckage for salvageable parts. Good Lord, this is how it’s done!

Available from Instant Jazz

© stef

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Joe McPhee - Ibsen's Ghosts (Not Two, 2012) ****½

By Alfie Cooke

Has Joe McPhee ever made an album that didn't warrant a good many repeated hearings? Probably not. At least in all of his recordings that I've come across, from the rare-as-hens-teeth Hat Hut albums to his work with Pauline Oliveros' deep listening band, there is nothing that I've put on the shelf and never returned to. And it's good to say that this release is no exception. So although there is always the danger that, when we start to revere our heroes and give them god-like status, sooner or later comes the moment of disappointment. Joe McPhee is doing a great job of bucking the trend.

The musicians he works with, whether top drawer players or relative unknowns, are always superb. On this album he links up with three compatriots from the Chicago-Scandanavia axis that has become one of the most important forces in improvised music. Jeb Bishop, ex-luminary of the Vandermark 5 and trombonist of choice within Peter Brotzmann's Chicago Tentet, joins McPhee on the front-line with a rhythm section comprised of Ingebrigt Haker-Flaten on bass and Michael Zerang on drums. Moving away from his usual multi-instrumental approach and sticking to tenor saxophone, the range suggests a sound somewhere between Mulligan-Brookmeyer and Lacy-Rudd. But this is something new.

Both McPhee and Bishop have played far on the outside but while these pieces are framed as improvisations between the four participants, neither strays too far from their lyrical side. The opener begins with a mournful trombone laying out thematic concepts. McPhee joins in the mourning against Zerang's slow rumble. Then it all gives way, Bishop becoming increasingly percussive, as if trying to match the drummer's off-kilter rhythms before this in turn disintegrates and McPhee, his tone reminding me of Charles Tyler, comes storming in. And so it continues, each track revealing just why they are regarded as amongst the greatest improvisers currently performing.

So, is this top drawer McPhee that you need in your collection  straight-away or something less essential that you can pick up further down the line? If you're reading the review solely on the basis of McPhee's presence, then these recordings, while great, are not essential. But if you take the  quality of the other musicians into account - and certainly any revelation of Jeb Bishop in such an intimate setting is worth investigation - then this should be one to locate at the earliest opportunity.

Can be purchased on Instantjazz.  

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Emile Parisien Quartet – Chien Guêpe (Laborie Jazz, 2012) ****½

By Steve Mossberg

When looking back on musical history, it’s easy to pluck out the figures that herald big stylistic changes and shatter traditions. While one might freely cite innovators like Duke Ellington, Miles Davis, and Ornette Coleman as key players in the development of jazz, they must be careful not to miss the great artists who contribute significant, if not sea-changing work to the canon.  For every John Coltrane, there’s also a Wayne Shorter, whose deeply personal and unique contributions may not have steered the course of musical history, but brought rich new dimensions to it as it turned.

French saxophonist Emile Parisien is not a name that is that shows up much when talking about the current generation of left-of-center composer/players, but his music is the kind that has never made headlines. His 2012 recording “Chien Guêpe” is a perfect example of a potentially overlooked gem that shouldn’t be allowed to slip too far under the radar.

On “Chien Guêpe,” Parisien leads the same quartet that has recorded with him since 2006’s “Au Revoir porc-épic.” Pianist Julien Touéry, bassist Yvan Gélugne, and drummer Sylvain Darrifourcq, always sound totally comfortable performing Parisien’s amalgam of 20th-century classical music, punk rock, and inside/outside jazz. The music is sprawling, with carefully written material spanning the entire duration of some nearly fifteen-minute tracks. This is not to say that there’s any lack of legroom or that the band can’t swing or improvise freely, but Parisien’s compositions have a solid architecture, in which the group’s versatility and flawless technique are absolutely essential.

As a composer, Parisien possesses a uniquely dark sense of humor. The album’s opening track,  “Dieu m'a Brossé Les Dents” (God Has Brushed My Teeth) begins in a frightening clatter of cymbal scraping, prepared zither, and inside-the-piano playing from Touéry. Funereal themes turn into a somber druidic march over which Parisien plays a more and more frantic melodic figure. The band dissolves at will into open improv, in which the leader is the featured soloist. On alto, Parisien calls to mind Rudresh Mahanthappa with his warm vibrato and Steve Lehman with his angularity, but his melodic approach is more deliberate and slow-building, and can erupt 60s-style blues calls and wails when pushed to the edge.

On “Chocolat-Citron” Parisien switches to his more familiar soprano, an instrument on which he has few peers. The tune is fast and complex, teetering between abstract composition and collective chaos but always grooving very hard. Darrifourq is insistent and inventive with his breakbeats, offering deep rhythmic support while evoking the playful sounds of a toy drumset.

“Bonjour Crépi” is a more traditional free-bop composition, and Touéry delivers a cascading solo of single notes with machine gun speed and right-hook force. Gélugne shows a marvelously elastic sense of time while walking bass under him and the leader. After the piece crashes out and rides quietly into “Chauve et Courtois” on a thin drone from the prepared zither, he provides a pensive monk-like melodic line while his bandmates shriek, scrape and jangle out a wild landscape around him.

If there were a weak point on “Chien Guêpe” it would be its short length and consequently limited number of Parisien compositions to enjoy. Indeed, the prior recordings by the quartet contain a bit more material, so for devoted listeners, this one may seem to brief.  For those who haven’t heard Parisien yet as a leader, this is an album like they’ve never heard before.

Highly Recommended.


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Raoul Björkenheim, Anders Nilsson, Gerald Cleaver - Kalabalik (DMG,2012) *****

By Paul Acquaro

I had barely received the email announcing the release of Kalabalik and I was immediately trudging through the depths of NYC to the Downtown Music Gallery in search of it.

A man possesed, no doubt.

But not without good reason. I was at the first two shows that brought the Scandinavian guitarists together in NYC that previous winter and had fond memories of both events. Equally exploratory and hard hitting, theirs was a sound I longed to hear again.

Now, with disc in hand and sound flowing through the ears, I must say that the post production work on this is fantastic. The live sound was of course just fine as the trio of Raoul Björkenheim, Anders Nilsson and Gerald Cleaver got together as a unit for the first time; however, this release has mixed the in-store concert performance to sonic perfection.

From the initial crunch of the guitars and snap of the percussion, the listener is in for a treat. The two guitarists play solid body electrics and it's a raw unfettered sound that rings out as the two trade lead and rhythm places in their free jazz/rock exploration.

We can start anywhere really, but the interaction is not just between the two guitarists, they also mesh expertly with Cleaver's percussion. Listening to just the CD one would suspect that the songs were planned out in detail.

The first song, 'Spiraling Skies', is a piece that incorporates bits of psychedelic rock, tough rhythms and spacious textural excursions. Cleaver's drums are a constant, giving an extra pulse for the guitarists to work off, but it's a three way conversation, each one listening, reacting, provoking, agreeing and disagreeing.

Later in the program, 'Robot Tango' begins with a free exchange of processed tones and snarling snippets of melody. It rapidly coalesces into a lurching groove, hewing close to a fragmented metallic theme.

'Incarnation' finds the group starting off tentatively, the guitarists prodding the sonic-scape but soon growing ever more dense, invoking a sound not unlike the buzzing bees of Miles Davis' 'Go Ahead John'. In fact, that may be why I like this album so much, it draws from the deep well of primordial brew of inspiration that still emanates from Davis' 70's output.

'Saga Raga' is the closest they come to a contemplative space. Nilsson's slide working around Björkenheim's arpeggios. Cleaver lays low, providing a delicate underlayment, as the group slowly gels into a spacious groove. This spaciousness extends to the end if the album, the last song 'Descension' an evocative ballad, closing the set with a cathartic sigh.

The music captured here is delightful and rendered crystal clear. I come back to the recorded sound because the tonality of the instruments is so tight that from the crunch of the amps to the splash of the high hat, it all blends so well.

If you too find your way to the Downtown Music Gallery, duck as you head down the stairs.

© stef

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Sebastian Lexer, Seymour Wright, Eddie Prévost – Impossibility in its Purest Form (Matchless, 2012)

By Dan Sorrells

Dragging philosophy and theory into album reviews can be the ultimate obscurist tactic, a way to side-step the difficulties of discussing the actual substance of music. But there can be occasions for pondering theory, especially when it deeply informs the way a musician approaches their work.

It wouldn’t be unreasonable to consider Eddie Prévost an “academic” musician, and he often keeps like-minded company. He’s a lucid thinker when it comes to experimental music, and participants in his workshops over the years have also developed an interest in the broader philosophical implications of their music. One of these, pianist Sebastian Lexer, keeps returning to political philosopher Giorgio Agamben in a journal article on improvisation: “the greatness of human potentiality is measured in the abyss of human impotentiality.” Or, what separates us from the beasts is our ability to not do, to be free not to actualize any given potential, to choose the path that isn’t inevitable.

Improvisation is a super-concentrated series of potentialities, and choosing to act or not to act on different possible responses is the improviser’s most basic preoccupation. (Really, the human being’s most basic preoccupation!) As visceral as improvisation often seems, it’s a considered process, not mere instinctual reaction. These decisions are shaped by many factors, some musicians aren’t even conscious of. But potentials are artificially limited in a lot of music. As Prévost hints at in the liner notes of Impossibility in its Purest Form, a musician’s range of choices can be dramatically collapsed by the notes on a page or the demands of a chord progression. If it seems like I’m rambling, bear with me—this is all important when faced with the music on Impossibility. Prévost makes his point plainly: this is not music about what should happen next, it’s music about what could happen next. It’s a small bit of semantics that opens up the incredible gulf between what you find in popular music and the almost alien-sounding investigations of Impossibility.

So am I being a bit of a hypocrite, avoiding the music by talking about the theory? Not purposely. Impossibility is an album that’s focused on pitch relationships, resonance (both inside of instruments and the performance space), and the fractured harmonics of feedback. Prévost sticks to bowed cymbals, while saxophonist Seymour Wright summons both grating, granulated noise and tones that are inhumanly pure, like sine waves.  As abstract as these two can sound, the real odd-man-out is Lexer, with his mind-bending piano+ system. Lexer has utterly reinvented the piano as an improvising instrument, outfitting it with a variety of strategically-placed microphones and using various elements of its acoustic sound—pitch, volume, sound density, etc.—as triggers in a sensitive, responsive computer program that he wrote himself. The results are neither piano nor electronics, a very mysterious, organic soundworld that’s intimately tied to the physical act of playing piano, even though the source material is often hopelessly obscured. There’s really little else like it on the scene. 

The album seamlessly morphs through all of the duo combinations before arriving at a lengthy conclusion with all three players. As the music progresses, these improvisers seem acutely aware of the philosophies they discuss in their writings. Not that they’re making a concerted effort to sound like the actualization of some theory, or that they’re trying not to sound like a particular style of music—only that they all have internalized a certain stance towards music that works very much against the grain of what is familiar. It’s music that masks reference, gesture, instrumentation. It sounds alien not because it’s mechanical and inhuman, but precisely because it embodies the very human ability to shed the forces and influences that point back to humanity itself. There’s no paradox here; we can both select and reject our own potential paths.

Impossibility in its Purest Form is a battle against knee-jerk reaction, against cliché, against rote repetition and imitation. In his article, Lexer points out that there’s a certain integrity that goes along with the evaluative process of free improvisation. Moment to moment, there’s a responsibility to at least consider what’s novel or unfamiliar.

Is Impossibility tough to listen to at times? There’s no doubt about that. There are no quick payoffs here. Instead, there are many layers to puzzle over, and lots of questions raised by different improvisational decisions. Our potentials are often rushed, guided, even forced into easy channels by cultural and social conventions. What happens if we try to stave off some of this process, to give a split-second’s thought to “what’s next” and whether it’s somewhere we’ve already been before?

Impossibility in its Purest Form makes an honest attempt at tackling such questions. It’s not as ponderous as it seems. Really, it’s searching, exciting stuff.

Read Lexer’s article on piano+ here. Eddie Prevost’s liner notes can also be found on the Matchless website.

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