September 26th, 2007
Two New Articles Out Now
I am pleased to announce that I have articles in the October 2007 issues of both Down Beat and JazzTimes magazines.
As you may recall, back in May/June of this year there was a substantial amount of controversy about African-American representation in certain parts of the Bay Area jazz scene. Down Beat invited me to explore this war of words and the underlying tensions that created it. You can find my results on pp.15-16 under the headline “Not Just Black and White: Bay Area Controversies Renew Debate on Jazz and Race, Economics”. This was an extremely difficult piece to write, as emotions were still pretty raw at the time I went out looking for interviews. But the response I’ve received so far has been positive. I invite you to read the article and submit your own comments on this important issue.
Meanwhile, JazzTimes is running a feature I wrote on trumpeter Sean Jones, who was a hard man to track down but a delight to talk to, despite the whopping phone bill (don’t ask). You can find that on pp. 46-49.
Both magazines are on newsstands now.
September 23rd, 2007
Monterey Notebook: Ornette
Sunday, 2:45 p.m. – The Arena
The sound of Ornette Coleman’s saxophone flares from the Arena stage, spilling out of a roiling mass of bass tones in short, disconnected bursts. Followers of this avant-garde icon are by now accustomed to the idea of hearing Ornette with two bassists, as on his Pulitzer-winning album Sound Grammar, but now he has three. Tony Falanga and Charnett Moffett flank the leader, creating thick, elastic sheets of bowed and plucked acoustic tones, while Al McDowell sits off to the side with an electric bass, reacting directly to Coleman’s abstract blues and plaintive cries. Denardo Coleman, Ornette’s son and longtime drummer, is concealed in his position directly behind his father. But his invincible, volcanic rhythms — at once tribal, hammering and otherworldly — wrap the band in a whirling vortex of energy.
From time to time the dapper Coleman reaches for a nearby trumpet, adding mournful, gently arcing footnotes to his melodic explorations. Or grabbing his violin, Coleman deftly merges with his three bassists in a fast, tense scribbling.
Coleman’s deep-rooted connection to the blues is hardly a secret, but it’s still a jolt when this influence leaps into the foreground. Sliding into an amorphous, greasy version of a 12-bar groove, Coleman and associates draw a straight, glowing line directly from the most fundamental roots of jazz to its impenetrable outskirts. Minutes later, the group will find another continuity, improvising on Bach’s Solo Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major and taking it to outer space.
Monterey Notebook: In the Neighborhood
Sunday, 2:15 p.m. – Coffee House Gallery
Out of the glaring sunshine, vibraphonist Smith Dobson V is filling the shadowy Coffee House Gallery with ringing, spiraling streams of notes.
A native of nearby Santa Cruz and member of that city’s first family of jazz, Dobson guides an orderly quintet through gently rolling grooves, tossing off casual, liquid solos. The band comes together beautifully in the closing ensemble passage of a nameless bossa nova, spinning lazily around Dobson’s clear, bell-like patterns.
Switching gears now, bassist Devin Hoff and pianist Dahveed Behroozi go electric for “Wolverine,” a catchy but oddly shaded lounge-pop melody over a steady surf-rock beat from drummer Vijay Anderson. “G. G. Drift” follows in the same vein, blending 1960s spy-music atmosphere with hints of carnival music. The tune never quite takes off, though, coming across as stiff despite Dobson’s gliding breaks and some crunchy guitar accents from John Finkbeiner.
Monterey Notebook: Getting Dirty
Sunday, 1:20 p.m. – Garden Stage
“Okay, put down your beers and hold up your munchers!” says a man identifying himself as Doug Dirt. Several dozen members of the Garden Stage audience comply, raising their arms and working their fingers like snapping jaws. “Great,” the man yells encouragingly. “And you guys over here? You’re sunbeams!” Huh? What’s going on here?
The colorful Mr. Dirt (nee Greenfield) is part of the Banana Slug String Band, and he’s getting his audience primed to help out in a song about decomposition – that’s right, rot. Or more to the point, the process by which dirt is made. Soon the entire audience is hidden by a waving, snapping mess of arms – their movements a rhythmic simulation of organic decay – as the funky Slugs clomp through lyrics about bugs, bacteria and chemical breakdown.
This is what the Slugs do, promoting environmental education through jazz, blues and rock-based ditties aimed primarily at kids. Plenty of tykes are on hand, but more than a few adults have joined the party too. Elsewhere, the first of many high school student ensembles are beginning their sets and a sober panel discussion of festival co-founder Ralph Gleason’s many contributions is getting underway. But with the sun shining brightly on a gorgeous Northern California day and rain just a bad memory, it’s hard to leave the silly Banana Slugs, even if they are singing about rot.
Monterey Notebook: Simply Stated
Saturday, 11:15 p.m. – Coffee House Gallery
Cyrus Chestnut is an unassuming, soft-spoken man at the microphone. But sitting at the piano in his third and final set of the night, the man speaks volumes. He takes off at a rollicking, breathless pace, mixing a healthy dollop of Fats Waller into his tricky, utterly swinging phrases. Chestnut and his bandmates — bassist Dezron Douglas and drummer Neal Smith – are tightly grouped both on stage and in the music, playing off each other in hip-wiggling burners and jaunty strolls.
“Polka Dots and Moonbeams” is a perfect example of everything Chestnut does right. He begins the piece as a solo piano etude, dancing lightly and prettily around a wistful motif. When a cell phone bleeps somewhere in the audience, a frown crosses Chestnut’s face for just an instant, then he calmly inserts the trilling tone into his reverie, a comic touchpoint that Chestnut will employ three times throughout the piece. Such rhythmic playfulness is the hallmark of the performance. In subsequent numbers, Chestnut tiptoes across the upper end of his keyboard, spinning in little curlicues, and makes the Elvis Presley hit “Don’t Be Cruel” sound like it was written by Thelonious Monk.
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