Those princes of jazz, Ravi Coltrane and Branford Marsalis, spring from different lineages and represent differing heritages. Yet despite their pedigrees, they’re a breed apart. Both were born in the tumultuous ‘60s, both have struggled with their musical identities and in the intervening years have arrived at a place where they can truly be thought of as musicians who reflect the promise of modern jazz. In an art form so dependent on tradition that many of its practitioners have resorted to neo-classicism (think Wynton) and outright revivalism (Wynton again), Ravi and Branford have sought and discovered combinations of expression, styles and timely sensibility that, like all great art, reflect the moment in which they were created. This means fast-paced, sometimes uncertain striving for resolution with shifts and leaps that are both scheduled and spontaneous. Their uptempo lines of attack spring from the frantic speed of the be-bop tradition, which reflected its post-war times, and its follow up, the post-bop revolution that mirrored the political and cultural upheavals of their childhoods. Both, at times, display the chaotic frenzy of the avant garde. Yet the music of both men can also acknowledge that in these hectic, twisted times there’s a place, even a need, for contemplation, a consideration of beauty and grace, even regret and sorrow. And while there’s a tradition of this in jazz (think of Ravi’s father) the saxophonists bring a certain existential uncertainty to their vision-quest that speaks to the confusion and complications of modern life. The most touching moments from either disc?  Ravi’s tribute to his mother, the pianist-harpist Alice Coltrane, with bassist Charlie Haden and harpist Brandee Younger.

Influences are embraced without hip joining. Branford is more Ornette, Ravi more his father. But their sounds and those of past masters won’t be confused. Ravi stick to tenor. Branford adds alto to his quiver and delivers soprano that’s as pure and slippery as quicksilver. Both men take advantage of the collaborative process. Half of Blending Times’ tunes are “improvisations conceived and directed by Ravi Coltrane.” The results, ranging from funk to free-form musings, speak well of pianist Luis Perdomo, bassist Dress Gess and drummer EJ Strickland. Branford’s recording contains contributions from each of his sidemen and only one—the invigorating “Jabberwocky” –of his own. Pianist Joey Calderazzo contributes the more meditative numbers whose title reflect loss. Drummer Jeff Watts adds the most lively. Bassist Eric Reavis’ stellar tunes pay tribute to Abe Vigoda and Thelonious Monk respectively.

That both recordings contain Monk tunes is a shared acknowledgement of a jazz tradition that their own music most reflects. Monk’s music anticipated the times, indeed all times, with its strange harmonies, twisted themes and resolutions that have a sense of the non-sensical. Of the two discs, we prefer Branford’s even as we dearly love Ravi’s. Recommendation? Get both.–Cabbage Rabbit

]]> http://cabbagerabbit.com/2009/06/11/sons-and-brothers/feed/ 0 http://cabbagerabbit.com/2009/01/01/bygone-tomorrows/ http://cabbagerabbit.com/2009/01/01/bygone-tomorrows/#comments Thu, 01 Jan 2009 19:01:20 +0000 bill http://cabbagerabbit.com/?p=106

Listening through the two-CDs in Bill Frisell’s History, Mystery is much like going through the dozen panels of cartoon artist R Crumb’s “A Short History of America.” In a dozen wordless panels, Crumb takes us through an untouched pastoral setting which gives give way to a single rail line, then a…

Listening through the two-CDs in Bill Frisell’s History, Mystery is much like going through the dozen panels of cartoon artist R Crumb’s “A Short History of America.” In a dozen wordless panels, Crumb takes us through an untouched pastoral setting which gives give way to a single rail line, then a road and a clapboard house. Soon there are multiplying phone and power wires, rising commerce and sinking signs of nature; bigger and sleeker vehicles and advertising. Frisell’s music, something of a suite, seems to chronicle the same sort of loss and progression, an audible symbol of America’s innocence still palpable even as it’s paved over. The nostalgic black-and-white cover photos add to the feel.

The comic comparison is not so far fetched. The music here grew from a collaboration between Frisell and cartoonist Jim Woodring who’s illustrated a number of Frisell’s previous album covers. Woodring contributes tongue-in-cheek notes for History, Mystery, describing how their friendship was formed during two days of “non-stop hatchet throwing” when they were both employees of the Iron Beaver Lumber Company.

Mostly recorded in live performance with Frisell’s octet, History, Mystery stands as a complete statement, a well–woven series of pieces, many of them dance figures that both fit and transcend Frisell’s unique brand of psychedelic Americana. Here the emphasis is on the Americana, as acoustic pieces with a rural feel take center stage, the electricity coming in bursts of modernity that give contemporary relevance to a lesson in the timeless beauty of folk art. The old-new feel is apparent in almost every tune as fiddle melodies blend with wailing electric guitar and cricket-like percussive chirps share the air with digital beeps and buzzes. The handful of tunes not composed by Frisell—from Sam Cooke, Thelonious Monk and Lee Konitz—represent America’s soul and quirkiness. Even Boubacar Traore’s “Baba Drame” with its Afro-pop rhythms and celebratory chorus fits the mix with its soulful, imported blues feel.

Frisell uses the strings, cornet and sax instrumentation to underscore the rural-urban feel. Drummer Kenny Wollensen provides shuffles, waltz and funk beats, all with an inevitable propulsion, though he seems most comfortable driving the band with rock hard forwardness. Violinist Jenny Scheinman’s play has a tensile strength and a tendency to pair gritty single note lines with smooth harmonic blends. High excitement comes from Greg Tardy’s tenor sax on Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come” and “Waltz For Baltimore.” There’s a sultry, summer afternoon feel, sweet as lemonade, to Greg Tardy’s cornet solo on “Lazy Robinson Part 2.” Still, it’s Frisell’s amazingly diverse play—a blend of electric and acoustic sounds, of traditional and futuristic approaches—that gives this two-disc package it extreme color and emotion. Among a discography of distinguished concept recordings, History, Mystery is Frisell’s most realized, most American project.—Cabbage Rabbit

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In the liner notes to his Thelonious Monk tribute, Ellis Marsalis admits that there was a time he saw Monk’s music as an “anomaly.” He also admits to being in awe of the man, too self-conscious to introduce himself to Monk once upon a time at the New Orleans Jazz Festival. It was the only chance the pianists had to meet.

Ellis isn’t the only one who had trouble getting with Thelonious (reviewer admits a youthful inability to catch on here). Monk was so unique, so eclectic that it was hard to judge him against the norm. Once one tuned in to what he did, it became hard to hear anything else.

Marsalis finishes his notes saying that this collection represents his discovery of and “profound respect” for things Thelonious. You wouldn’t think an old smoothie like the elder Marsalis would be an apt interpreter of Monk’s quirky tunes. But he is. That’s because those opening assumptions—that Monk’s music is quirky and that Marsalis plays in a smooth, older style—aren’t necessarily true. There’s no denying that Monk had a gritty sense of melody and a fondness for eclectic chord progressions, oblong rhythms and harmonic hi-jinx. Yet distilled or not, Monk’s music can be extremely beautiful. You can hear anybody, including its composer, do “Round Midnight” and know it’s true. “Straight, No Chaser” isn’t a chestnut for nothing.

Marsalis, contrary to reputation, continues to evolve. Often dismissed as father of talented offspring and a “local” musician, the pianist deserves respect for a savvy style at the keyboard and skill for cultivating combos. This quartet, with son Jason on drums, bassist Jason Stewart and saxophonist Derek Douget, does the family name proud, presenting no-nonsense renditions of Monk’s best known numbers while injecting enough personality to make it stand out. Marsalis’ piano is svelte, knowing and surprisingly inventive, something akin to Sonny Rollins’ later playing on tenor. Like Rollins, he’s a master at inserting quotes from other numbers. In “Jackie-ing” he drops the “shocking glimpse of stocking” line from “Anything Goes.” In a case of Monk in Monk, he quotes “Well You Needn’t” during “Epistrophy.” His solo on “Ruby, My Dear” pegs him as a young-at-heart romantic even if he’s old enough to be your grandfather. He’s at ease on “Monk’s Mood,” holding hands with the melody in a devoted way.

The biggest surprise here is saxophonist Douget. Playing both tenor and soprano, Douget is the quartet member closest to Monk’s spirit. He pops, preens and pauses, occasionally working up a head of steam that seems unstoppable. You never quite get comfortable while he’s playing (and that’s a good thing). He crafts his attack to the song, getting all wobbly and unpredictable on “Crepuscule with Nellie,” melodic and thoughtful on “Ruby, My Dear.” Drummer Jason Marsalis speaks to Monk’s funkiness, finding groove that lets soloists do as they will. (The drummer writes in his liner notes “…if you take any of Monk’s tunes…and put a funk beat on top of the melody, the melody will fit the rhythm of the beat.”) His solos roll on easily grasped accents and he’s alert, underscoring his band mates’ inventions as he does con cymbal when Ellis drops some “Sweet Georgia Brown” into “Rhythm-a ning.” Stewart provides counterpoint to this groove, coasting along in his own beat-minded way.

The group is most Monk-like on “Teo,” Jason’s cymbal pop breaking up the theme before he gets behind the rhythm and swings it like a pocket watch on a chain. On “Light Blue,” probably the least familiar of the cuts here, Marsalis smooths over Monk’s rough edges, the edges that give the song a certain attractive grit, and lets the gold settle while inserting nuggets from other tunes. Marsalis may make nothing new out of Monk’s music. But he does remind us how wonderful it all is.—Cabbage Rabbit

ELLIS MARSALIS, An Open Letter To Thelonious, Elm Records