tag:www.metaljazz.com,2010://1 2010-03-06T00:06:36Z Words About Music by Greg Burk and Friends Movable Type 3.34 tag:www.metaljazz.com,2010://1.565 2010-03-05T23:40:17Z 2010-03-06T00:06:36Z

I guess spring arrived a little early.

CEAIT Festival, a presentation of CalArts Center for Experiments in Art, curated by Carla Bozulich, with Better Than Future (electro-computer jams), renowned sound artist Steve Roden (nature-electronic synthesis) and Bloody Claws (Bozulich wiggin', with a special guest). At REDCAT, 631 W. Second St., downtown 90012; 8:30pm; $20; www.redcat.org. Fri. March 5 -- Motoko Honda, Joseph Berardi & Steuart Liebig (piano, percussion & bass) work electroacoustic improv trio magic. At the Museum of Neon Art, 136 W. Fourth St., downtown 90013; 8pm; $10; (213) 489-9918; www.neonmona.org. Fri. March 5 -- Ohm (guitarist Chris Poland, bassist Robert Pagliari and drummer Kofi Baker) fuse the heavy rock with touches of funkedelia. At the Baked Potato, 3787 Cahuenga Blvd. West, Studio City 91604; 9:30 & 11:30pm; $20; (818) 980-1615; www.thebakedpotato.com. Fri. March 5 -- Joe Satriani does Hendrix, which makes it a bit more than a tribute. At Gibson Amphitheater, 100 Universal City Plaza, Universal City 91608; 8:15pm; $20-$80; www.livenation.com. Sat. March 6 -- Progressive-metal slaves better link up for this one. The Black Dahlia Murder effectively mix complex brain control and shudder-drums with a heavy proletarian vibe. Germany's Obscura (pictured) take deathly adventure to a flowing, overlapping metal estuary; I was just listening to last year's "Cosmogenesis" again, and almost got reborn. With similar lapses into acoustic European folk, Montreal's proggy Augury make terrific partners for Obscura. (Read my Augury snapshot here. At the Roxy, 9009 Sunset Blvd., West Hollywood; 8pm; $16.50; (310) 278-9457; www.ticketmaster.com. Sat. March 6 -- One hell of a producer (Halford, Dickinson, Priest), Roy Z is also a fiery and nuanced metal guitarist; his current band is Serpents and Rainbows, with dudes from Yngwie, Warrior, Armored Saint and his old band, Tribe of Gypsies. You also get Deltanaut, featuring ex-Megadeth drummer Nick Menza. At Paladino's, 6101 Reseda Blvd., Tarzana 91335; cheap; (818) 342-1563. Sat. March 6 -- We all want to benefit the LACC Composers Club, right? Help Moses Campbell, rare-folk revivalists Missincinnati (Jeremy Drake & Jessica Catron joined by Laura Steenberge and Ezra Buchla), Voice on Tape, some chamber ensembles and video-permormance artist Heather Woodbury do it. At Echo Curio, 1519 Sunset Blvd., Echo Park 90026; video 8pm, music 9pm; $5; snacks and drinks available; (213) 977-1279. Sun. March 7 -- Trombones times two. Vet slideman Michael Vlatkovich, a fine composer and a wild improviser, leads a trio with bassist Anders Swanson and drummer Rich West. And boneman George McMullen leads a trio with the superfine musicians Joel Hamilton (bass) and Alex Cline (drums). At Center for the Arts, 2225 Colorado Blvd., Eagle Rock 90041; 7pm; $10; (626) 795-4989. Sun. March 7 -- Slayer drummer Dave Lombardo's new group with guitarist-voxman Gerry Nestler and bassist Juan Perez, Philm, headlines a five-band bill. Can't find any info about what they sound like, other than, y'know, "They rock!" At the Dragonfly, 6510 Santa Monica Blvd., Hollywood 90038; (323) 466-6111; www.thedragonfly.com. Also next Friday March 12 at Relax Bar. Sun. March 7 -- Want some music for yer kids that's better than that tinkertoy stuff and has real country musicians like Paul Lacques on it but still sings about trains and pizza? Try Earthworm Ensemble, who've got a new CD available at www.earthwormensemble.com or iTunes. Afternoon show! At the Echo, 1822 Sunset Blvd., Echo Park 90023; 2pm; $5; (213) 413-8200; www.atthecho.com. Sun. March 7 -- Trumpeter Elliott Caine's group settles that good post-bop into the modern comfort zone. At the York Bar and Restaurant, 5018 York Blvd., Highland Park 90042; 8-10:30pm; (323) 255-9675. Wed. March 10 -- When I used to listen to KCRW's "The Reggae Beat" back in the '80s, Roger Steffens might've played more Ras Michael & the Sons of Negus than he did Bob Marley. This was the roots of the roots, with Nyabinghi drums and big chants and heavy Rasta religion, and I gotta say it sounded otherworldly at the time but now seems more and more real. And tonight, Jamaican dubmaster Scientist is mixing the band! You also get The All Star Sabar Orchestra, a drums & vox ensemble from Senegal. Quite an event. At the EchoPlex, 1154 Glendale Blvd., Echo Park 90026; doors 7:30pm; $12; www.attheecho.com. Wed. March 10 -- Tending the traditional-jazz flame like he was born to it, and moving a bit edgeward sometimes: pianist Josh Nelson, with bassist Dave Robaire and drummer Matt Slocum, who leads his own ensembles elsewhere Thursday and Friday. Nelson's latest lilter is "I Hear a Rhapsody." At Vitello's Restaurant, 4349 Tujunga Ave., Studio City 91604; 8-11pm; $13 minimum, but it's okay if you spend $14; (818) 769-0905. Wed. March 10 -- Another intriguingly conceived NewTown event: Sonic Youth guitarist Lee Ranaldo teams with guitarist Alan Licht and saxist Ulrich Krieger to complement the time-stopping abstract films of Stan Brakhage; Languis (Marcos Chloca and Alejandro Cohen) do the same for Huckleberry Lain's "Parallel." At Cinefamily, 611 N. Fairfax Ave., LA 90048; 8 & 10:15pm; $17; (323) 655-2510; www.cinefamily.org. Thurs. March 11 -- Chili Peppers slammer Chad Smith. Cosmosquad guitar luxuriator Jeff Kollman. Bassist Kevin Chown. Keyboardist Ed Roth. The rock. The funk. Bombastic Meatbats. At the Baked Potato, 3787 Cahuenga Blvd. West, Studio City 91604; 9:30 & 11:30pm; $25; (818) 980-1615; www.thebakedpotato.com. Thurs. March 11 -- I don't often connect emotionally with the every-which-way pianistics of Hiromi, but she sure can dazzle. On her new "Place To Be," she follows a buzzy prepared-piano treatment of "Pachelbel's Canon" with a Cotton Club rave-up inspired by Vegas showgirls. So she's gonna have something in there for ya. A Jazz Bakery production at Japan America Theater, 244 S. San Pedro St., downtown 90012; 8pm; $35; (310) 271-9039; web tickets here. Thurs. March 11 -- Light-handed but gently agitative drummer Matt Slocum leads a melodic jazz trio with pianist Josh Nelson and bassist Dan Lutz. (I first saw Lutz a decade ago with James Carney, and the big guy always seems to get work.) Slocum's latest is "Portraits," featuring crisp piano from Gerald Clayton and, on a couple of cuts, really sensual sax from Walter Smith III. At the Crowne Plaza LAX Hotel, 5985 Century Blvd., LA 90045; 6-10pm; cheap. Read Brick’s jazz picks in LA Weekly here, Don Heckman’s jazz picks here and MoshKing's metal listings here. ]]> tag:www.metaljazz.com,2010://1.563 2010-03-04T19:56:07Z 2010-03-09T23:13:04Z

Bottom line -- WASP rocked like a beast. I didn't see any of us ugly old extremists simpering about the lack of raw meat sprayed in our faces, or whining because the only saw blades onstage were decorative fins on the wrists of tall & craggy Blackie Lawless.

Bottom line -- WASP rocked like a beast. I didn't see any of us ugly old extremists simpering about the lack of raw meat sprayed in our faces, or whining because the only saw blades onstage were decorative fins on the wrists of tall & craggy Blackie Lawless. Video projections of child abuse and icon martyrdom, yeah, fine, but mainly we just wanted to get mowed down by the sound of a relentless rock machine cranking out the strongest songs in the leatherbound headbanging book. And for that, the WASP name carries a lifetime guarantee. The band has added a dimension in recent years. Maybe it's been the changes in guitarists and drummers. Maybe it's been the persistent reports that Lawless no longer despises his Xtian breeding. (He encouraged that image at night's end by crossing himself and casting eyes to the sky, a gesture permissible only to hellspawn like himself or Zakk Wylde.) But this time, like the last few occasions I've seen WASP, I experienced no subsequent desire to crawl into a cold cave and beat my skull on a pagan altar. Which is a desire I can live without. Somehow, no shame implied, Lawless just seems more humane. The mid-'80s hits ("On Your Knees," "LOVE Machine," "Wild Child," etc.) retained full skin-scouring energy. It's always welcome, though, when WASP insert more recent weapons, as they did with the sword-rattling "Crazy" (from the "Babylon" album) and the blood-sweating spotlight prayer "Heaven's Hung in Black" (from "Dominator"). The set's most intense wave peaked with a dynamic suite from 1992's "The Crimson Idol," which WASP toured in its entirety a couple of years back and whose death-defying energy obviously sticks close to Lawless' heart. The concluding "Blind in Texas" blew out all the carbon and shut the door with a satisfying slam. I think WASP's truly unflagging set held some other rarer gems, but it was hard to tell since my location (middle right) proved a non-sweet spot in the club, with Mike Dupke's precisely powerful drums coming into focus only toward the end and Doug Blair's lancet guitar faded into distant murk throughout, even during his solos. Though Mike Duda stood farthest from me, it was his bass that cut through clearest -- a sinewy Jack Bruce tone and pickin' so tight and quick that I thought it must be pre-recorded. Duda's high vocal harmonies and Lawless' excoriating melodic scream both sounded heavily processed and electronically doubled; while this kind of manipulation makes for a consistent show, I prefer a realer sound, even if it's flawed. But I'm old-fashioned. Blackie's jersey displayed No. 25. Barry Bonds, anyone? Each of the three warm-up bands made something of a case. PsychicMafia dealt an intelligently varied proggo thing with virtuosic metal vocals and laser chops, even turning in a creditable cover of Yngwie Malmsteen's "I'll See the Light Tonight." (Guitarist Juan Carlos invented some dubious scales on PsychicMafia's own tempo-switching "No Hope," though.) The quartet's prole physicality detracted; I dunno why they don't go ahead and slap on the wiseguy tuxes and sunglasses they sport in their PR photo. Wrapped in headscarves and campy shades, Prowler tried to inject some Hollywood glam into their '70s blues-rock, but since they're as old as the musicians they copy (variants on "Mississippi Queen" and "Stormbringer," a big shout-out to Van Halen), the effect was macabre. Bassist Bob sure has a groovin' deadpan, though. Either Downey's Scarred have improved since I caught them four months ago, or a second exposure has clued me in. I really ground my teeth to the medium/slow Sab tempos generated by Andy Salas, who churned a potent low end and bashed some ancient cymbal that he must keep because it sounds like just the right kind of crap. (I love that.) Stolid guitarist John Toscano soloed with a cleanliness and rhythmic acuity aspiring to Tony Iommi level and not as far off as you might think. Singer/screamer Eric Claro got his palmsweat all over the local fans, and they were sweating back. Reverberative atmosphere. Stage smoke. "Rise! Rise-like-the-sun!" Yeah. ]]> tag:www.metaljazz.com,2010://1.564 2010-03-04T18:53:11Z 2010-03-05T00:58:59Z

I was gonna say it takes balls to attempt a tribute to drum exploder Tony Williams, but obviously those are not essential.

I was gonna say it takes balls to attempt a tribute to drum exploder Tony Williams, but obviously those are not essential. Not simply Lenny Kravitz's longtime eye candy behind the tubs, Berklee-trained Cindy Blackman is a serious player who can push the extremes of improvisation; I've seen her, for instance, fire up equal spark in a jam with the ingenious hand drummer Kahlil El'Zabar. Blackman faces two main challenges here. The main one, natch, is holding a candle to the prodigious Williams. The other is the same one bebop revivalists butt up against -- that of yanking music out of its original time frame. Williams' post-1968 fusion decade radiated a vibe difficult to replicate: It was a time of high adventure and black swagger, fueled by Andean mountains of cocaine. Even the best blow won't transport you back there. So in general, Blackman doesn't attempt time travel so much as personal reflection, drawing from hunks of Williams material she recorded over a four-year period. It wasn't the sharpest idea to include three variations on Carla Bley's bristly "Vashkar" (originally on Williams' 1969 "Emergency" album), with Mike Stern and Doug Carn standing in for John McLaughlin and Larry Young on guitar and organ. Nothing wrong with the performances, they just lack the original's focus and drive. Stern's flanged flights connect better when he carves the urgent sky on Blackman's stabbing "And Heaven Welcomed a King," whose passion and ascension suggest the subject is the King of Kings, but it could relate to St. Martin as well. A couple of other guitarists make bold statements. Wide-ranging session man Fionn Ó Lochlainn busts a face with gnarly thrusts on Williams' "There Comes a Time" (from the 1971 album "Ego"), which also features Blackman's affectless but immediate singing. And Vernon Reid rips with firebird energy & ecstasy on Williams' melodic funker "Wildlife" (1975) without treading on Allan Holdsworth's tail. Out of place but one of the album's bright spots: Blackman's own "Love Song," a tumbledrum ballad executed as a duo with the masterful tenor saxist Joe Lovano. Blackman's rhythm flex and Lovano's harmonic mutations make you think not of Williams but of the wondrous free duets between Elvin Jones and John Coltrane; it's the record's best skins showcase. Similarly to Williams' studio excursions, Blackman's self-produced tenth album as a leader settles into a rather strange mix; it's got a crowded midrange and actually sounds better on bad speakers than good ones. But overall, she's done justice to her inspiration. And I love the hair. ]]> tag:www.metaljazz.com,2010://1.562 2010-02-26T20:55:04Z 2010-03-04T20:18:27Z

Fri.-Sat. Feb. 26-27 -- Seeing WASP live is a little bit more than fun; it's kind of a self-demolition. Read my review of their latest album here. And can it really be 10 years since I did this interview with Blackie Lawless in LA Weekly? My Demyze and Superfix open. Friday at the Canyon Club, 28912 Roadside Drive, Agoura Hills 91301; $20; (818) 879-5016; www.canyonclub.net. Also Saturday at the Galaxy in Santa Ana, which is where I'll be. Fri. Feb. 26 -- Cosmosquad: fiercer and freakier than your grandpa's fusion. This incarnation features founding guitarist Jeff Kollman with drummer Glen Sobel and bassist Pete Griffin. At the Baked Potato, 3787 Cahuenga Blvd. West, Studio City 91604; 9:30 & 11:30pm; $20; (818) 980-1615; www.thebakedpotato.com. Fri. Feb. 26 -- One of Zakk Wylde's and Derek Sherinian's fave guitarists: Al DiMeola. Oh, and he used to have a little band called Back to Eternity or something like that. At House of Blues, 8430 Sunset Blvd., West Hollywood 90069; 9pm; $17.50-$27.50; (323) 848-5800; www.ticketmaster.com. Fri. Feb. 26 -- Johnny Cash's birthday; wear black. Read my review of the final Cash studio album here. Fri. Feb. 26 -- Spot, the SST producer, the bluegrass musician, the teacake connoisseur, is back from Austin for a mini-tour. Read my review of a recent Spot performance here, buy the man a shot of Bushmill's, and request "Ring of Fire." At the Pike Restaurant & Bar, 1836 E. Fourth St., Long Beach; 10pm; (562) 437-4453. Sat. Feb. 27 -- Spot opens for the theatrical and nearly operatic Abby Travis and bass Econoliner Mike Watt & His Missingmen. Old home week or what? Great lineup. At the Redwood Bar & Grill, 316 W. Second St., downtown; (310) 245-0273; www.theredwoodbar.com. Sat. Feb. 27 -- The mighty wind king Vinny Golia leads a blistering sextet featuring most of the musicians on the album I reviewed plus trumpeter Daniel Rosenboom; gonna be DAMN good. At the ASTO Museum of Art, 4505 Huntington Drive South, Montecito Heights 90032, south of the 110 and east of the 5; 8pm; $7. Sat. Feb. 27 -- I'm really digging these rock supergroups playing instrumental fusion, like f'rinstance Volto, with Tool drummer Danny Carey pushing keysman Kirk Covington, bassist Lance Morrison and guitarist John Ziegler. At the Baked Potato, 3787 Cahuenga Blvd. West, Studio City 91604; 9:30 & 11:30pm; $25; (818) 980-1615; www.thebakedpotato.com. Sun. Feb. 28 -- Spot (see Friday and Saturday above) piles into the Punk Rock BBQ, nailing down the 4:30 slot alongside Santa Sabbath (6:30), Third Grade Teacher (5:30), Sylvia Juncosa (3:30), Landfill (2:30) and Toothcore (1:30). Free hot dogs while they last or grill what you bring; $2 PBRs; sounds like a damn afternoon riot. At Liquid Kitty, 11780 W. Pico Blvd., West L.A. 90064; FREE; (310) 473-3707; www.thekitty.com. Sun. Feb. 27 -- Trumpeter-synthguy Mark Isham (soundtracker of "Afterglow," "In the Valley of Elah," a million more) mixes melody and atmosphere as well as most anybody. He slides by tonight with his band Houston Street, featuring drummer Tom Brechtlein, bassist Doug Lunn and keyboardist Jeff Babko. At Catalina Bar & Grill, 6725 Sunset Blvd., Hollywood 90028; 8 & 10pm; $20; (323) 466-2210; www.catalinajazzclub.com. LATE ADD: Thurs.-Fri. March 4-5 -- Just got word of this fine sound-art event, the CEAIT Festival, a presentation of CalArts Center for Experiments in Art, curated by Carla Bozulich. Thursday it's John Wiese (noise), Maria Chavez (broken turntables) and Marcus Schmickler ("surround-sound computer music derived from astrophysical data"). Friday you get Better Than Future (electro-computer jams), renowned sound artist Steve Roden (nature-electronic synthesis) and Bloody Claws (Bozulich wiggin'). At REDCAT, 631 W. Second St., downtown 90012; 8:30pm; $20; www.redcat.org. Read Brick’s jazz picks in LA Weekly here, Don Heckman’s jazz picks here and MoshKing's metal listings here. ]]> tag:www.metaljazz.com,2010://1.561 2010-02-26T18:11:59Z 2010-02-26T18:22:11Z

It's hilarious that Ozzy Osbourne ever claimed the title Prince of Darkness; he's about as scary as Count Chocula. It's like when they call a big guy Tiny. More than anything -- as Osbourne emphasizes repeatedly in his autobiography, "I Am Ozzy" -- he's a clown.

It's hilarious that Ozzy Osbourne ever claimed the title Prince of Darkness; he's about as scary as Count Chocula. It's like when they call a big guy Tiny. More than anything -- as Osbourne emphasizes repeatedly in his autobiography, "I Am Ozzy" -- he's a clown. A sad, sad clown. And what a rock singer. But "I Am Ozzy" is not about singing. Hardly mentions it, actually. No, it's a collection of music-biz war stories, which makes British celebrity journalist and Iraq correspondent Chris Ayres the perfect co-writer. The whole book rolls along in rhythmic Ozzy argot, every other word "fucking" or "bollocks," so we get the genuine flavor of Osbourne the barstool raconteur, a bloke accustomed to working out and re-remembering every story for maximum impact. He's not exactly fabricating, though he erects bold disclaimers to clarify that with his drug-addled memory, his recollections shouldn't be taken as Scripture. Ozzy doesn't want to whitewash himself -- quite the reverse, in the successful tradition of rock bios about Led Zeppelin, Aerosmith and Motley Crue. We meet a walking disaster, a man who can't control his substance intake, his career, his family life or even his bowels. He knows that a public's ability to feel superior acts as its revenge for his success. While Ozzy's embarrassed about a lot of things, he plays it pretty straight. He finally admits that when he looked so youthful in the pictures for 1991's "No More Tears," it wasn't because he'd cleaned up, it was because "I went to a plastic surgeon to get forty-four of my forty-five chins removed." Though in the past he has dumped on his doctors for overdoping him, he now cops to milking scrips from multiple medics, each of whom thought himself Ozzy's only love. He's been known to act the kicked puppy over his 1979 firing from Black Sabbath; here he reveals that his blotto lifestyle led him not only to unreliable behavior, but to slagging off his own band in the press. Would you keep him? It's no surprise that many gray areas blanket the bio. I tend to believe Ozzy when he debits his savior wife and keeper, Sharon Osbourne, for the indefensible act of recording over original classic performances by bassist Bob Daisley and drummer Lee Kerslake because they sued for a bigger share of royalties. I believe him less when he denies Daisley credit for composing the lyrics to the controversial anti-alcohol anthem "Suicide Solution," which Daisley says he wrote not just for but about a certain Ozzy Osbourne. The slaughterhouse labor, the prison term, the dyslexia, the guns, the blackouts, the Randy Rhoads airplane crash, the televised dogshit, the tremor, the mumbling, the bike accident, the repeated brushes with death -- they're all here, and comic or tragic, Ozzy/Ayres make the narrative go down like a Hollywood movie, pure entertainment. As a conceptual bonus, "I Am Ozzy" is also designed and color-coded to make a perfect bookshelf companion for Sharon Osbourne's nearly as amusing "Extreme." One concern lurks in the background without receiving direct address, although Ozzy has previously fixated on it, he has nightmares about it, he's written songs about it. The question: What is the message of his life? In that old Hollywood movie, Ozzy would die for his sins of irresponsibility, betrayal, self-indulgence and satanic flirtation. When parents sued Osbourne in 1986 for causing their children's suicide, they were legally obtuse and personally oblivious of their own failure, but they weren't quite wrong. Here's a guy who broke every rule but ended up rich and famous, now even bragging to the world, "My heart's in great shape, and my liver's like brand new." My hero! Karmic justice remains an elusive concept. But forget the bluff clowning and simply run down the sleepless nights, the emotional and physical trauma, the guilt and self-doubt, and nobody sane would want to switch places with Ozzy. He's suffered enough. He never asked to be the Prince of Darkness. ]]> tag:www.metaljazz.com,2010://1.560 2010-02-26T03:54:16Z 2010-02-27T02:00:12Z

Johnny Cash was a scary mother. He must have scared himself, too: Imagine how he felt when he realized that his voice was a unique window onto the scariest place of all, the human soul, and he would be fated to spend his whole life looking down into it.

Johnny Cash was a scary mother. He must have scared himself, too: Imagine how he felt when he realized that his voice was a unique window onto the scariest place of all, the human soul, and he would be fated to spend his whole life looking down into it. That voice reverberated like the last moan of pharaoh's servant entombed alive beneath some massive pyramid. Whether the words were as tortured as his own for "Ring of Fire" or as homely as Jack Clement's for "Ballad of a Teenage Queen," it didn't matter; from his throat, they were going to sound heavy as pig iron. Now, with "Ain't No Grave," we have the last collection from the songs Cash recorded in the couple of sun cycles before his 2003 death. His beloved wife, June Carter Cash, died months before him; he knew he too was dying; the subject here is mostly the big crossover. Good and proper. All praise to Rick Rubin for documenting Cash's last years so obsessively in six regular albums and a five-disc set of the remnants. But such an outpouring could not all be perfect. It's not, and neither is "Ain't No Grave." Rubin's main obstacle has been the impossibility of topping his first Cash collection, 1994's "American Recordings." By that time, Cash stood virtually alone. Who could perform alongside him without detracting? He'd done the Highwaymen with Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings and Kris Kristofferson -- worthy partners possessed of auras so big that they had to take turns in the spotlight to avoid nuclear fission; this was less a band than a really good museum exhibit. Rubin's brilliant solution: stick Cash and his guitar naked in front of the microphone. For the listener, the result was like walking out of a jungle to behold Kilimanjaro. Of course, it was hard to refuse the many big artists who wanted to contribute songs and play behind Cash: Tom Petty & band, Chris Cornell, Glenn Danzig, Trent Reznor, Beck, Sting, Lindsey Buckingham, Marty Stuart, the list goes on. It's just that Cash's presence had a way of making big artists sound small. Whatever good taste and good intentions they brought to their contributions, Cash was just better without them. The casualties on "Ain't No Grave" include Tom Paxton ("Where I'm Bound," too airy for the Cash baritone), Ed McCurdy (the painfully literal anitiwar waltz "Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream"), Sheryl Crow (the overwrought, lyrically clumsy "Redemption Day") and even Cash himself (the unfinished-sounding chanty "I Corinthians 15:55," which could have put a finer point on its message of "Death, where is thy sting?"). Nevertheless, Cash never goes long without delivering. His aged voice doesn't quaver so much as it undulates, somehow more expressive than ever, and when it drops in on the introductory title track, it settles you right into that special Cash territory outside of time and makes you believe "When I hear that trumpet sound, I'm gonna raise right out of the ground." "I Don't Hurt Anymore," a 1954 hit for Hank Snow, is just plain country, straight and true testimony from Cash's own roots. Cash puts on his comfortable solo campfire storyteller hat for Bob Nolan's "Cool Water." Every line of Kris Kristofferson's breakup classic "For the Good Times" now seems to have been written explicitly for the last goodbye. And closing with "Aloha Oe" -- sheer genius. Mike Campbell, Smokey Hormel, Benmont Tench and the rest do the usual creditable job of neoprimitive instrumentation; they just sound as if they're trying too hard to be elemental but end up elementary -- it's the kind of thing John Lee Hooker did without thinking about it, and if you think about it, you can't do it right. If I ever meet the guy who stroked the grainy Hawaiian guitar on "Aloha," though, I will buy him pina coladas until he cries uncle. We are urged to wear black this Friday, February 26, the 78th anniversary of Johnny Cash's birth and the release date of "Ain't No Grave." Well, what the hell -- this is one publicity gimmick I'm glad to endorse. Until we meet again, Mr. C. ]]> tag:www.metaljazz.com,2010://1.558 2010-02-19T17:45:52Z 2010-02-27T00:20:52Z

Natural and multi-limbed.

Adam Rudolph is serious about this Africa thing. Having studied hand drumming in Africa and India among other places, he hears rhythms not just as music, but as vehicles for healing and spirit communion. So it wasn't a showbiz thing to introduce each set with an African-garbed and -painted magic man (Robert Wisdom, a.k.a. Bunny Colvin from "The Wire") who drove evil from the air with rattle-whisks and got us humming to establish a common vibration. Audiences need to tune up too. Rudolph had 21 players this night: several percussionists/drummers on the left; a couple of bassists, a harp and the bigger woodwinds in back; several strings in the middle; three flutists on the right. As he conducted, we could see his charts (with nonstandard notations of his own invention), and a drawing that looked like an octopus -- he probably wished he had that many arms. Before the concert, Rudolph told me he had nearly been forced to cancel because he was traveling from the East Coast, where he moved from L.A. four years ago, and the airports were snowed in. He got here later than planned, so he wished he'd had more time to rehearse, especially for the through-composed parts of this largely improvisational program. But on this second of two nights, this incarnation of Go: Organic Orchestra sounded fresh and confident. The first set mostly rode the beats, which kept shifting in accent and timbre while maintaining a flavor of powerful African flex. Rudolph pushed the melody instruments into vivid contrasts of color and mood: string drones and slides, flute caressess and bird calls, bass-clarinet moans and incantations. Sometimes we settled into a tribal village ceremony, sometimes we gathered in a grooving veldt exodus, sometimes we subsided into reflective apprehension. I say we, because it was impossible not to feel a part of the music. The second set was more abstract yet softer, with moments of modern-classical meditation a la late Shostakovich touched by the solemn benediction of a gong. Sensitivity, purity, elevation and sudden bursts of Kongo energy. Every player was so good, but a few snapshots stick in the memory. Young Nick Rosen beamed ecstatically as he threw down huge riffs from his standup bass. (He told me he'd been having fun playing pop on electric bass lately, but improv is clearly his joy.) Bennie Maupin centered the community with his authoritative bass-clarinet lines. Karen Elaine attacked and battered her viola, clawing frenzied emotion from her solo. Pablo Calogero put down his horn and elephant-blasted the air with a decorative 4-foot Tibetan trumpet. Randy Gloss' work on pandeiro (Afro-Brazilian tambourine) was one of the most amazing demonstrations of concentrated virtuosity I've ever seen. Rudolph himself -- his hands making sunburst fists, stretching invisible threads or flashing exclamation points -- plunged into the orchestra in every direction to seize an instrumentalist's passion or sculpt a percussion shape. The little solar-powered auditorium was full of old hippies, middle-aged music fans and young zealots. And they all felt the connection. As they left, their feet didn't quite stay on the ground. ]]> tag:www.metaljazz.com,2010://1.557 2010-02-19T17:39:24Z 2010-02-19T17:52:29Z

Determination.

People walk around in dashikis. The pre-film blurbs feature ads for Ethiopian Airlines. Vendors in the lobby sell MLK DVDs. The yearly Pan African Film Festival at Culver Plaza Cinemas does pretty well, because it serves the underserved. I'm there to check out a couple of films related to jazz musician Charles Lloyd and his artist-filmmaker wife, Dorothy Darr. On Monday, there's "The Monk and the Mermaid: Charles Lloyd's Song," a documentary by Giuseppi Del Vecchi and Fara C. The camera follows Lloyd around on a European tour when his band jams at a medieval church, or when he praises Billy Higgins and Ornette Coleman (a rare but true tribute to Coleman's technical mastery, and Coleman returns the favor), or when he hilariously wears down a saxophone-company rep. Relaxed pace, pretty scenery, plenty of live music. But the emotional peak hits on Sunday, when Darr's documentary "Ben Ingram vs. the State of Mississippi" screens. Ingram, Charles Lloyd's grandfather, was quite a rarity in the early 1900s -- a black man who owned 1,600 acres of Mississippi farmland. Through interviews and archival images of slave lists and Jim Crow signage, Darr sets up the climate that made Ingram's success so improbable, as Lloyd's aching saxophone etches the soundtrack. Then Darr brings down the hammer with the crossroads moment in 1918 when Ingram kills his white neighbor in a boundary dispute. Self-defense? Extenuating circumstances? It would hardly matter in that time and place, but Ingram can afford lawyers who give him a fighting chance. Sitting in the theater, I can feel the audience's tension as the trial unfolds, and feel the release of that tension when the verdict is declared. In this community, 91 years after the event, there's no question about who's the protagonist. Ben Ingram was natural and adoptive father to more than 20 children. His story means a lot to his descendants, a score of whom (including his only surviving direct offspring, Alfreda Ingram Moore) gather at the end of the screening to introduce themselves. Looking from face to face, old and young, I think about what a family means. This is the legacy of determination. Present both days is a wheelchair-bound Buddy Collette, who was born a year after the Ingram trial. As everyone in Los Angeles jazz knows, Collette educated and mentored many an L.A. musician, including Charles Mingus, Eric Dolphy, Frank Morgan and James Newton. On Monday, Charles Lloyd runs down the litany and tells the story of how Collette launched Lloyd's career by recommending him as the replacement for Dolphy in Chico Hamilton's influential art-jazz ensemble. Then Lloyd goes out to where Collette is sitting, greets him, lays a hand on his shoulder, and they both smile. That's family, too. ]]> tag:www.metaljazz.com,2010://1.555 2010-02-12T18:23:16Z 2010-02-12T18:31:38Z

Meshuggah, "Alive" (Nuclear Blast DVD + CD) Spend some time in Canada and Japan with five glowering Swedes. Share the contrarian impulse of their irregular rhythms. Delight in the sensual barrage of sounds they draw from guitars fitted with too many strings. Savor the fine blend of intelligence and brutality. Then go to your room and blow your brains out. If you're a sissy, that is. If you're a fan of modern metal, the kind of darkness Meshuggah pour forth constitutes a lively environment. As recorded and mixed by Thomas Hedblom and Daniel Bergstrand, the band's sound gathers in the bones like rank humidity. Though no digitization could duplicate the full physicality of Meshuggah's live attack, a twist of the bass knob delivers a full-body workover of kick-drum thrum and low-end complexity that few bands can match. Some will find the ride a bit repetitive, but the repetition is essential to the revolution: The consistent displacement of Tomas Haake's snare accents can lead to a whole new way of not just thinking, but breathing. The guitars encourage change, too. When not cranking a lumbering riff, Fredrik Thordendal may occasionally dazzle with a an abstract finger-tapped solo, but mostly he prefers to highlight the murk with grainy buzz-picked sustains -- kind of a mind-scouring device. Listening to Meshuggah builds intellectual muscle from the ground upward. If 12 songs seem too heavy a load, start with three and work up. Meshuggah show confidence in the ever less traditional direction of their metal by allocating three-quarters of "Alive" to songs from their 2002 and 2008 masterworks, "Nothing" and "Obzen" -- the splatter-driving "Bleed" and the bent thrasher "Combustion," for instance. But one of the most dynamic numbers, the broken-rhythmed "Humiliative," dates to the 1994 "None" EP, a nod to a distinguished band history that stretches back to 1987. (Most of the members have served at least 17 years.) A laborious journey. The dudes seem to be growing weary of the travel grind, so treasure this first and possibly last Meshuggah DVD. Unlike every other metal doc, "Alive" downplays the fun of touring, with the band grunting stuff like "It's not about partying," "We miss our families" and "I hate this." Between well-shot full-length stage performances with the black-T-shirted soldiers bathed in glossy shadow, director Ian McFarland intersperses Ingmar Bergman-like black-and-white clips of the band stumbling off the tour bus, moping around backstage or reciting a list of upcoming treks. And really, most of this material, like the guitar-tech document, the drum-tech document and the concept-video clips, is superfluous. It was a good idea to include a CD featuring only the music. And the music is most original -- an electrocution that causes the flesh to twitch and the mind to clear. Rarely will you encounter a band with a less appropriate name. Arsis, "Starve for the Devil" (Nuclear Blast) The title alludes to the anorexia that nearly crippled guitarist-vocalist James Malone and temporarily wrecked his quite amazing melodeath-metal band a year ago. It's good to have Arsis back, at whatever weight. An Arsis album is always an energy infusion, but also an ear overload. How lucky that the Berklee-trained Malone loves to write spinning, soaring bridges, which give the listener a breather from the double-kick fury, the stabbing riffs and the accusatory barks. In line with the spirit of the times, "Starve for the Devil" cuts a thrashier path than 2008's "We Are the Nightmare," emphasizing a stricter tightness with the return of original drummer Mike Van Dyne. But that doesn't mean Malone has abandoned his epic aspirations, as he shows with the progressive narrative and variable textures of "From Soulless to Shattered," or the shuddering breakdowns and ingenious guitar counterpoint of "Escape Artist," whose crazy energy builds layers until Malone can't figure out what to do with the conglomeration except fade it out. Despite their headlong rush, the funny "Forced to Rock" and the galloping "Beyond Forlorn" border on catchy. It takes a few listens to sort out what Malone is up to; different animals jump out of his jungle every time through. Eat the bear. ]]> tag:www.metaljazz.com,2010://1.553 2010-02-05T18:36:39Z 2010-02-05T18:44:00Z

Dimensions expand, worlds multiply, history ends.

Matthew Shipp, "4D" (Thirsty Ear) Matthew Shipp's records are like letters, describing through his piano whatever emotions, obsessions and encounters he's gone through lately. When he made "4D," he must've been feeling a little nostalgic, a little bruised, and (these are all solo performances) a little lonely at age 50. On the more purely musical side, Shipp poses some hypotheses and works 'em out: What if Rach met Bach and smoked some pot ("4D")? What if Thelonious Monk's right hand and Cecil Taylor's left elbow played a duet ("The Crack in the Piano's Egg")? What if he impregnated the beatnik rhythm of Monk's "Epistrophe" with an entirely different melody and then got angry at his own confidence ("Blue Web in Space")? What if Grieg staged a Riverdance version of a nursery rhyme ("Frere Jacques")? This stuff is fun. On the other hand, such entertaining exercises seem like a distraction from what lies heaviest on Shipp's mind. His most abstract moments here carry distinct whiffs of apprehension, bewilderment, argument, hesitation, compulsive repetition. And the journey of his heart is unmistakable. In "Equilibrium," joyful arpeggios turn to sour disgust and back to joy again, setting up the listener for later tales of ambivalence Shipp tells via standards (not normally a big part of his repertoire). "What Is This Thing Called Love?" stumbles with giddy energy toward near collapse, then gathers itself together to rush nervously onward. "Autumn Leaves" blends flowery sentimentality with twitches of awkwardness and prodding accusations. The facile beauty of "Prelude to a Kiss" borders on sarcasm. And damn, what a conclusion is "Greensleeves," with Shipp pouring out his hopes and dreams in waves of "MacArthur Park"-like euphoria before pounding them to a bloody pulp. Shipp's soft touch and lazy rhythm, which often serve more intellectual explorations, are well suited to expressing the conflicted shivers of electricity that pass through the hapless bags of meat that we are. So when Cole Porter asks what love is . . . well, Shipp's got some kind of answer. Greg Burk, "Many Worlds" (482 Music) Greg Burk (not this writer but an avantian pianist based in Italy) has gotten himself a nice band. Now Burk can transport the aesthetic of mid-'60s Coltrane into the third millennium in ways I never imagined I'd hear from him. The key utility player is Henry Cook, whose saxes and flutes lend distinctiveness to a variety of moods ranging from dewdrop African dawn to Ibiza day-bake/night-dance to Cecil-style intensity. A bit of a beauty slave, Burk owns just the crisp yet sensitive phalangial dexterity to maximize his devotion, yet he's properly untidy, always pushing his paint off the edge of the canvas. Bassist Ron Seguin keeps things in focus with the contained bigness of his sound -- dig his fibrous extended solo on "BC." And drummer Michael Lambert tickles a mess of cymbals, usually just suggesting that you imagine some kind of interior rhythm. Not many Trane devotees allot equal respect to the rambling openness of McCoy Tyner and the elevational Indisms of Alice Coltrane (whose worldwide influence becomes ever more apparent). Greg Burk likes both, and Greg Burk concurs. Jon Rappoport-Bob Magnusson-Putter Smith, "47 Years After the End of History" (Qpress) "In the long run," writes pianist-painter-writer Jon Rappoport in his notes, "non-structures are more important than structures." I don't agree; avoiding structures is the same as thinking out loud, which rises to the level of consistent art only in the cases of genii such as Borah Bergman or Larry Karush, and I suspect even they enter an improvisation with some kind of map in mind. Luckily, here Rappoport gets support from two great bassists who don't agree with him either. Free improvisation amounts to mere footnotes in the vast biographies of Bob Magnusson and Putter Smith; here, each finds ways to lend structure to duets with Rappoport. After a unison or an alternating dialogue, Magnusson often diverts his deep, hard-surfaced pluck into a walk or a determined rhythmic line that gives Rappoport something to hang his clouds on. The more sympathetic partner is Smith, whose grave and grainy bowed bass amplifies the reluctant pondering of "Clipper Ship in the Milky Way" into an emotional cry that could connect with anyone. Both bassists join the pianist's spontaneous rambles for the 20-minute title track, a coalition of shadings and delineations worthy of a Rappoport abstract painting. For dimensions, three is a good number. So history ended when, in the early '60s? I guess it was the Beatles' fault. ]]> tag:www.metaljazz.com,2010://1.551 2010-01-28T20:00:40Z 2010-01-28T21:05:27Z

Total-immersion therapy.

Nels Cline + G.E. Stinson, "Elevating Device" (Sounds Are Active) This 44 minutes of continuous music by Los Angeles guitarists/electromen Nels Cline and G.E. Stinson represents the most satisfying new slice of abstraction I heard in 2009. It told me this story. Orange alert turns to red; giant mutant creatures burst through safety glass. After a cataclysmic storm, the world drips with atomic metal rain. Dying machines and humans gather in a heaven of coruscating light. The firmament breathes with dignity and sorrow. A new dawn breaks. Elements of light travel the stars in sadness until they plunge into the waters of a distant world. New life vibrates, struggles and evolves. Multiplicity boils and evaporates into a unified corona around a cold, slowly revolving sun. The sun throbs and agitates; geysers of harsh light burst from within. The sphere destabilizes, peels slowly apart and expands until it fills the void with white. That's the story "Elevating Device" told me; it will tell you another story, beautiful in a different way. This kind of thing could encourage belief in an ordered universe. "Elevating Device" is available here. Stuart Dempster-Tom Heasley-Eric Glick Rieman, "Echoes of Syros" (Full Bleed) Musicians enjoy recording in the 200-million-gallon Ft. Worden Cistern near Port Townsend, Washington, because of its 45-second reverb. I'm glad Dempster, Heasley and Rieman were among those musicians. The cistern reverb works a special magic when it encounters bass tones, and luckily Dempster and Heasley play didgeridoo and tuba, among other things. They also discovered that sustained tones built extraordinary dimension in this environment. So the record's title track is really something. It feels like water -- like whale sounds and sloshing depths and the murmurs of reclusive spirits (the last generated in part by Rieman's prepared Rhodes piano). The drone's sensual profundity never wearies as the music rolls with a slow dynamism, birthing a dramatic increase in bass intensity halfway through its 34 minutes. A kind of molten Led Zeppelin flow -- like "No Quarter" slowed to 9rpm -- even shows up via the aqueous theme and the dark mood. You may want to use the cut as an environmental loop in your house; its solemn embrace can probably heal everything from depression to dandruff. If the record's three other rattle-tweak-bounce improvisations don't carry the same weight, they hardly could. But "Echoes of Syros" is the main event; play it loud. "Echoes of Syros" is available at CDBaby and at Amazon.com. ]]> tag:www.metaljazz.com,2010://1.550 2010-01-21T23:47:29Z 2010-03-05T01:03:59Z

Saxophone great Charles Lloyd was unable to play an encore with his New Quartet at an art-gallery benefit for photographer John Colao on Tuesday night. Lloyd had to lie down after experiencing weakness at the end of his set.

Saxophone great Charles Lloyd was unable to play an encore with his New Quartet at an art-gallery benefit for photographer John Colao on Tuesday night. Lloyd had to lie down after experiencing weakness at the end of his set; he was attended by Colao's doctor, Lawrence Piro of the Angeles Clinic, whose preliminary diagnosis was dehydration. Lloyd spent the night in Venice before returning to his Montecito home Wednesday morning. His wife, Dorothy Darr, said he felt better Wednesday but was still not at full strength. Lloyd gave a full-strength performance, though. His tenor work maintained an extraordinary level of sensitivity laced with bursts of mercurial speed, and his approach to the tarogato (a wooden reed horn similar to a soprano sax) incorporated breathy note refinements and false fingerings that enabled him to emulate the microtonal scales of certain Eastern instruments. Bassist Reuben Rogers balanced the elevated mood with a series of lighthearted solo adventures; pianist Jason Moran ranged the keys with an inspired variety of ultradelicate strokes and compressions/expansions of melody. Drummer Greg Hutchinson, substituting for traveling skinsman Eric Harland, joined his longtime friends with a light yet firm touch, contributing an especially attractive solo with sticks on his thighs. The posh art crowd responded to the set with nearly reckless enthusiasm. PHOTO BY DOROTHY DARR. ]]> tag:www.metaljazz.com,2010://1.549 2010-01-21T22:43:45Z 2010-03-05T01:04:28Z

Kenny Burrell. At Catalina Bar & Grill, 6725 Sunset Blvd., Hollywood 90028; 8 & 10pm; $20-$30; (323) 466-2210; www.catalinajazzclub.com. Sun. Jan. 24 -- I See Hawks in L.A. are kicking up a Best Of collection, along with some unreleased and new stuff, and they celebrate tonight. If you've been looking for a condensation of this remarkable environmental/poetic/psychedelic country band, you got it. You can also celebrate the life of McCabe's founder Gerald McCabe, who died last Sunday. With Matt the Electrician. At McCabe’s, 3101 Pico Blvd., Santa Monica 90405; 7pm; $15; (310) 828-4497; www.mccabes.com. Sun. Jan. 24 -- Our favorite fascist, Ted Nugent, shreds on guitar and skins your wallet after shooting it with his bow & arrow, so you better take it out of your pocket. It's a free-for-all. At the Canyon Club, 28912 Roadside Drive, Agoura Hills 91301; 9pm; $68.50; (818) 879-5016; www.canyonclub.net. Tues. Jan. 26 -- Thelonious Dub jams the reggaefied jazz here every Tuesday for a while; calendar it. At Air-Conditioned Lounge, 2819 Pico Blvd., Santa Monica 90404; 9pm-midnight; no cover; www.airconditionedbar.com. Tues. Jan. 26 -- Korpiklaani extol the wirtues of wodka wia their spirited Finnish folk-metal. Good bill with fellow Wiking pagans Tyr, plus Swashbuckle, White Wizzard (read their bassist's great rave on the sellout of Metallica here) and up-and-coming young black-metal dudes Statius. The venue, which has taken over many of the closed Key Club's metal bookings, is a stark warehouse of a place, but a valuable addition to local clubland, especially as it operates outside the loop of the established mafia. At Ultraviolet Social Club, 2662 Lacy St., LA 90031 near the junction of the 110 and 5 freeways; doors 7pm; $24; all ages; strict ID for alcohol; (323) 227-0078; www.8thdaytix.com. Thurs. Jan. 28 -- Big news: Guitar demon Wino Weinrich (the Obsessed, Spirit Caravan, the Hidden Hand, etc.) reunites with a founding entity of the American stoner-rock movement, St. Vitus. Plus fine newer bands that worship at the same groaning altar: Saviours, Ancestors and Totimoshi. This will sell out, so get tickets now. At Ultraviolet Social Club, 2662 Lacy St., LA 90031 near the junction of the 110 and 5 freeways; doors 7pm; $29.50; all ages; strict ID for alcohol; (323) 227-0078; www.8thdaytix.com. Read Brick’s Picks in LA Weekly here and Don Heckman’s picks here. ]]> tag:www.metaljazz.com,2010://1.548 2010-01-21T15:28:38Z 2010-01-21T16:11:37Z

Wadada Leo Smith, "Spiritual Dimensions" (Cuneiform) The word magic keeps coming to mind. If we knew exactly where the magic came from, it wouldn’t be magic. But it has something to do with the way the toms of Pheeroan AkLaff and Art Ensemblist Don Moye rub against each other, creating not so much a beat as an incantation. And it has something to do with the sparkly piano powder that Vijay Iyer tosses out of his bag. It’s in Wadada Leo Smith’s concentrated trumpet tone, and in the dark recesses of John Lindberg’s bass. Together. The cover photo of a patchwork quilt, with diverse elements coming together in appealing symmetry, sends the right message. Talkin’ about the first disc of "Spiritual Dimensions," featuring Smith’s Golden Quintet, the latest in a changing lineup of Golden ensembles that has included the likes of Jack DeJohnette, Malachi Favors and Ronald Shannon Jackson. The Golden designation is an extra-special one, denoting the value of a truly sympathetic group; the deep AACM roots of Smith and Moye provide a source from which the younger members can extend family branches, making this live New York recording one of the few that resonates on the same wavelength as '60s productions by Bill Dixon, Albert Ayler or Cecil Taylor. The album awakens and stretches, then sends up gale warnings, engages in animal festivities, conjures up spirits that appear and disappear. The drums establish a physical heart massage; the musicians pair off or solo with natural confidence, inspiration and skill, showing off the rapport they've developed over the years. Over the first four tracks, this brilliant abstract mood dominates. Then Smith shifts gears for the final 16-minute epic, "South Central L.A. Kulture" -- and ohmygod. Lindberg adopts a stalking wah bass riff to seize the center as the drums jostle him like a street crowd; Iyer switches to dweebly synthesizer before adopting grandiose Cuban acoustic flourishes; Smith finishes with electronified grit. And you have just FELT the song's title. "Kulture" puts Smith's individualized slant on early-'70s Miles Davis. For a more literal "Live/Evil"-style Miles tribute, proceed (if you're still not dusted enough) directly to Disc 2 for an entirely different take on "Kulture" by Smith's Organic ensemble. This ad hoc nonet founded on Smith, AkLaff and Lindberg spends the first half-hour getting acquainted, as four guitarists -- Michael Gregory, Brandon Ross, Nels Cline and Lamar Smith -- stake out electronic territory for lazy, cloudy jams. But they don't quite put it all together till the eponymous "Organic," whose slop-funky groove is organ-ized into coherent parts, including a melancholy bridge. The concluding track sandwiches the scary glass towers of "Spiritual Fire" between the two beautiful exhalations of "Joy" to leave you a satisfied customer. Throughout his fearless career, Wadada Leo Smith has shot arrows in many different directions. This time, he's crowding the bullseye. Bobby Bradford, Tom Heasley, Ken Rosser, "Varistar" (Full Bleed) It's always a pleasure to absorb the soulful bleed of Bobby Bradford's cornet, which seems to arrive from about 1934, when he was born -- Ornette Coleman might've been thinking in ironic terms when he featured Bradford on a 1972 album called "Science Fiction." The sessions of "Varistar" do represent a bit of time travel (1999), but there's no expiration date on this kind of well-balanced improvisation. Mostly it's a circular journey, with Bradford and tuba player Tom Heasley leisurely chasing each other's lines while Ken Rosser comments via stinging, skidding, twangling electric guitar. The twice-removed abstractions on blues and carnival fugue are pleasant if overlong until the last two tracks, where the music gains dimension from Rosser's freak boxes. Now Bradford and Heasley subside into calm, open seas, and you can hear Rosser's aurora borealis stretching across the sky, with high howls moving radically across your brain pan, and Heasley imitating the vibration in his own low register -- quite amazing. On the final "Elegy for John Carter," the ancient electric voices of the spirit world declare themselves, balanced here on earth by Heasley's sympathetic channeling, as Bradford uses his horn to address his old friend in simple, intimate terms. Lovely sadness, a fitting end to a tuned-in communion. ]]> tag:www.metaljazz.com,2010://1.547 2010-01-16T20:41:55Z 2010-01-26T00:23:00Z

In the Old City of Jerusalem, the 12th-century Church of St. Anne stands as the Crusaders’ stone monument to the solidity, simplicity and rigidity of faith. Beneath it lies the chamber where Anne gave birth to the Virgin Mary; the Mother of God was also born in various other locations around town. Severe though its architecture is, the church takes care of its individual congregants -- by its reverberations. Tourists come here to sing. Three white teenagers, two girls and a boy, do “Adeste Fidelis” in pure harmony. The walls carry the music upward and spread it out into atoms. The kids smile. They leave; an African pilgrimage group comes in, the people all wearing yellow baseball caps. They join into a folky spiritual, their voices clinging together like lumps in pudding. The church is cold; they are warm. The sound drips down the walls and settles around their ankles. It’s a good earth vibration. Not every pile of stones knows something about people and is able to reflect human essences correctly. These stones have had 870 years to learn. A mile down, at the destination of the narrow, winding alley called the Via Dolorosa, the huge and menacing Church of the Holy Sepulcher is not as proficient at personal service. In its defense, the church has to deal with priests all the time, whole gangs of them from competing Christian denominations -- Greek, Armenian, Roman, Coptic, Syrian and Ethiopian. In sequence, the priests of each sect march around the last five Stations of the Cross; they radiate a certain military attitude, with the Greeks (I think) escorting one main cleric garbed like a Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan, except he wears black. When the Roman priests sing the Pater Noster in the chapel reputed to be the site of Calvary, the church’s walls muffle and confuse the voices, making them unmusical. I believe the edifice does this on purpose. Jerusalem’s Rockefeller Museum is an orderly stone repository with an elegant secular tower. It is empty, maybe because of today’s rain, but it feels as if it’s always empty. The museum’s prize possessions are coffins and human remains dating from prehistoric times. A wall legend declares that the local chalcolithic (stone & copper) culture vanished suddenly around 3500 BC, around the time when a priestly class emerged. Much of the subsequent art shows an Egyptian influence. The high-ceilinged rooms are still. Then I start hearing ghostly vocal music with a lot of reverb. How tacky; they’re piping in a Mysterious East soundtrack like in some History Channel show. But the music is growing subtle and layered, and now I’m wondering where I can score a recording of this abstract art; it’s good. And it hits me: The museum is located in the Arab side of the city. My watch says it’s just after 2:30. What I’m hearing is the Call to Prayer by three or four muezzin, echoing up the hill and through these halls. In any Islamic land, this semi-accidental harmony is the most soul-touching music a tourist is likely to hear. The 1938 inauguration of the Rockefeller Museum (then called the Palestine Archaeological Museum) was marred when archaeologist J.L. Starkey was murdered by locals on his way to the ceremonies. The motive has been attributed to either robbery or politics. Jericho, a site inhabited for some 10,000 years, currently lies under the jurisdiction of the Palestinian Authority. Israelis can’t enter without special papers; as with other West Bank areas, the road hits a barricade where very young soldiers, many of them women armed with bulky automatic firearms, make quick checks of vehicles coming and going. Just outside the small, dusty city stands a rusty 40-foot metal sculpture of a key, surmounted with a Palestinian flag and bearing the motto “We will return.” Deb and I are being driven by our Arab guide, Osama, to see the 8th-century sultan’s palace, the excavations of the world’s oldest fortifications, and the Greek monastery at the traditional site of Jesus’ temptation by Satan. When we’re finished, Sam cuts us loose for a half-hour stroll around the quiet little town square -- scarves; tiny birds crowded in cages; falafel frying; great gatherings of fruit and vegetables, plentiful here because the area is watered by a number of springs. We spot a music store the size of a large closet, with CDs and tapes in racks that stretch up to the ceiling. The proprietor is on the phone; he stays on the phone. When at length he ends his call, he wants to sell us nice music. I say I want music that says “Grrr.” He reluctantly lets us audit a few records that feature aggressive rhythms and intense vocals backed by semitraditional Arabic dance instrumentation. I buy “Gaza Will Not Die” and “The Story of the People.” Deb has explored the stacks and grabs a CD with a picture of Yasser Arafat and a machine gun; she doesn’t care what it sounds like. (Turns out to be Arabic hip-hop.) The proprietor slowly wraps our purchases. He does not look up; he does not smile. But he takes our shekels. Business is slow. ]]>