David Adler
March 2002

New York @ Night
Archive <& /articles/nyan_archive.tmp &>

By David R. Adler

Vanguard Pianists

Mulgrew Miller and Bruce Barth each played a week at the Village Vanguard in February. These two pianists are famous and first-rate sidemen, but they’re struggling to establish themselves as leaders, even though they both have a respectable catalog of discs to their credit. Miller and his trio mates, bassist Richie Goods and drummer Karriem Riggins, began their penultimate set with a sprinting "Joshua," then laid back a bit with Miller’s "When I Get There," a tune with echoes of "Blue Monk." They were off and running again with "If I Should Lose You," then soaring exultantly on "Farewell to Dogma." Miller’s touch was sublime on his towering rendition of "Come Sunday"; he closed by ripping through dozens of killing, inexhaustible choruses on "Relaxin’ at Camarillo." There was some tension just in front of me, as one audience member kept hooting and hollering his approval throughout the show. Another guy nearby was shooting him dirty looks, so aggressively that it seemed they might have words, or worse. The funny thing was that the loud one was hooting at exactly the right times. He may have been annoying, but at least he was accurate. Anyway, the overall vibe was celebratory, and a number of notables came out to support Miller, one of the music’s greatest underdogs. Look around and you could spot Chucho Valdes, James Williams, Karrin Allyson, Rodney Kendrick, and more.

Bruce Barth had Ugonna Okegwo on bass and the great Al Foster on drums, his cymbals set up in trademark fashion (nearly perpendicular to the floor). Their first Sunday set began with one of Monk’s lesser-known gems, "San Francisco Holiday (Worry Later)." Barth also included a wildly retooled version of "I’m Old Fashioned," along with a suite of three beautiful new compositions and a closing blowout on "The Lexter" (which can be heard on Steve Wilson’s Passages [Stretch]). Barth’s speedy and inventive lines and in-depth harmonic inquiries were superb; Okegwo and Foster shared a remarkably compatible approach to accompaniment, as well as soloing. This was arguably the biggest gig of Barth’s career thus far, and fittingly, a host of musicians were in the house: Billy Hart, Rufus Reid, Adam Kolker, Adam Cruz, Roberta Piket, Ari Hoenig, and Hans Glawischnig, to name a few.

And then there was Gato Barbieri, who was sitting on the rear banquette and wouldn't keep quiet once the set began. When audience members started asking him to pipe down, all hell broke loose. Barbieri thundered, "I AM GATO BARBIERI, I KNOW EVERYONE!" A few more utterances along these lines and Lorraine Gordon emerged, charging toward the back, having absolutely none of it. Barbieri was ejected, but just before he was out the door, Lorraine stopped him and said, "You owe me for your drinks."

Burning at the Jazz Gallery

Yosvany Terry, the alto/soprano saxophonist and composer, arrived in New York by way of California and his native Cuba only two or so years ago. He gained early exposure at the Jazz Gallery with his "Jazz Cubano" series; he’s also appeared regularly at the Gallery with bands led by Jason Lindner, Avishai Cohen, Dafnis Prieto, and more. In February he unveiled a new quintet project there, featuring Prieto, James Genus on bass, Jonathan Kreisberg on guitar, and the young Ambrose Akimusire on trumpet. This band was truly on fire. The Genus-Prieto rhythm section roared like a jet engine. Kreisberg’s solos were bursting with forward motion and dynamics, matching the intensity and incisiveness of the horns at every step. His rhythm playing, peppered with filter and wah effects and sounding almost like a Rhodes, gave some of Terry’s compositions just the right edge, particularly when the hip-hop and drum-n-bass vibe kicked in. Terry’s Latin-based writing dazzled, but he and his group were equally convincing on a straight ballad reading of "What’s New," with Akimusire tapping into a Clifford-Lee Morgan sensibility. This gig was billed as a CD release for Twisted Noon (Bombo Music), but Terry confides that his live thing is already heading in a different direction.

Terry and pianist Andy Milne both share an association with Steve Coleman and the M-Base movement, but Milne’s Dapp Theory (formerly Cosmic Dapp Theory) approaches music quite differently, embracing an electric funk/fusion aesthetic and frequently including rap vocals, courtesy of the remarkable Kokayi. Adding to the band’s idiosyncratic profile is Gregoire Maret on harmonica, plunging into some heady improv and nailing difficult unison lines with Milne. Rich Brown’s elegant electric bass locks firmly with Sean Rickman’s drums — and Rickman, when he solos, seems as though he just might launch himself through the ceiling. Kokayi’s forays veer between rap and a kind of speech-singing; he’ll often find just the right pitch and ride it until it becomes a syllabic avalanche. It’s often said that vocalists should ideally function like instrumentalists. In this band, Kokayi’s voice is most certainly an instrument, with as much as rhythmic spark as any drum. He adds a little humor, too — toward the end of the set he did some freestyling, playing off the names of some of the musicians he could spot in the audience. His main targets were Yosvany Terry and Gene Lake, but closer post-set inspection also revealed Steve Coleman, David Sanchez, Miguel Zenon, and Dafnis Prieto.

Blake Tartare

Tenor/soprano saxophonist Michael Blake had the opportunity to stretch out for four nights in the Knitting Factory’s Old Office, with two different bands and various special guests. The first two nights featured the Elevated quartet, with the lineup from his aptly named new disc on the Knitting Factory label: bassist Ben Allison, pianist Frank Kimbrough, and drummer Mike Mazor. Percussionist Mauro Refosco and slide guitarist David Tronzo appeared as special guests. Tronzo also stuck around for the first night of Blake Tartare, which found Blake in the company of three scruffy Scandinavians — Soren Kjaergaard on Rhodes, Jonas Westergaard on bass, and Kresten Osgood on drums.

On the last night, the only one I could make, trumpeter Steven Bernstein joined Blake up front. Kjaergaard had his left wrist in a splint, so he played the Rhodes pretty much with one arm, using the bad one to mute the open hammers (which he might have done anyway). His showstopper, however, was blowing into his Corona bottle, which produced some amazing sounds and ultimately caused him to break out laughing. Westergaard, a solid and impassioned upright player, was the spitting image of John Walker Lindh; Osgood’s drumming was wild and wonderfully scattered at times (and his Incredible Hulk T-shirt suited him perfectly). Blake’s compositions stressed persistent vamps, free and abstract passages, and occasionally a mournful melody, played with that distinctively guttural and edgy touch. Bernstein, on both valve and slide horns, added much irreverence to the set, not least of all when it was over. During Blake’s closing remarks he thanked the club for his four-night stand, saying, "It’s almost like some Miles at the Plugged Nickel thing!" Bernstein, without a moment’s hesitation, said, "Fuck that shit, it’s Blake at the Knitting Factory. Miles is a dead motherfucker!" My first instinct was disapproval, although it’s funny how virtually any response to that statement immediately clunks to the floor, a turgid platitude. I guess it’s not the artistic thrust of Bernstein’s barb that bothers me, but rather the zeal with which he’d kill Miles off.

Jazz at Detour

Detour, a plain little bar in the East Village, is a strange case. It attracts some top-notch talent, but it’s notoriously noisy. It awkwardly tries to function as both a jazz space and a neighborhood hangout. The jazz lovers in the house always seem to be in the minority. Getting people to quiet down during sets is a lost cause and isn’t even attempted. Still, the musicians keep coming, offering what amount to public rehearsals and passing the hat. If you sit up close and tune out the bar, you can hear great things. Tenor saxophonist Andrew Rathbun unveiled some new music, for instance, in a group with Ralph Alessi on trumpet, Henry Hey on Wurlitzer, John Hebert on bass, Mike Sarin on drums, and Yusuke Yamamoto on percussion. This was open, spacious, advanced work with an electric touch, at times veering toward freedom. Rathbun’s tenor chops were stirring but never overly aggressive; he calmly piloted the band through some older music, like "Another Aspect" from his very hip True Stories record on Fresh Sound. But most of the tunes were spanking new and as yet unrecorded. Do look out for Rathbun’s forthcoming Fresh Sound release Sculptures, featuring none other than Kenny Wheeler.

Back again at Detour the following night, the Zurich-based alto player Nat Su made a rare New York appearance with Ben Waltzer on piano, Nicolas Thys on bass, and Gerald Cleaver on drums. First, Su called Joe Henderson’s "Serenity," establishing a straightahead vibe that would prevail throughout. The set continued with a bright piece by Waltzer called "Our Rhythm," then a beautiful ballad in three, followed by an uptempo "Just In Time" and a change of drummers for "Take the Coltrane." Su’s tone is measured and moderate in volume, but his lines are searching, often catching the listener off-guard. Waltzer contrasted fluid lines with jagged chords and riffs; his energetic comping was distinguished by pointed, skillful responses to Su’s fleeting ideas. Thys was a solid timekeeper and soloist, but thanks to a problem pickup his volume was too low — and bass solos can sure get lost in the shuffle in a rackety space like Detour, even under the best circumstances. Gerald Cleaver radiated intelligence at the kit, demonstrating his authority with straightahead material. Interestingly, his debut as a leader, Adjust (Fresh Sound), is a bracingly avant-garde statement, featuring the highly captivating frontline of Mat Maneri, Ben Monder, and reedsman Andrew Bishop. It’s a killer.

Does What He Wants

Howard Fishman seems innately immune to creative stagnation, and this was never more apparent than at his February 19th CD release gig at Joe’s Pub. The new record, Do What I Want (Monkey Farm), is his first foray into rock territory, complete with drums, electric guitars, organ, and more. This is quite a break from his group’s rural and vintage music focus, but the continuity and integrity of the new songs couldn’t be clearer. It was still the same wry, crafty Fishman, but now he and the band were clad in T-shirts (at the Pub in January they were in suits). Fishman, with a tiger-stripe red Guild T-50, played and sang while standing up for the first time ever. Russell Farhang brandished an electric violin, and his rapport with fellow soloist Erik Jekabson (trumpet) was never stronger. The additional band members were guitarist Geoff Gersh, keyboardist Brian Pearl, and drummer Sethy G. A couple of cute women got up and danced during the last tune.

Songwriting is a chief concern of Jay Collins’s as well. At the Jazz Gallery with his regular quartet (Dred Scott, piano; John Robinson, bass; Diego Voglino, drums), Collins not only played tenor, soprano, and flutes, he also sang original songs. His gruff, bluesy style strongly recalled Ray Charles, but lyrically he was closer to Mose Allison, with a touch of Bob Dorough’s eccentricity also in the mix. Much of Collins’s writing touches upon social and political issues, most directly on "Big Business Man" but also on "Sometimes Tears," which contains the following couplet: "Kids in public schools ain’t gettin’ taught/thieves in corporate clothes ain’t gettin’ caught." He can also pull off an inspired rhyme like "pachyderm/live and learn," which practically rivals Stephin Merritt’s "elite/spirochete," a pairing praised by William Berlind in The New York Times Magazine last month. "I wanted to get away from the solos-all-night thing," Collins told me after his first set. Thinking back to the Yosvany Terry and Andy Milne gigs, I was all the more impressed by the Jazz Gallery’s artistic scope, its nurturing of individuality, and its rejection of musical litmus tests.

Postscript: Time Out on Jazz

Time Out New York ran a cover story a few weeks ago titled, "Why Music Sucks." Inside, the editors offered an analysis of the current music industry malaise and a few theories as to why pop music is in a slump. Jazz, for the most part, was treated as though it didn’t exist, although there was this one juicy aside: "Jazz fans, it would seem, have an excuse. Even many jazz musicians agree that the idiom’s golden age is behind us." Oh boy, here we go again. But who has the energy for this debate anymore? Readers, should we even care?