November 2001

Open Ears
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By Laurence Donohue-Greene

The last Friday and Saturday evenings of October found Lawrence D. “Butch” Morris and Henry Threadgill, along with their respective ensembles, each presenting a brand new work at Harlem’s Aaron Davis Hall. Though Threadgill’s On Walcott had been performed in its developmental stages over in Europe, these showcases represented its U.S. premiere. And being that Morris could never repeat any one of his “Conductions”, due to the nature of what actually makes a “Conduction” (more on that later), these nights were also the premiere of Morris’ new work entitled Conduction No.119.

An anthrax scare that evening (which closed down most of the Uptown trains in Manhattan) delayed many a listener and spectator to the highly anticipated event. However, it was going to take more than an inconvenience to altogether stop these eyes and ears, as I’m sure was the similar mindset of all ticket holders that night who collectively were not going to allow terrorists let alone pranksters to effect such a special occasion as was being presented that night in Harlem. Upon arrival was a massive get together, a re-union of sorts, of non-participating musicians and die-hard improvisational music supporters. From Quincy Troupe (the poet, teacher, and Miles Davis autobiographer) to former Rahsaan Roland Kirk keyboardist Rahn Burton—the hall was filled with a who’s who of where jazz has traveled since the mid-‘60s. And for obvious reasons. The 21-member orchestra of Morris’ featured many musicians that played with key figures who had significant roles in jazz and improvisational music over the course of the last three to four decades.

Amongst the 21-member collective in Morris’ ensemble were violinist Billy Bang (the Leroy Jenkins’ protégé and String Trio of New York co-founder), bassist Juni Booth (who was featured on many of McCoy Tyner’s seminal early-‘70s Milestone recordings), bassist Wilber Morris (“Butch” Morris’ brother who has extensively worked with David Murray and the late Makanda Ken McIntyre), the great French hornist Vincent Chancey (a frequent collaborator with the likes of Muhal Richard Abrams, Carla Bley, the late Lester Bowie, and Sun Ra), and percussionist/vibraphonist Warren Smith (who’s played with everyone from Gil Evans to Max Roach’s M’Boom). Amongst the younger generation and newcomers within the ensemble were tenor saxophonist Illhan Ersahin, cellist Okkyung Lee, and guitarist Liberty Ellman.

Though not having put the cornet down altogether, Morris has certainly been primarily focused on his “Conductions”. After having basically patented the word and concept, “Comprovisation” (a form of organized group improvisation lying somewhere between composition and improvisation)—Morris has now mastered his own technique of a concept he likes to call, “Conduction” (simply translated as improvised orchestration). Using a self-created and personal form of sign language, Morris gestures and directs members of his orchestra into and out of individual, section, and full group improvisations. With the pointing of a finger, the twitch of a right or left hand, and/or a chicken-winged elbow or two—Morris can alter or initiate harmony, melody, rhythm, articulation, phrasing, or form in a real time musical arrangement from one musician to, in this case, a full 21-member orchestra.

Consequently, Morris immediately and convincingly has put to rest any doubts one might have had about the relevance and function of an actual conductor. If you’ve ever been to a classical music performance and actually wondered what role the conductor plays other than his/her obviously essential presence during rehearsals—doubt no longer in regards to the significance of a conductor, or at least a conductor such as Morris in a live setting. Most conductors seem almost removed, going through limp and uninvolved hand gestures as the orchestra members are almost as focused on the sheet music as they are on their so-called leader. There are of course many, many exceptions to this rule (Charles Dutoit and Simon Rattle amongst them), but if the thought ever crossed your mind and you’d like to play the devil’s advocate, then you know it wouldn’t be such an outlandish question to ask, “Might the (average everyday) orchestra be able to perform this music conductor-less?”

With Morris, though, there’s no sheet music in the first place, so without Morris there certainly wouldn’t be any cohesiveness, rather pure randomness, amongst what the musicians would or could play. More importantly, the musicians themselves rely on their respective and collective orbit around Morris as he continually changes patterns dependent upon the where, what, and how of his desires and, subsequent, body motions. Ultimately the musicians determine the actual outcome of each respective conduction, though there is no doubt as to what role and significance Morris plays as conductor during his conductions.

How much of the music heard during this conduction (and any other, for that matter) was actually based upon rehearsal versus how much was performed via sheer spontaneity within the conduction process is hard to say. Morris’ Conduction No.119 was heard in four basic movements. Also unlike a classical music concert, each movement of the work appropriately received applause at their respective conclusions. Through Morris’ spur of the moment decisiveness, the overlaying textures of the music created by the general mass of all 21 members created certain windows of opportunity for specific musicians to shine from segments of one movement to the next. Thanks to Morris, tenor saxophonist Ersahin broke through the tapestry of sound, as did violinist Bang, who created choppy lines that added to the momentum of the surrounding sounds. It was unfortunate that only when Morris directed more of a modest number of the musicians to interact could Warren Smith clearly be heard on vibraphone, as the general ensemble passages drowned out the malleted percussionist. This seemed to be one of the very few drawbacks, however, of the mix in regards to Morris’ ensemble, his conduction, and the space at Aaron Davis Hall.

Pianist, Lois Perdomo, could be heard to great effect in the accompaniment of string players, Stephanie Griffin (viola) and Okkyung Lee (cello). The hyper and tense short string lines of viola, cello, and violin worked in conjunction with the rest of the group’s created waves of sound. A concept closely associated with the world of jazz, otherwise known as the “solo”, deemed itself absent and superfluous due to its opposing nature to the concept of Morris’ conduction process. The music worked in ripples and undercurrents, as Morris would direct the music, which became dependent upon the number of actual musicians Morris chose to involve and to what side of the orchestra Morris wavered towards at any given moment.

The second movement found guitarist Ellman, a Threadgill connection (he is a member of one of Threadgill’s latest projects, Zooid), opening alone with the eventual contribution of Smith’s delicate vibes (which could certainly be appreciated this time around under the basic instrumentation circumstances) and patient cello work from Lee. Morris, playing the role of the Sorcerer’s apprentice, directed the upright acoustic bass section of threesome Juni Booth, Wilber Morris, and Brian Smith, consequently bringing a certain depth to the overall sound of the piece. He then motioned to harpist Mia Theodorakis and vibist Smith, who quickly acquiesced in complementing his vibes to the harp. Coordinating the strings of violins and viola, Morris in a quick signal brought forth a bit of brass in Chancey’s French horn (the only other brass instruments in the entire ensemble being Steve Swell’s trombone and John Carlson’s trumpet).

Eyes were continuously glued to Morris every movement of the way—I’m sure even his widening eyes, let alone raised eyebrow, represented some significance in respect to how he wanted to hear the music being performed. No one even dropped their visual plane onto where their hands were in relation to their actual instrument(s). Ellman softly fingered single notes meditatively throughout this second section of the conduction, thus providing a tonal or focal center to the ensemble’s sound, before Morris quickly raised his arms to bring the blanket of sound to a climax and then dropped them, consequently bringing the second movement of the piece to a miraculously coordinated closing.

For the third section, Theodorakis offered some amazingly unorthodox harp sounds that Morris had adjoined with the floating touch of piano keys played by Perdomo, as well as pizzicato bass supplied by Wilber Morris. As if he sensed the harpist was onto something (or maybe the fact that he was onto something with his conduction of the harp), “Butch” Morris did what he could to exploit the fact by bringing certain instruments and contributing sounds in to complement and advance her raw repetitive theme (as was similarly done for Ellman during the previous movement). The penultimate section ended with harp and guitar leaving the theme suspended mid-air, before fading out altogether into silence.

The fourth and final movement brought to light the main difference between the conduction orchestras of Morris and the big bands that are more commonly associated with jazz and improvisational music. One of the pioneering and lasting aspects that innovator Louis Armstrong brought to jazz, originally through the big band of Fletcher Henderson’s, was the significance of the soloist’s role within a band. In many cases the soloist became the driver behind many a jazz big band, which before were soloist-less and made up of tight and smooth arrangements for the full band (versus individuals, that is). Following the breakthrough by Armstrong, the solo had the occasional and unfortunate tendency to have little or nothing to do with the actual composition itself or at least the tune’s melody. It has since become merely a potential showcase for chops and technique—a trend that is more commonplace today than it ever previously was due to the advanced and widespread schooling of this generation’s music students versus previous generations of musicians.

Morris’ success, in regards to his conductions, can indeed be at least partially attributed to his recruited top-notch musicians, all of whom though are much more than mere individual showboats. They work as a whole with an overall empathy for what Morris aims to accomplish through his conductions. The music is all about time, sometimes a lack thereof, and the moment, as well as the place, and the surroundings. No single musician sticks out as being more important or more vital to the whole than any other, in the most advantageous of a communistic musical atmosphere, as opposed to the soloist-filled concept that most if not all stereotypical big bands commonly follow.

Morris directed oboist, Arnold Greenich, before adding on the reeds and woodwinds that collectively worked through the string section in a snowball-like effect. As momentum shifted, though, the strings together blanketed over the reeds in a changing of the guard so to speak, and as that eclipse became full, the piece itself conveniently and strategically came to a close as seemed fit by Morris.

The unrelated “finale” was a literal quick four-second slice of sheer momentum with each and every member of the 21-person ensemble simultaneously contributing, concluding with Morris’ offering of a spoken “Goodnight”, arms to his side for one of the very first times that night.

Following the intermission and the big shoes left by Morris and his conduction, Henry Threadgill presented his multi-media piece entitled On Walcott. The musical theatre piece based itself upon the poetry of West Indian playwright and Nobel Laureate Derek Walcott, with photographic images and visuals provided by Jules Alan, and choreography and dance coordinated and performed by Judith Sanchez and Astrud Angarita. Threadgill’s band, like Morris’ ensemble, featured a stellar (though much smaller in size) cast, with the leader on alto sax, flute, and bass flute. The octet also featured Ted Daniel (trumpet), Mark Dresser (bass), Leroy Jenkins (violin), the double oud line-up of Tarik Benbrahim and Bassam Saba, and percussionist Dafnis Prieto, as well as tubaist Jose Davila.

The musicians, all dressed in white, intentionally or unintentionally (whichever the case may have been), offset the dark motif carried off by Morris and his first half group’s attire. Situated almost anonymously stage-left behind two sets of long perpendicular tables with white sheets or cloths draped over them (the tables, not the players that is), the musicians literally accompanied in a secondary role to projected images, as well to a speaker (Senti Toy) and to synchronized modern dancers (Sanchez-Ruiz and Angarita).

Trumpeter Daniel (an unsung veteran from the late-‘60s who has played and/or recorded with Sonny Sharrock, Andrew Cyrille, Sam Rivers, as well as with Threadgill) commenced On Walcott with a trumpet invocation. As Threadgill offered up some flute work, the first image became displayed over the stage was projected on a large screen situated to the rear seemingly suspended from the ceiling. From a distance, the black and white shot looked like a photo of the Devil’s Postpile (along the San Andreas Fault line in Mammoth, CA.) Large stones and rocks covered the ground leading up to a hill from where they originated, almost like an ancient ruin destroyed by an earthquake or avalanche.

As was the case with most of the images displayed during On Walcott, they were all abstract and open to interpretation. There were photos such as one that could have been a picture of a funeral home with a giant paper airplane in the front lawn (!). Another picture looked like it could have been a shot of an open straw hut with a laundry line in front. And then there was a shot of a simple bedroom or hotel room, with a made bed consisting of two small pillows, a small breakfast table tucked in a corner, and open windows to a view across the street of an old and abandoned Western ghost town. Strangely, the spoken words never seemed to quite sync with either the pictures, the music, or the dancing in any meaningful manner. However, the images and the music, as well as the music with the dancing, had a much more natural connection amongst the many elements of the multi-media On Walcott work as a whole.

One of the most well rounded of improvisers on his instrument, Jenkins, offered up some of his characteristic adventurousness on violin, from blues to bebop to classical. As the picture faded out so did the off-stage text read by Toy, with her feminine Ken Nordine-ish delivery, before she strolled to center-stage for the next segment of the work. Reading directly from the notebook she had in hand throughout On Walcott, she basically dictated in a strongly enunciated manner. Her articulation and manner of stressing certain syllables actually took over the actual spoken word itself, or at least gave the respective syllables of each word more purpose than the word’s actual meaning and relation to the words that came before and after it. In one section, however, she went from reading to, unfortunately, singing. When reading, the words were mesmerizing enough, though more often than not seemed forced. The distraction of her disconnected delivery in relation to the audience was hard not to notice, with book in hand and eyes more in the large folder than projecting into the audience and relating to her surroundings of sound, sights, and dance. She was certainly not a singer reading, but rather a reader trying ineffectively to vocalize through song. Additionally, with the sound of turning pages, Toy’s reading attack was quite unmusical (intentional or not) and was unable to complement the sounds, in particular, of Threadgill’s score.

With both the coordinated dancers, an even more intentionally strained reading was presented by Toy. Then one dancer continued unaccompanied without the reading or the music from Threadgill’s ensemble. Only the silence of the room and the shuffling of her feet, as well as the deep breaths before and after each sudden movement and leap could be heard. You could hear a pin drop, as even the musicians with instruments at their side and on their laps, gazed on in astonishment of the dancer’s ability and grace.

There were certainly some rough moments throughout On Walcott, as there almost seemed to be too many mediums for Threadgill to bare alone as both an organizer and participant. The linking elements were lacking, and the music, images, dancing, and reading as a whole did not serve as a cohesive piece for the lengthy accomplishment. An awkward space followed certain areas of the images on slides, as well as various sections of the reading and dancing, as audience members weren’t quite sure whether to hold their applause or to show their appreciation in midst of the seemingly unintentional gaps within the program. The rough transitions, consequently, gave off the impression that On Walcott is still a work in progress.

There were certainly unrelated, though extraordinary segments of the work, however. The choreography was absolutely stunning—very modernistic and interpretive. The dancers were phenomenal, as they frequently offered sudden systematic body movements with fantastic limb control. There was even a moment when Jenkins performed a violin solo, then was joined by drummer Prieto who served as a re-introduction to one of the dancers, before Toy entered as if she were Annie Lennox (of the group, Eurythmics) reciting the words to the recording of “1984”.

Though Threadgill’s On Walcott needed a bit more on the rehearsal front and a little polishing up, both his work and Morris’ Conduction No.119 (and any other preceding or following conduction number, for that matter) certainly are of concert hall status. They should be treated with the respect of Western classical music and superior performance art. To expect the unexpected is what these two have had in common since the ‘70s, and each continues to provoke originality through to present day.

They’re keeping their ears open to the music (amongst other art forms obviously), and so should you.

Some future Aaron Davis Hall events of note include a sneak preview of sorts with Bill T.Jones’ newest work which, in its completed form, will be premiered at Lincoln Center’s Alice Tully Hall in January of 2002. There will be two open rehearsals of Jones’ latest work on November 28th, which includes collaborators, The Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center and the Orion String Quartet. Also, Quartetto Indigo and guitarist Eliot Fisk will perform a free afternoon concert of orchestral, chamber, and jazz music on December 1st.

Certainly, keep your ears open to the music!