Displaying news from 1 October 2005 to 1 November 2005.
i first heard a recording of ivo papasov and his bulgarian wedding band my freshman year of college. my mind was blown in one flash. i never knew music could sound like that. it's been six years, and last night i finally got to hear three of the guys who made that music: ivo papsov, yuri yunakov and neshko neshev.
the upper west side's symphony space was packed as carol silverman announced the 'legends of bulgarian wedding music.' out they straggled: first yuri, finely dressed in shirt and tie, trimmed goatee, smiling; next neshko neshev, accordion in his arms; then newcomer kalin kirilov, only 30 years old, a multi-instrumentalist who would play guitar and sing that night; salif ali, drummer extraordinaire, looks kind of like a long-haired bulgarian henry winkler ("hey!"); followed finally by ivo, clarinet in hand, gold teeth sparkling on either side of his knowing smile, an untucked buttondown shirt (allowing some wiggle room for one of the largest guts i've seen in a long time)... and they were off.
starting slowly, with some out-of-time balladeering, the band made their way into a medium tempo rachenitsa (dance in 7/16) which was fancy enough, but out of nowhere, ivo played a lick that more than doubled the tempo of the tune, and the band, like a pack of rabbits, followed tightly. jaws dropped. that medley of tunes lasted about 15 minutes; it was 15 of the most intense minutes of music i've ever heard.
besides ivo, my favorites of the band were neshko and salif. neshko, the elder of the group, was like a shine-eyed silent master. always there where he should be, always taking the music further, pushing himself, and always smiling. there was a magical moment when ivo came in with a line that was unplanned, and turning his head slightly, gave neshev a sly grin, but neshev just looked back and smiled: despite the surprise, he had already been playing in unison with ivo.
salif, whose smile grew more intense the harder he played, was as theatrical as he was talented. his improvisations were sheer brilliance.
for the most part ivo was calm and sturdy (weighed down partly by the tradition he all but birthed, partly by his bulging belly), center of gravity low; but every now and then, when some impossible sounding line seemed to ask a little something more of him, his feet would grip the ground, he would bend the clarinet upwards until it was almost touching his nose, and stare deep into the audience with the eyes of a man possessed.
the joy on the stage was particularly evident in yuri's constant egging-on of his compatriots. he would lean in while ivo or salif or neshko were soloing, and say something private, followed by huge heavings of bulgarian yelps to push the soloists even further.
well worth the wait to hear these guys live. if you can get your hands on any of their recordings (most of them out of print in the u.s.) you'll be glad you did.
[check back for more updates including a review of the newest kelly joe phelps record, and a writeup of the rufus wainwright concert that will happen this tuesday!]
here she is:
This group’s been around since 2001, and they already have several discs to their credit- a couple CD-Rs, a mini-CD of a twenty-minute version of Sun Ra’s “Call to All Demons,” and one full-length CD, The Full Respect. They have great chops and a great sense of humor, and they seem to play just about everything. (Robert Iannopollo calls them a
“Jazzswinglatinbopbalkanfreeimprov band,” but if anything that sells
them short.) The Full Respect has supercharged grooves peppered Art
Ensemble-style with children’s toys, game-pieces, Dave Douglasy
accordion-and-trumpet, a Charlie Parker/Bill Evans mashup, pitch-perfect Ellingtonia, klezmer, a TV commercial, a mangled trumpet rag (a joke at Wynton Marsalis’ expense?). It’s a fun and mightily impressive disc, even if it’s a little too close to the post-Zorn channel-flipping
aesthetic.
Respect in You, recorded at a live gig from the band’s hometown of Rochester, NY, has all its predecessor’s virtues, but it’s less of a crazyquilt. It’s still witty and intelligent music, shot through with an allusive let’s-throw-this-in-the-pot sensibility, but there’s much less of an ironic distance: they seem in the grip of this music, and convey that sense of pressure to the listener too. They do a cover of Misha Mengelberg’s “Hypochrismutreefuzz” and stitch other Mengelberg themes into the rest of the album; perhaps what they’ve learned from Misha (or from another of their heroes, Sun Ra) is how to pry Jazz apart- to make it sound layered rather than seamless, an unstable compound of elements that can each recede or approach, become sharper or fray at the edges. Their reading of Fred Anderson’s “3 on 2” is a case in point. Emerging from a nebula of radio fuzz, it homes in on a swirling Coltrane-derived groove. The band’s delivery is authentically ecstatic: it’s as thrilling an opening to an album as any I’ve heard in the past year, all fifteen minutes of it. But the performance also makes use of weaving in-and-out shifts of texture and of emphasis within the ensemble, as a way of gaining and readjusting their (and our) perspective on this kind of ecstatic intensity. (Call it “Thirteen Ways of Looking at Fred
Anderson.”) Sometimes this multiperspectivism is almost schematic: “Postal (a.k.a. PB&J),” for instance, sets two kinds of blues in
dialogue, a “Blues for Alice” swinger and a “Black and Tan Fantasy”
funeral march. It’s a clever idea- Bird talking back to Ellington- but
it’s a lot more than that, not least because right in the middle of the
piece there’s a black-hole collapse, all the bright bebop virtuosity
squeezed dry until it’s no more than an ominous thrumming.
There’s much more that could be said- about the superb work of the
individual players (saxophonist Josh Rutner, trombonist James
Hirschfield, trumpeter Eli Asher, pianist/accordionist Red Wierenga,
bassist Matt Clohesy, drummer Ted Poor); about the whimsical details and quotes that take multiple listens to ferret out; about the deviously
snowballing “Hypochrismutreefuzz”, or “Riot of Light,” which to these
ears is not so much joyful as an exploration of how joy is expressed in
music, from Salvation Army hymnody to Aylerian ecstasy to a whirlwind
tour of Latin and Caribbean dance rhythms. But suffice it to say that
Respect in You is one of this year’s outstanding new discs, providing
more food for thought and pure enjoyment than just about anything I’ve
heard lately. Check it out.
-nate dorward, cadence magazine
my sources tell me that the november issue of cadence magazine includes a laudatory review of the respect sextet's Respect In You! the review was written by nate dorward, one of respect's newest and most vocal boosters.
i'll post the review when i get it in the next couple days.
(the magazine is not available online)
also, there is a fair chance that respect will be whizzing a short tour in december! keep your ears to the ground!
the first explains my love for the second:
works of genius have this intrinsic property, that even when they give a perfect likeness of the nullity of things, even when they clearly demonstrate and make us feel the inevitable unhappiness of life, even when they express the most terrible despair, nevertheless to a great soul, that may even find itself in a state of utter prostration, disillusionment, futility, boredom and discouragement with life, or in the harshest and most death-dealing adversities (whether these appertain to the strong and lofty emotions, or to any other thing); they always serve as a consolation, rekindling enthusiasm, and though speaking of and portraying nothing but death, restore to it, at least for a while, the life that it had lost.
-giacomo leopardi, zibaldone 259-60
_______
preface to a twenty volume suicide note
(for kellie jones, born 16 may 1959)
lately, i've become accustomed to the way
the ground opens up and envelops me
each time i go out to walk the dog.
or the broad-edged silly music the wind
makes when i run for the bus...
things have come to that.
and now, each night i count the stars,
and each night i get the same number.
and when they will not come to be counted,
i count the holes they leave.
nobody sings anymore.
and then last night, i tiptoed up
to my daughter's room and heard her
talking to someone, and when i opened
the door, there was no one there...
only she on her knees, peeking into
her own clasped hands.
-amiri baraka (leroi jones)
with the return of the digital camera in my grubby little hands, i've taken the opportunity to post some brand new pictures! take a look in the photos section of the site, and click the "pictures josh took with a camera II" category!
a beautiful thing happened a couple weeks ago:
seth brodsky, a friend of mine, now living in germany, and i, were on the phone talking about a package i had sent him. i metioned that, in addition to a pair of tube socks for his lovely wife jude, i had included a book by the great donald barthelme, "the dead father". after extolling the virtues of the book, he promised to read it, and return it upon completion. i told him that would be unnecessary as i already owned another copy. he reminded me that i've been known to do that, and asked whether i'd read jacques derrida's "donner le temps" (or "given time: 1. counterfeit money"). i said i hadn't, but i did believe that i had it on my shelf because before jen and i had moved into their apartment, jude gave me a copy and said i should read it some time. i had assumed they just forgot to pack it. as it turns out, seth informed me, the book was meant to be a belated gift for my last birthday, and that, in fact, he had purchased three identical copies as an homage to my compulsion.
the beauty showed itself as i began to read:
it suffices therefore for the other to perceive the gift- not only to perceive it in the sense in which, as one says in french, "on percoit," one receives, for example, merchandise, payment, or compensation- but to perceive its nature as gift, the meaning or intention, the intentional meaning of the gift, in order for this simple recognition of the gift as gift, as such, to annul the gift as gift even before the recognition becomes gratitude. the simple identification of the gift seems to destroy it. the simple identification of the passage of a gift as such, that is, of an identifiable thing among some identifiable "ones," would be nothing other than the process of the destruction of the gift. (p.14)
so, the fact that my gift was in fact destroyed by seth's admission aside, the 'gift' was illuminated as that which was not in fact 'given'.
derrida's general idea seems to point to a certain paradox of gift: the appearance of gift as gift necessarily annuls it; without gift, there is no gift- with gift, there is still no gift (as such). "given time" was written in 1991, and focuses primarily on three texts: heidegger's "being and time", a brief story by baudelaire called "la fausse monnaie" (or, "counterfeit money") and marcel mauss' "the gift". derrida spends a good number of pages discussing the gift's double nature, as present and poison: he describes the gift's innate force that drives the giver and receiver into an "economic odyssey of the circle", or the vicious circle of exchange. to this end, he describes the practice of "potlach" (practiced, among others by the indians of the american northwest), mentioned at length in mauss' book. seeing the word "potlach", reminded me of the beautiful book by georges bataille, "the accursed share: an essay on general economy", written 24 years prior to "given time", in which bataille too uses mauss' book as one of his main references. on the practice of potlach, bataille writes:
potlach is, like commerce, a means of circulating wealth, but it excludes bargaining. more often than not it is the solemn giving of considerable riches, offered by a chief to his rival for the purpose of humiliating, challenging and obligating him. the recipient has to erase the humiliation and take up the challenge; he must satisfy the obligation that was contracted by accepting. he can only reply, a short time later, by means of a new potlach, more generous than the first: he must pay back with interest.
notice the references to the economic circle, the obligation inherent in accepting gifts, and the time, or term limit also active in the gift; all these are ideas that derrida elucidates in "given time".
another beautiful aspect of derrida's reading of gifts comes in his insistence that in order for there to be gift,
not only must the donor or donee not perceive or receive the gift as such, have no conciousness of it, no memory, no recognition; he or she must also forget it right away [a l'instant] and moreover this forgetting must be so radical that it exceeds even the psychoanalytic categoriality of forgetting.
i read this passage during the jewish holiday of yom kippur. a couple days earlier, in a conversation about the practice of atonement, where one requests forgiveness of those one has hurt, i formulated an idea that, perhaps, instead of requesting forgiveness from people, one should forgive others that have harmed them, in the form of a severe forgetting. to my surprise, derrida continues, on page 16, saying this 'radical forgetting'
must not give rise to any of the repressions (originary or secondary) that reconstitute debt and exchange by putting in reserve, by keeping or saving up what is forgotten, repressed, or censured. repression does not destroy or annul anything; it keeps by displacing. its operation is systemic or topological; it always consists of keeping by exchanging places.
and most dramatically,
so we are speaking here of an absolute forgetting- a forgetting that also absolves, that unbinds absolutely and infinitely more, therefore, than excuse, forgiveness, or aquittal. [emphasis mine]
in this way (through a radical forgetting), one can unbind, one can absolve; even, derrida postulates, the vicious cycle of exchange that appears in gift giving...
finally, another essay, shown to me by my friend adriana, discusses the similarly paradoxical elements of hospitality, in a derridean reading of lars von trier's "dogville". the essay can be read here.
big thanks to brodsky for the book(s)!
at the behest of ms. toni attardo, i decided to hit up the free music series at the whitney museum, which tonight featured some old eastman aquaintances in a group called so percussion. i realized two slightly depressing things tonight while watching the ensemble. one: i'm pretty sure i prefer recorded performances to live performances. two: just as stan brackage mentioned that in film, to have a soundtrack is to distract from the visual, in musical performance, one's visual novelties might take the ear from the p[e]rfo[r]m[a]nce. in this case, a neatly organized bennink-like conglomerational of hittables (toy pianos, paint cans, rocks, water buckets, woodblocks, triangles, metronomes, flower pots, etc), the obvious pupose of which would be to bring varied sounds to a concert atmosphere, ended up becoming the focus. i guess it's a pretty severe concept. think about trying to learn a new language: why is it so hard to communicate? because we're focused on the words themselves; pronounciation, diction, syntax etc. my favorite example of this can be found on a recording called "i can see your house from here" (john scofield and pat metheny). in it, the drummer bill stewart plays a standard drum kit, except for one cymbal that sounds like it's submerged in water; something strange about it, unfamiliar. he only plays it for about 10 seconds and then you never hear it again on the whole record. and he made the right choice, because for most listeners that cymbal risks being heard as 'that cymbal again' as opposed to its essence, what is being drawn out of it. one rarely questions the sound of a bass drum, or a trumpet. why? cause people play them all the time! repetition in this case grounds and backgrounds the sounds. someone trying to make a living playing the 'rocks' or the 'water bucket' (slash: 'bucket water'), may find it difficult to bring people past the novelty and into the music. (that being said, i lead the charge of the guilty in this regard). however, the beauty of recorded music is that one's eyes cannot distract. in the digital world of 1s and 0s, one walks an abbott-like flatland, views and hears it from above; depth is illusory in such a way that we can let our guards down and listen.
in the ligeti piano concerto, there's a moment where a hushed string section is violently interrupted by, among other things, two slendor pieces of wood, slapped together. when i saw the piece performed by alarm will sound, the sight of the percussionist (in this case, the slendor payton macdonald) slowly reaching down to pick up the slapstick, raising it with the utmost care into the as yet unslapped air, was just too funny for words. don't get me wrong, i love funny music, a lot, but in this case, i much prefer the recorded version, where the slap comes as all good slaps should: a surprise. someone once said that a pure sound is one whose source is unknown. [thanks to robert for reminding me that it was morton feldman...] recordings actually give us that opportunity for mystery that was lost at the so percussion concert.
i left the whitney to attend a concert tribute to my newly rediscovered friend, katherine cox (she was a chaperone when i was in the essentially ellington festival, in high school; i hadn't seen her in many years before a month ago). she was being honored by the y'all organization of nyc. the concert would feature a big band and the special guest, george coleman. coleman is best known for his work with miles davis. it's funny how people's reputation can preceed them. george is not playing like he used to, and yet people clap and cheer and act swept away! amazing. standing ovations and all.
at the risk of being slightly dark on the matter, it seems that one should, after a successful career, throw in the towel at a certain point and at least retain their dignity. it's not the worst thing in the world to be known as 'someone who used to be a fantastic saxophonist'. perhaps the luckiest famous people in this regard are the dead ones. how often does one hear: 'can you imagine how good john coltrane would be if he were alive today?'. dimishing returns, i tell ya.
regardless, the scene was lovely, the audience riled and riveted, and katherine, the ever modest and lovely woman she is.
got a free moment on the internet? don't know where next to turn? take some time and check out the internet-based work of the two top-notchers in my book:
robert wood
and
steve smith
robert was recently published in critical minded: new approaches to hip hop studies
steve will very soon be published in the popular music journal.
a great scene last night at chinatown's 169 bar. a trifecta of eastman-filled groups performed one after the other, treating their buds to their latest tastes. the first group to perform, spin, featured andre canniere, dave crowell, red wierenga, mike chiavaro and brady miller playing some great original compositionals by dave and andre, including fan favorites "postmodern shower", "rustem" and "orange is the new black". following spin was the ben gallina brainchild electric medicine, with ben, myself, ed rosenberg, brady, and james hirschfeld playing a handful of gallinarigionals, and an updated rutnerrangement of marcie playground's ancient hit: "sex and candy". finally, formerly buffalo-based-now-nyc-based band thought, featuring eastmanites mike williams, nathan heleine and jared schonig (thought's newest thought), played and sang the night away, williams in particular, taking breaths away with his vocal treats. a good night on the whole; it had the feeling of a high school band/choir concert, in which the audience is made up of other people, waiting to perform themselves, and cheering their friends on.
in november, there will be a second installment of the eastman-based group triptych with dave crowell's naked brunch, the andre canniere group and the ever-bubbly boy band beyondo. that one will be at the knitting factory. don't miss it!
when i got home from a rehearsal monday night, i was greeted by an email; the sender of which's name i hadn't seen in about 10 years. as it turns out, my friend phil weinrobe had ridden an A train with me for about 10 stops, recognized me (more or less- i believe he was thrown off by the "rocking of the 5 days, haven't shaven 'look'"), but didn't say anything.
what do you know! little philly weinrobe is all grown up! (we haven't seen each other since we were 15). he's also recently moved to brooklyn and has put out a record! who knew? check out his website if you get a chance: www.meetphil.com.
here's hoping that this random meeting of two old friends will turn into wonderful collaborations in the future!
after a little over a year of dedicated service to the barnes and noble in union square, manhattan, i've stolen away from one corporate pan to another. my new home, bear stearns, feels even more like a home because there are so many eastman grads that are currently temping there. the trend was started by one andre canniere (of the andre canniere group fame) and one by one (sometimes two by two), we (b)eastmanites boarded the bear ark. the lack of civilian interaction and the cd/dvdless environment sure does make me pine for the good ol' days of trying to get john q. freejazz to buy the newest vandermark 5 release ("i've got six on each arm, and two down on my feet!"). the lack of music and film certainly has curbed my pavlovian buying habits of the past year, and even though the 50% discount on starbucks coffee was nice at bn, the free coffee at bs sure wins.
hopefully this change in scenery will afford me (in all senses) the time and freedom to get some serious musical projects together. the newest group, flap is still but a gleam in my eye, but perhaps a gleam in the eye is the best magnifying glass. flap will feature the ever-ready ed rosenberg, also on tenor saxophone, mike chiavaro on electric bass, and the unstoppables, ted poor and jared schonig on drumsets and other hittables. the mission statement of flap will be "balls." flap's repetoire will consist of fast, etudinal, balls pieces. no ballad features in this one, no 'slowing it down for the lovers'. hopefully we'll be able to get some stuff together in the coming months and have a couple gigs on the calendar before the new year.
in other news, the respect sextet received another positive review, this time in the downtown music gallery's weekly newsletter. we're working on trying to get some gigs booked very soon!
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