Jason Roebke - In the Interval (self-released)

Bassist Jason Roebke is an enviably busy musician. Projects and gigs are deservedly plentiful these days, often in the company of Chicago and New York-based colleagues like Mike Reed, Keefe Jackson and Nate Wooley. In light of the flurry of activity of the past few years it’s easy to forget that he’s been plying his craft for well over a decade. Most of his current docket aligns with jazz-related contexts. As an outlet for his interests somewhat removed from those realms comes this solo studio recital, a difference noted in the disc’s title. It’s actually his second in the format, the first having garnered initial circulation on the Family Vineyard imprint, though now apparently available only via iTunes.

Comprising two pieces that combine to modest EP length, this set is a markedly different affair from its predecessor. The first track clocks to just over a third of an hour opening and closing with a single resounding string pluck. Between those stark temporal markers, Roebke reveals a second meaning behind the disc’s title by inserting lengthy intervals of rest on his instrument that decrease and increase incrementally in duration as the piece progresses. The first pause lasts nearly half a minute, but feels much longer and the effect at first resembles Cage’s “4’33”” as acoustic aspects of the studio space in relation to Roebke’s bass become audible in the near-silence. These frequent segments of relative stasis add both gravitas and definition to the moments where tones and patterns are sounded. The buzz and bustle the second piece serves as welcome contrast.

Roebke’s percussive preparations to the body and strings of his bass further vary the sound menagerie. Creaking, tapping and rubbing ornamentations scuttle around the edges of fully-rendered pizzicato progressions. Both pieces makes canny use of these ulterior elements and there’s even a section in the first where the squelchy textures of what sound like muted electronics accompany Roebke’s quiet string manipulations though they very well may be the product of acoustic sources. In sum it’s a musical experience that actually improves through repeated encounters as the frustrations of expectations fall away in favor of the logic and cohesion of Roebke’s elaborate and spacious designs. The rewards may not be as immediate and easily-won as his jazz-centered playing, but they’re every bit as manifest to the perceptive listener willing to make the aural trek.

ROW: Tony Allen - Jealousy/Progress (Evolver)

Tony Allen’s tenures at the wheel of Africa ’70 were fleeting compared those of its founder Fela Kuti, but the drummer made the most of the periodic role reversals with his employer. The single-word titles of the two albums from ’75 and ‘77 reissued on this UK disc cut to the topical chase in much the same manner as his propulsive and polyrhythmic kit style. Similarities to contemporaneous Fela-led sets like Expensive Shit and No Agreement are sizeable. But there are differences too, most notably in the amount of solo space accorded Allen and the resulting dynamic more in line with the jazz quartet that marked the beginnings of their collaboration in 1964. Head-bobbing grooves are rampant, as are the respectively hard riffing horn charts and idiosyncratic saxophone solos from Fela, the latter sections making up in charming brio and muscle when they give up in errant reed squeaks and occasionally roughshod phrasing. The rest of the band is on point across the pair of A-side title pieces and the B-side instrumentals (particularly the smoldering shanty funk of “Hustler”) and the set weighs in at an economical LP-length all told. Allen’s years with Africa ’70 were numbered and as the set’s notes contend his eventual departure would signal a shift in Fela’s sound from which he would never fully recoup. That sentiment, subjective as it might be, gains substantial traction on the aural evidence of these formerly rare sides.

Foltz/ Turner/ Carrothers – To the Moon (Ayler)

Music has long been a useful implement in the evocation of place. That hoary relationship registers at the forefront of this set, recorded at the height of winter in icebound Minneapolis in 2008. Clarinetist Jean-Marc Foltz mentions the “lovely, freezing cold day” that precipitated the completely spontaneous sounds. Cellist Matt Turner, an unsung improviser and native of the region has such climatic corollaries in his blood. Pianist Bill Carrothers is comparably attuned and all three men build austere and pristine assemblages that wouldn’t be out of place on the ECM or Nuscope labels. The music is testament to the Ayler label’s resistance to reductive pigeon-holing when it comes to the pedigrees of chosen projects.

Chamber jazz is a wide brush summary for what happens here, but closer listening reveals a bevy of detail in the players’ improvised exchanges. Carrothers goes under the hood on the aptly-titled “Knitting Needles”, plucking his strings in brittle harpsichord fashion in a manner that brings to mind some of Paul Bley’s constructions in the company of Jimmy Giuffre. Turner’s saws high swirling harmonics on cello as Foltz blows fog horn bass clarinet. The Giuffre effect is even more prominent on “Moondrunk” as Carrothers and Foltz piece together an twining progression shot through with enveloping space that pleasantly echoes the mix of mystery and revelry intimated by the title. On “Crosses”, it’s Foltz’s turn with rafter-scraping harmonics as he etches controlled reed chirrups against a lyrical repeating motif spun by Carrothers and Turner.

Turner’s classical chops and precision command of pitch match those of Foltz on the verdantly textured “Gallows Song”. Carrothers provides staggered commentary to his colleagues’ acrobatic counterpoint and once again the three players demonstrate and uncommonly close communication. The waltzing calliope patterns of “Old Pantomimes” are enhanced by Carrother’s preparations which create a gauzy percussive effect in tandem with his tamper-free keys. “To Columbine” centers on Foltz’s liquid clarinet in its opening minute, Turner’s cello soon joining with starkly drawn strokes and Carrothers completing the melancholy mood with minimal clusters from his corner. These three players take a trio of common chamber instruments and successfully construct new settings for their application. It’s no small feat and one that motivates an immediate repeat of the program in entirety.

Loren Stillman - Winter Fruits (Pirouet)

Oranges in February? Not a likely find outside the confines of the local supermarket. Rare too are the jazz ensembles containing an organ that opt to work largely outside the ingrained soul jazz traditions of the instrument. Altoist Loren Stillman hits the challenge head-on, though it’s not exactly a new avenue of expression in his discography. The instrumentation also has origins in The Brother’s Breakfast, a Stillman disc for Steeplechase that also marked his first collaboration with organist Gary Versace on record.

Stillman’s been something of an accolade magnet over the last decade, scoring an impressive array of encomiums from critics and colleagues through a regular gig calendar and a steady stream of releases, most recently on Pirouet. His name headlines the disc, but it’s more accurately described as a collaborative affair. The quartet operates under the band name Bad Touch, having self-released an EP back in 2008. This set is different still though the core relationship between the two holds as a key creative pivot. Stillman’s feathery, Konitz-tinted tone and lithe, snaking phraseology immediately set him apart the bulk of the saxophone lineage commonly associated with organ sessions.

Versace is just as singular and versatile, with a sharp command of stops and settings and layered oblique way with shaping solos and support that immediately turns the mental page to Larry Young. There are segments where he goes for a churchy sort of sound, but not that of a fiery Baptist chapel, but instead the sort of slithery, insinuating cast more common to meditative liturgical mass. His proficiency at shadowing and buttressing Stillman’s spooling phrases parallels that of guitarist Nate Radley who also goes for a liquid, lubricious tone when working his frets. Drummer Ted Poor parses complex, tension-wound beats from a position erring on restraint and he seems just as amenable to laying out as the situation dictates.

Stillman’s writing (all of the compositions save the opening “Muted Dreams” and the title track come from his quill) is ripe with mood-laden detours and eliding asides. The sense of tonal compatibility remains strong with alto, guitar and organ overlapping and at times almost indistinguishable in an airtight, but supple weave. It’s an obvious product of mutual respect coupled with fertile rehearsals and performance. Season to crop alignments like the one described in the project title may be scant but the quartet here makes a convincing case for successful application of organ outside its customary contexts.

Farewell, Fred

A previous post harboring hope now has as a sobering finality to it… Fred Anderson is gone. Details are widely available regarding the particulars of his passing so I won’t dwell on them here. Despite best laid plans, I wasn’t able to immerse myself in Fred’s recorded work to the degree that I had planned. That disparity between intent and outcome got me thinking about cause and effect relationships and more specifically the death of a musician signaling a flurry of homage-minded listening on the part of fans. The practice is widespread, though it’s one that ultimately means little beyond the symbolic and cathartic gestures at its core. It also only touches on one facet of his legacy, the legions of listeners he mentored and the physical edifice of the Velvet Lounge as performance space oasis being two others among a multitude.

Fred was regular part of my listening diet whether via recent releases like the excellent Black Horn Long Gone and 21st Century Chase or classics like Chicago Chamber Music and The Missing Link. He left a lot behind and the tape trove from the Velvet (both old and new) promises a reservoir of riches for years to come if those holding the keys find the resources and wherewithal to make it so. My fingers remain crossed, but in the meantime another mantra-like missive comes to mind at times variously credited to Jackie McLean and others: “Give them their flowers while they’re here.”

Fred had his share of encomiums in his twilight years with people all over the world rightfully singing his praises and offering continual thanks for his artistry and humanity. Plenty of others who take up the calling aren’t so lucky. While Fred’s good fortune is something to treasure, the decades he spent in relative obscurity are also a healthy reminder that this business of music can be an unrelentingly harsh mistress. As Fred was wont to wisely say, the rewards don’t come from the recognition anyway, but rather from those who are touched and in turn decide themselves to touch others through musical means. He certainly made that relationship manifest in his own work, stewarding countless students in the music while continually following his own muse. On my peripheral end, all I can do reliably is listen (and comment) and it’s something I’ll continue to do by Fred’s lasting example. Thanks for the music & memories, Wise One.

Liebman/ Parker/ Bianco - Relevance (Red Toucan)

By practically any educated estimation, Dave Liebman and Evan Parker are saxophone icons. Each man has advanced the post-Coltrane lexicon on the instrument in deeply personal and divergent directions. Liebman’s preference is jazz-based. Parker retains analogous roots, but his reed explorations have also encompassed European free and electro-acoustic improvisation as well as modern classical forms. Those disparities in no way nullify the amount of common ground shared by the men. This date, prompted at Liebman’s behest and recorded in concert at London’s Vortex, an old stomping grounds of Parker’s, proves their parallel mindsets from the opening salvo onward.

Drummer Tony Bianco serves as the percussive trampoline atop which the two saxophonists freely bounce and cavort, no easy assignment considering the magnitude of saxophone ordinance on hand. He’s also an occasionally frustrating aspect of the trio, giving over to lengthy sections where tumbling snare and tom-tom tattoos set up a lock-step backdrop that seems to rub off on the horns through increased repetition and pockets of stasis. Neither Parker nor Liebman is the sort of improviser to be contained, but in light of Bianco’s choices it’s also hard not to pine for a drummer like Paul Lovens or Paal-Nilssen Love who might’ve brought more versatility and nuance to the kit. In the drummer’s defense, there’s never any question that it’s the saxophonists’ show and he dutifully cedes them the ground required for their respective pyrotechnic displays.

The two sets documented, each broken down into lengthy first parts followed by shorter seconds, explore every possible combination of players with the co-leaders starting out on jousting tenors and moving on to keening sopranos as well independent sections with Bianco. Parker reins in his circular breathing virtuosity on the straight horn, voicing instead on occasion in a more overtly melodic vernacular, particularly in the second set. Liebman switches up too, tapping the late-Coltrane side of his personality and leaving any decorous theme-based jazz-speak backstage. The effect is like two lodestones lining into magnetic synch with each other, the aforementioned common ground getting a thorough tilling in the bargain. While the wish for greater variety and cohesion could certainly be levied, the chance to hear these two giants in tandem easily outweighs any minuses set into play by the evening’s sometimes skewed dynamic.

Kenny Burrell - Be Yourself (High Note)

Advancing age has a disquieting habit of eroding jazz relevancy. Stars of the hardbop era alive today have to wrestle with bodies of work that can easily become millstones attached to their creativity. The old specter of diminishing returns isn’t some harmless haint. Still performing and recording in his 78th year, guitarist Kenny Burrell knows these potential dangers firsthand. His playing from the mid-Fifties onward set a standard for bop-based fretwork, but six decades on it’s a style that’s arguably been done to death. On this live date, recorded at Dizzy’s Club Coca-Cola, the small club venue inside Jazz at Lincoln Center, in the fall of 2008, Burrell hedges his bets with some astute preparations.

First there’s the band of comparative young bloods in his employ. Tenorist Tivon Pennicott pulls from a Sonny Rollins bag while still plying his own sound and also doubles on feather-dusting flute on “Listen to the Dawn” and that shows a Lew Tabackin influence. Pianist Benny Green and bassist Peter Washington are seasoned session pros and each injects healthy doses of testosterone into the readings of the charts. Rounding out the band is drummer Clayton Cameron, who works equally well on galloping sticks or pattering brushes. The guitarist sounds inspired by their company for the opening takedown of “Tin Tin Deo”, an old favorite of his set lists dating back to the classic Five Spot date for Blue Note in ’56.

Second in Burrell’s favor are the acoustics of the venue and their savvy capture by an engineer identified only under the enigmatic cipher JediMaster. The recording exhibits an excellent spatial presence with the clink of glass and plate ware clearly audible but hardly intrusive. The audience is an experienced one, keeping their applause and conversations to the appropriate moments and giving the music full attention. Even on up-tempo numbers, like an inspired rendering of the Kenny Dorham chestnut “Blue Bossa” that works as an edifying feature of Cameron’s percussive prowess, the instruments retain their independence and presence. Burrell’s picking is still sharp as a tack shifting from felt-tipped chords to ballpoint single notes without missing a beat. No tired retreads here. The satisfying session leaves off with a simple certainty intimated by its title: Being Kenny Burrell is still enough.