Showing posts with label Rocco Somazzi. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rocco Somazzi. Show all posts

Saturday, December 31, 2011

GRAZIE PER TUTTO, ROCCO: The “Final” Interview


It’s hard not to walk into The Blue Whale jazz club in Little Toyko on a late-December evening and not feel a little choked up: there at the brushed-aluminum bar sits Rocco Somazzi in his spiffy leather jacket, sipping lightly on a deep red Spanish wine and scrolling over his everpresent iPad with a private-joke smile on his lips. Last week, he started construction on a new venture that, as we’ve all come to learn somewhat painfully, will not be in Los Angeles.

Yes folks, Rocco has left the building. Or is in the process of leaving. He’s sort of ambigious about it all. He’s still in the final throes of planning his official swan song to Los Angeles, a live New Year’s Eve simulcast from this very club featuring the Grammy-winning L.A. pianist Billy Childs. Rocco and Blue Whale owner Joon Lee plan on around 170 people in the tiny, kabuki-like space. There will be extra tables set up outside on Weller Court and an NPR truck parked on Second Street for the live broadcast. Rocco is planning on jumping behind the grill to prepare the entire multi-course champagne buffet himself. Oh yes, it’s also his birthday on the day of the broadcast. He is not even breaking a sweat.

Since 1998, Rocco has brought powerful and adventurous music to the Big Orange, when he popped up out of nowhere to open his first Rocco club in Bel-Air. He had virtually no experience in either restaurants or music promotion. And he decided to fill the bill of musical fare not with the lush piano jazz or cocktail-lounge fuzak that befitted the spot’s tony environs but with the tempestuous sounds of alt-jazz, edge jazz, improvised jazz, free jazz – and from many artists handpicked from the local underground jazz royalty, including Bobby Bradford, Vinny Golia and Billy Higgins. It was bold and ballsy and destined to be a failure. But people still talk about the shows there, the absolute insane effrontery of it all, like a Viking Funeral Ship crashed right into the placid, apple-green hills of monied L.A. They met other refugees from the tired old jazz clubs dotted around the city who hungered for someone (or somewhere) who would give this music the kind of respect afforded it in New York and Europe. They also remember thinking with a secret thrill: This guy is completely nuts.

Rocco's new digs!

Since then, he has jumped his “Rocco in L.A.” imprint to a performance space in a Hollywood theatre complex, the Café Metropol in downtown’s Artists District, the Royal/T Café in Culver City, and many more places around a city that has been – at best – unappreciative and indifferent to his efforts. (He also was once broke and near-homeless, and survived a cancer scare in 2009.) No matter. On the eve of his departure up to the Bay Area for undoubtedly great things, the Swiss-Italian emigré and Philosophy 101 dropout has risen to be arguably the most influential and beloved promoter/booker of creative and improvised music in Los Angeles for the last decade. At least.

If this is at all in dispute, while Rocco gamely shares his wine with the Beast, a gaggle of admiring women approach him. “Ohmigod,” one coos, “I used to go to your old, old place in Bel-Air!” Rocco shows the ladies the floor plan on his iPad -- he might as well have it surgically implanted on his fingertips – pointing out the location for his new co-venture with noted chef Paul Canales, which is set to open (hopefully) in San Francisco in Summer 2012. “It’s at 19th and Telegraph?” ejects a woman named Kathy. “My father owned an Irish bar on Telegaph and 25th! There’s a lot of great architecture down there!” The third woman offers a resigned nod: “The Bay Area has so much more going on than L.A. I hate to say it, but it’s true.”

The fourth woman mourns: “It’s sad to know you are leaving, Rocco.” Rocco responds with a shrug: “I see it more as an expansion than actually leaving.”

THE BEAST: This Billy Childs extravaganza is like your goodbye party, a New Year’s Party and a Birthday party rolled into one. Holy shit!
ROCCO SOMAZZI: Well, I’m doing another event in January, but it’s just a food event with Andrew Zimmer from Bizarre Foods on the Travel Channel. He’s going to film an episode at the Royal/T. I think the theme is ‘Bizarre Food in Bizarre Places.’ He’s cooking a five-course meal in the kitchen there and it’s a public event, so people can buy tickets. It’s going to be on January 13 of the New Year. Literally the next day I am flying up to the Bay Area on a one-way ticket. But New Years’ Eve is my last music event in L.A. [pause] Wait, that’s not even correct in a way. I have a show I booked here at the Blue Whale in February: It’s going to be Tim Berne, who is releasing a new album on ECM. Then in April, [Brazilian composer] Hermeto Pascoal is playing up in San Francsico, so I’ve been talking to his manager about him doing one date down here.

Power Couple: Rocco and his wife, pianist Motoko Honda
[Photo courtesy of Ganzo]

So wait, I’m confused. You’re still booking music in L.A.?
I guess in my mind I was not even registering that I’m not going to be here, so I started planning stuff. [laughs] My ways of doing things is to get excited and I figure out later how to handle it. Maybe I will do a Skype meeting with the bands or something.

So at least for awhile, you’ll be going back and forth between L.A. and Frisco.
Either I will come back whenever I have an event or find someone to be my double here. I’ve turned down a lot of opportunities to book stuff here, but some – like Pascoal – I just can’t say, “I’m going to be in San Francisco so I can’t do anything down in L.A." I will just have to figure something out.

Speaking of which, what is your advice for “the next Rocco”?
I guess the only advice I have is: “Get ready to get beat up.” It’s not an easy environment. A lot of people come from the mentality that they are trying to create “serious” presentations…Nobody is willing to put their heart and soul in it over the long term. If it doesn’t generate returns or catch on immediately, they will drop it. With me, it is all about just doing it, not about the return or the financial rewards. So my advice would be that even if it seems like nobody cares, even if you are losing time and money and efforts with everything, if you are ready for it, then good; if you are not, I don’t think you can last. It’s hard to find people like that. For me it’s the opposite…I am just so stubborn that I can’t help it!


Trailer from Steve Rudolf's 2009 documentary
The Good Ear featuring Rocco Somazzi

Well, you did last 13 years.
People say to me, “You lasted all these years, you must have been very successful!” and I say, “No, are you kidding?” [laughter] Lots of downs, lots of ups, but for me it is not about “Oh, I am making money now.” It is enough to know that some people appreciate this music, that in my heart I am doing the right thing and what I really believe in. I mean, Joon is just so amazing. He and I share so many traits. He is also so passionate about this music, and for me he is “the next Rocco,” as you say. He is already the next one.

You mentioned that the new place is going to be more of a restaurant and not so much focused on music.
Yes. Unfortunately, now I am a grown-up and I have to follow the business model I just disparaged. [laughs] This project is a serious business; it is not a passion project. All the people involved are very passionate about music, but we know that in order to serve the purpose and present the music, we have to have first and foremost a successful restaurant. The music is not part of the business model for the new space. It’s gonna be something that we do once in awhile, based on a solid business that is sustaining itself. That is something I learned after having my own place and then working at other people’s places – that the restaurant should take care of itself and the music is not something that the rest of it is relying upon. Like my first place in Bel-Air, my primary goal was to create a music venue. The restaurant was attached to it. I put too much emphasis on the music, and that was ultimately what caused the downfall of the place. Unfortunately, I believe L.A. is just not ready yet for something to be sustained like that just on great and adventurous music alone.

So, you’re eventually going to have music in the new spot…
Well, we are actually opening two business next door to each other with two separate entrances, but that are also connected inside. Instead of one big restaurant, we have a smaller one and have this flexible space next door where we'll sell wines and to-go foods. We are building the retail space in a way that everything can be transformed and moved whenever we need to.

You are quite used to those “flexible spaces.” I remember seeing Nels Cline and Scott Amendola at the second Rocco in Hollywood and there was still a giant fishing-boat prop onstage from the theatre company who had the spot during the day.
Yeah, it’s funny. I’ve worked in a lot of flexible spaces. The Royal/T is the ultimate flexible space; it can transform beautifully into all sort of different things. I’ve learned how to redefine the concept of “flexible,” which is to leave it open for different uses, so I know what works and doesn’t, how to set it up right. So first, I want to establish the revenue-generating activities in the flexible space: retail shop, independent coffee shop in morning with just breakfast and good coffee, then change it into a wine shop with tastings and wine classes in the afternoon, and at night maybe eventually we can have the music. The interesting part of the space is that it’s not very big – about 5,000 square feet – but the ceilings are high, so we are building a mezzanine that will connect the two businesses, so you can walk up to the second level and walk back and forth between the restaurant and the retail space and watch the performances.


Clip for "Cookin' It Up" concert at the Royal/T Cafe

Why are you doing this now? Have you been thinking about it for years?
Well, it is an opportunity that I didn’t exactly plan. But last year when we did the "Cooking It Up" event, that was the first time I met Paul Canales, the chef. We had such a great time working together that when he finally left the place he was working [Oliveto] to open his own place, he called me up.

Did you have to think about it?
No, I was ready. [laughs]

I’m trying to think of all the monster players who have left L.A. in the recent years, it's depressing: Nels, James Carney, Danny Grissett, Adam Rudolph, now you – and you’re taking [wife] Motoko [Honda] with you, too!
Yeah. You can add Todd Sickafoose, Ben Wendel, Ambrose [Akinmusire]...It’s funny, I have spent my whole adult life here, and I love L.A. I still don’t sound like an L.A. person, but I feel in my heart that I grew up here. I am still European in many ways, but I had all of the significant experiences of my adult life here. I guess it is a double-edged sword. In L.A., nobody gives a shit about music, generally, so that makes my job harder in a way, but that is the reason why I do what I do.

Are you still going to be involved in the Angel City Jazz Festival?
Yeah, we are booking it right now.

Is there going to be a theme like last year?
We haven’t announced it yet, and it might still change, but the theme right now is: “Respect Innovative Artists and Legends.” The concept is that each concert will feature pairings of innovative artists and the legendary musicians who inspired them.

Like the Alex Cline/Roscoe Mitchell concert you did in October?
Yeah, actually that show was the inspiration for this theme. Again, it might change a little bit. The one band that we have 100-percent confirmation is Myra Melford. We got a grant to present her and she’s chosen Henry Threadgill. Others we’re thinking of are Ambrose Akinmusire with Wayne Shorter, and Charles Lloyd with Jason Moran. But we are just throwing out names. We wanted to get Nels Cline, but he is just too busy, which is too bad, because Jeff had an amazing idea: “Let’s get Nels to play with Jim Hall.” I mean, Nels doesn’t really know Jim Hall personally, but last week Jeff got a text from Nels saying, “I just had lunch with Jim Hall! He lives up the street from me!” But we couldn’t get the dates lined up. That would have been an unbelievable show.

Noize Terrorists: Nels Cline, Tim Berne and Jim Black
at the 2010 Angel City Jazz Fest

The L.A. Times sort of joked that the Bay Area has “stolen you away” from L.A.
In a way, it’s true. I know I’m going to end up doing more stuff there than here. I don’t even know the scene up there well enough to know if I am going to be able to do what I want to do. Maybe there is no need for someone like me up there! My dream is to get more activity going between San Francisco and Los Angeles. I would like to bring more L.A. people up there, and vice versa. I would really like to help be that connection between the two places. There hasn’t been as musch focus in San Francisco on the more edgy jazz that I specialize in. There have been venues that have done things here and there, but like L.A. it's been very fragmented. So we are hoping somewhere down the road to provide a space where we can pull in people from Mills College and Berkeley and create a nice alternative environment. We don't want to compete with places like Yoshi's; we want to have a much more underground vibe, much like the Blue Whale.

So L.A. hasn’t “broken” you…
No no! I still have the core fire that drives me to seek out this music.

It’s still burning in there?
Still burning. Yes.

What do you know now that you didn’t know back in ’98?
Everything! [laughter] I didn’t know anything in 1998! [more laughter] I mean, we will be here all night if I had to list them all!

Okay, how about a look back then: Rocco’s Top Shows* in L.A.?
Well, if you ask me this tomorrow, my answers are going to be completely different. Sometimes it’s not just the music but the circumstances surrounding it. The first one I can think of was the show I most regret not recording. I think it was 2006, the Ben Wendel Group at Barnsdall Art Park. He had just received a grant to compose some new music. Ambrose was on trumpet, Larry Koonse and Darek Oles on bass, Tigran [Hamasyan] on piano, Kevin Kanner on drums and Ben on sax. It was some of the most beautiful interplay I have ever heard. It was one of those concerts where every single note was perfect -- even the silence was perfect. Another one was at the old Rocco in Hollywood; we did Wayne Horvitz’s electric band [Zony Mash], which doesn’t really tour anymore and hasn’t played L.A. in about ten years. We did a multiple-night engagement, and we rented this Hammond B3 [organ] for Wayne. It was the most intense rock-groove-funk-jazz experience! I still have a picture in my mind of Wayne playing that Hammond and using all its effects. It was so emotionally charged.


The opening of Rocco's second club in Hollywood

How about the first space in Bel-Air?
Well, just after my first space and before the second one, I did two shows in downtown L.A. at this abandoned ballroom. We had Erik Friedlander’s [group] Topaz in there. Unbelievable concert, unbelievable. That’s one of the bands I’ve always wanted to get back together, because they really don’t perform together anymore. Then, going back to the Bel-Air era, the famous residency by [Andy Milne’s] Dapp Theory. They did a two-week residency, and it just built up in intensity with each night, and of course the closing night was just amazing. Hands down, the best show when I was at Café Metropol was Satoko Fuji and [her husband] Natsuki Tamura doing a duo. I have a recording of that night that I still listen to; their interaction is so fresh and original. One show that was completely mindblowing was this guitarist Timothy Young and a Russian guitar player [Andre Otraksin]. They were duo called Guitar Monks; they drove from Seattle down to Hollywood and then drove back at the end of the night. I still have their CD, and its was such an inspiring blend of classical-jazz-rock-blues that I felt like I would pass out when I heard that. Like the first time I heard Myra Melford’s Be Bread CD.


Satoko Fuji and Natsuki Tamura, live from Cafe Metropol

May we allow you to leave behind – besides your legacy, that is – some names of local players to watch in 2012?
Before I name them, I have to think: 'Wait, did they move to New York already?’ [laughter] Well, for sure the guitar player I just mentioned, Tim Young. I think he is one of the five best guitar players in the world – and he actually moved to L.A. Another that comes to mind is Slumgum, but somehow I feel I’ve over-presented them in a way, but that’s just because I find their music so inventive and revealing. Cal Arts has a lot of good new people. There’s this trumpet player name Brandon Sherman who I think is doing great things; he has a band called Chord Four. Daniel Rosenbloom, of course, who I’ve done a number of shows with. But there are people playing now at the Blue Whale who I don’t even know – and they are amazing.

That’s a good sign, right?
I think so!


You may not be rich, Rocco, but you’re already prosperous. Now live long.
Gary Fukushima, L.A. Jazz Collective

*IF ANYONE HAS MEMORIES OF GREAT ROCCO SHOWS FROM 1998-2011, FEEL FREE POST THEM IN OUR 'COMMENTS' SECTION!

Monday, September 26, 2011

ANGEL CITY JAZZ FESTIVAL 2011: The Edge of Song


How is one supposed to write "reviews" of music that does not conform to any of the normal aural signposts of melody, structure, even harmony? It is music like this -- it's footprints splattered all over the first few shows of this year's world jazz-themed Angel City Jazz Festival -- that reveals to a music writer how ultimately pointless what we do is. The words will never be able to catch up to the music because the vocabulary of music moves ahead so fast into uncharted waters that it exists beyond them. So we close the notebook, cap the pen, and order some appetizers while simply becoming a listener again. Ah, there you are.

Not that these realizations stopped us from pulling every 10-cent adjectives out of liquid-nitrogen storage when we attended a few choice shows for the ACJF's fourth year:

THE NECKS
(The Blue Whale, 9/22/11)
[Photo courtesy of Myles Regan]

For some reason, we expected a group with a name like "The Necks" to be one of those punky, post-modern bands like Kneebody or Gutpuppet who skronk with a harDCcore heart. Head-slamming improvisors, right? El Wrongo. Granted, we knew next to nothing about this Australian trio, and we didn't want to know; we wanted to walk in to this -- the opening night performance of the ACJF -- like we've been walking into movies lately: no advance hype, no trailer/scene-hunting on YouTube, no spoilers. And the Necks completely befuddled us from the first note: an unsettling subterranean drone that breathed, then weakened, then breathed again. Bassist Lloyd Swanson barely touched his strings, preferring to itch or tickle them at the neck (ahh, now we get the name). They sustained this eerie single note for the entire 45-minute set like this was a Terrence Malick film, creating -- depending on what head space you were in -- either an unbearable tension without any release or a release unburdened by any tension whatsoever. There was eve a stretch where the band created a vibratiing sensation that sounded like when you leave one window in your car open and its creates that thumping suction sound that nearly causes you to drive off the road. Not entirely pleasant, not entirely not. The most startling effect of the set was Chris Abrahams' piano, whose hammers sounded like they had been altered with carpet tacks, giving off a jangling, metallic sound as if a saloon pianist was attempting this very dense and sophisticated music.

SHUTZ VTET / LARRY KARUSH QUINTET
(LACMA, 9/23/11)
Read Tom Meek's L.A. Weekly review of the show here.
[Photo courtesy of Myles Regan]

BURKINA ELECTRIC & LUKAS LIGETI with DJ SPOOKY
(The Echoplex, 9/24/11)
Greg Burk reviews the show here. Read Andrea Raymond's interview with ACJF organizer Jeff Gauthier about the Burkina/Spooky show here.

[Photo courtesy of Myles Regan]

THEO BLECKMANN / TODD SICKAFOOSE and TINY RESISTORS
(REDCAT, 9/25/11)
[Photo courtesy of Steve Gunther]

You have to respect the stones of anyone who walks unannounced onstage at a tres-hip jazz festival without any instruments and immediately launches a cappella into song called "Duet For One." Then, when they do pull out instruments to play, they turn into Carrot Top: a tiny bear doll with a screen for a face and a creepy recorded voice ("Let's plaaaaaay!"), a neon-pink plastic toy horn or the rubber-nippled end of a toilet plunger. All assisted by a couple of effects pedals and a voice sampler, the German-born Theo Bleckmann [pictured above] took the bemused audience on a surreal blimp-ride through the human voice and all the different ways it van be perverted, mangled and morphed through technology, whimsy and sheer force of will. He covered Meredith Monk's "Wa-Lie-Oh" and the old cabaret standard "Lillie Marleen" (using afrementioned toy horn) and turned the jazz standard "I Remember You" into a fever dream from David Lynch's nursery. He made unutterable noise -- a pepper grinder filled with gravel? bullfrog love-calls in pea soup? a sped-up recording of two Korean men arguing sports? -- and then made music out of that. Funny thing: This sometimes veered into self-conscious cleverness, but rarely into self-indulgence.

[Photo courtesy of Steve Gunther]

Bassist Todd Sickafoose and his nonet were already standing onstage after the intermission, patiently waiting for the audience to file back in so they could proceed to lively it up with an eight-song set brimming with groove-based post-fusion. There was a constant albeit good-natured tension between the Alpha players of the ensemble (electric guitar, bass, trumpet, drums) and the Omegas (strings, piano). Of the Alphas, the standouts included the startlingly inventive trumpet of Ara Anderson, who yawped like Louis Armstrong at his sassiest on the N'awlins-flavored slo-drag "Paper Trombones" and then ached and breathed like Mark Isham on the lyrical "Whistle." Steve Cardenas' gorgeously evocative guitar playing sampled the crystal-clear treble of Bill Frisell on the opener "Future Flora," then did a 180 and mimicked Joe Zawinul's electric piano on "Bye Bye Bees." Hyper drummer Ted Poor kept up an aggressive, meth-addict skiffle that caught most of the "Who's that guy?" attention. Sickafoose himself exhibited his ability to helm a large band without letting on he's doing so -- he's more of an instigator than a leader. He repeatedly let his presence known with his rubberband pizzicato, smacking and popping his strings, treating the instrument like it was one of Tex Avery's cartoons.

[Photo courtesy of Steve Gunther]

As for the Omegas, they swam and spun around the Alphas, finding their pockets in little gestures and deft seasonings. Sickafoose paid tribute to violinist Jeff Gauthier [pictured below, at left] -- not only one of the co-organizers of the festival but also the label owner who released Tiny Resistors' 2008 self-titled debut -- by showcasing Gauthier's deft intergration of classical, jazz and Appalachian styles on three seperate instrumentals. Pianist Adam Benjamin seemed marooned at stage left behind the strings, but he chose to keep his low profile by crumpling pieces of paper into his miked piano bed and prodding its strings with drumsticks and rings of keys. At one point, not satisfied with the sounds he was getting by hitting a percussion bell, he simply switched to his metal music-sheet stand and found the tone he was looking for. Creativity -- in the moment and hot out of the oven!

[Photo courtesy of Steve Gunther]

Meanwhile, outside on 3rd Street, the filming of The Dark Knight Rises rolled relentlessly on...

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

ANGEL CITY JAZZ FESTIVAL 2010: Demokratic Vistas


After a two-day break, the Angel City Jazz Festival returned for its second leg on Thursday night with an emphasis on interdisciplinary collaboration—mainly between music and the visual arts. A bit of this was hinted at the Royal/T Café last week with the dinner/music/dance/video combo of the memorable “Cookin’ It Up” show, but both Thursday and Friday nights really drove home the interaction between  images and how artists respond to them. At the helm of the musical side of things were two L.A. composers whom I have been thinking about in the same breath a lot lately for their similarities: the festival’s keynote guitarist Nels Cline and the festival’s unofficial first lady, pianist Motoko Honda. Both conjure whole orchestras out of their respective instruments; both are musically omnivorous; both don’t hide behind their gadgets but utilize them improvisational devices in the bigger mix; both aggregate punk-rock energy with studious avant-garde discipline; and both have no limits to their talent.


Thursday night was the second buzz-worthy event since Henry Grimes on opening night: The LACMA-sanctioned premiere of DIRTY BABY, the picture/poetry/music “triologue” between L.A. badass painter Ed Ruscha, San Francisco-based producer/poet David Breskin and Mr. Cline. (A bethumbed review copy of the $125 coffee-sized tome with attendant “DIRTY NELS” CD sat like a giant doorstop in the museum bookstore.) Before beginning his readings, Mr. Breskin, a suitably intense and prickly gentleman with a lethal-looking shaved head who took very loud and elongated pulls on his bottled water, commented about how the boxes of fresh copies of the DIRTY BABY book were seized at U.S. Customs after being shipped in from its Italian printers; apparently, the book’s title scrawled all over the boxes convinced authorities they had hit the motherlode of confiscated child pornography. Oh Ed, still throwing people for a loop after 50 years!

David Breskin makes cellphone owners fear for their lives
(photo courtesy of Myles Regan)

The show was split into two parts, the first of which was a less successful melding of the involved art forms than the second. Mr. Breskin began – after acknowledging the evening as being the 55th anniversary of the reading of Allen Ginsburg’s Howl – with nearly a half hour hour of continuous short readings of his tart, ironic ghazals (sort of like Arabic haiku with refrain). In the book they are combined with 66 prints of Ruscha’s little-seen “dumb block” paintings from the 1980s and 1990s: dreamy, murky silhouettes with those punk-rocky black-censorship bars over where text would normally be.

The DIRTY band, first set (from left): Wayne Peet, Jeremy Drake, Danny Frankel, Glenn Taylor, Scott Amendola, Todd Sickafoose, Nels Cline, Bill Barrett
(photo courtesy of Myles Regan)

Cline followed with no less than, in Breskin’s words, “a time-lapse history of 6,000 years of Western Civilization.” His dream nonet of Left Coast players (whom Breskin dubbed "The People of the West") rose to the challenge with the stunningly epic and ambitious 42-minute title cut, which split itself into at least five different mini-suites that ranged from white squalls of noise to sweeping lyrical expanses that recalled composers like Virgil Thomson and Aaron Copeland. (It was Cline’s own personal There Will Be Blood soundtrack—the title of which is even repeated in one of Breskin’s ghazals.) The standout instrument of the first set was the prairie-ghost whisper of Bill Barnett’s chromatic harmonica. This, taken with Glenn Taylor's delicate pedal-steel shadings, framed the suite as some sort of strange and fragmented Western opera.

Maestro!
(photo courtesy of Myles Regan)

In the second set, Breskin’s terse readings turned bragging and hostile (“You Will Eat Hot Lead,” “I Thought I Told You That We Won’t Stop” “You Talk You Get Killed”) as he tackled the cracked mirror of America’s wars in the Middle East. These were interwoven more organically with Cline’s short bursts of bliss and vinegar. Besides electric guitar, Cline used what appeared to be a series of smaller and smaller acoustic guitars, including one that looked and sounded like a Cuban armónico, that lent the score a waft of Middle Eastern incense.

Lady about to attack her piano: Motoko Honda
(photo courtesy of Myles Regan)

Friday night’s marriage of imagery and music was no less epic, despite the fact that there was only one musician onstage instead of fourteen. Pianist and sound sculptress Motoko Honda preluded the premiere of Steven Elkins’ frequently poetic documentary The Reach of Resonance (think Fast, Cheap and Out of Control with musical mavericks) by stating her confusion at being asked to compose a piece inspired by the film. “I am mostly an improviser,” she said almost apologetically before sitting down for a furious and anarchic 20-minute tour de force in which she practically crawled inside the instrument. Mixing lyrical, almost George Winston-like etudes with a prepared technique I can only describe as “flossing" -- slipping a fishing line around the piano strings and moving them back and forth rapidly to create a sound not unlike a methed-out bee swarm  -- she beautifully refracted the film’s mind-bending investigations into the outer reaches of musical inspiration, or what composer Jon Rose, one of the film’s four subjects, tellingly labels “sonic terrorism." Mmm, not a bad buzzword for the ACJ festival as a whole.

THE REACH OF RESONANCE SNEAK PEEK:


Our apologies to Mr. John Abercrombie, who closed out the festival Saturday night with his Quartet. The Beast took ill and couldn't swing it, but here are some lovely and candid shots of the master at work:




From left: John Abercrombie, Joey Baron, Thomas Morgan, Mark Feldman
(all photos courtesy of Myles Regan)

Thursday, October 7, 2010

ANGEL CITY JAZZ FESTIVAL 2010: The First Leg


Ahh opening night. The electric-shaver buzz in the air! The expectant crowds milling about! The familiar faces! The parking fees! Welcome to the Angel City Jazz Festival Year Three. And for some reason – maybe momentum, maybe a perverse urge towards a Viking-style funeral – this year's bill was the most radical one yet. After getting a toehold with the first two years, what the hell were festival organizers Jeff Gauthier and Rocco Somazzi thinking?

I would be the wrong person to ask that question. My urge towards the fringier fringes of Out There music is not a good indicator of my judgment of a festival roster’s bankability. The esteemed music critic Greg Burk (who also reviewed the festival) asked me Monday night over dinner what I thought of this year’s lineup of artists and I froze with mouthful of cured tuna hearts. “I think it’s great!” was all I could muster. Burk was coming at me from the Long View of things: in order for this music and for the only annual festival to celebrate it to survive, it needs to embrace both the Out and the In. (To whit: last year’s sandwiching of the relatively straight-ahead B3 organisms of Larry Goldings between guitar freek-a-leek Nels Cline and the prepared piano of Motoko Honda.) I was coming at it from the blissfully oblivious punk-rock stance of, “the more extreme the better!” Which is why I don’t run a record label. I like Viking funerals.

This year, the extreme was exhibited in the majority of acts over the first few days having absolutely no set list. There were exceptions -- Kneebody and Ravi Coltrane on Sunday and the Trible/Beasley duo on Saturday – but the main feature was inventing a journey for the ears that wasn’t always “fun” in the classic sense. Like a good novel the music contained all emotions, from anxiety to abandon, from confusion to rapture. Hell, there was boredom in there a few times too, and the task of both performers and audience alike to wrest free of it.

Saturday was the much-ballyhooed return to L.A. of Mr. Henry Grimes, the bassist who has become as celebrated for the Hollywood-worthy tale of his rediscovery and rehabilitation as his pioneering work with the godheads of free jazz (Ayler, Taylor, Shepp, Sanders, Coltrane, Coleman). In fact, Grimes’ “story” has been told twice and Social Network-style in two opposing accounts in the last two months: first by scholar Steven Isoardi (“The Return of Henry Grimes: A Memoir” -- emphasis on that last word) and then a month later in the new literary quarterly Slake by journalist Hank Cherry (“The Resurrection of Henry Grimes”). It's a story, underscored by Mr. Gauthier’s opening remarks, that encompasses “hope, creativity and not giving up in the face of dire circumstances” and “very much an L.A. story.” We won’t get into all that here – in fact, we shudder at the thought of Grimes' story making to the big screen and becoming another The Soloist, complete with Kanye West or Sean Combs bobbing for Oscar cred by playing the troubled bassist. Suffice to say, all the crackling anticipation in the REDCAT theatre precluded that Mr. Grimes would be received rapturously if he simply stood onstage and did nothing but scratch his ear. He did stand onstage, but nothing the man did was simple.

Mr. Grimes’ set was preceded by the duo of vocalist Dwight Trible and pianist John Beasley, who took their own sweet time setting a subtle, churchified mood for their short set. They began with an improvised duet and moving into more structured material like “Autumn Leaves” and a bracing medley of “The Spirit of Love” with the more dire standard “Strange Fruit,” with Trible creating cubistic psalms over Beasley’s soft tide pools and mathematical chimes. They even paid tribute to current economic woes (which, as indie jazz musicians, they must feel quite acutely) with the closer, “Backlash Blues.” Four bars in, someone yelled from the audience: “I like it already!!”

Henry Grimes, with Olive Oil

The auditorium was dead quiet when Grimey & Co. shuffled out of the wings like gunfighting pilgrims. Grimes, dressed in baggy black pants, rumpled Hawaiian shirt and canary-yellow headband (his rotating headgear is like the jazz world’s version of the Bears' Jim McMahon), bent over the green-painted bass named “Olive Oil” (a gift from N.Y. loft vet William Parker) and started his knotty boxer’s hands dancing over the strings. This was the first of at least three improvisations that ranged from hellacious cacophony to near-silent meditation. The drama was heightened by the musicians (with minimal rehearsal and minimal direction) struggling across the tightrope together. It was 15 minutes before any kind of noticeable rhythm started and in that time Grimes switched from arco to pizzicato and then over to violin, while pianist Ben Rosenboom switched from the keyboard to the inner strings of the piano, Vinny Golia switched from baritone sax to clarinet to bass clarinet, Alex Cline switched from wire brushes to mallets to whatever else he had up his sleeve, and poor Dwight Trible (a last minute addition) switched from standing up to sitting down, as it appeared he was having difficulty fitting his vocals into the cracks of the ensemble’s intensity. But for intensity, one needed to look no further than the MVP of the evening Alex Cline, who towards the end of the set shattered the almost-quaint egalitarianism of the band by launching into a chest-rumbling and heavily caffeinated tribal beat that drew the rest of the players – even the maestro himself, who appeared not to once notice he had any bandmates – into its let’s-go-out-on-a-high-note sway.

Nels tears the Ford a new one
(photo courtesy of Myles Regan)

If Saturday night was the feather tickling, Sunday evening at the Ford Amphitheatre was the motherlode of weirdness, the anti-Hollywood Bowl. The bicoastal quintet Kneebody played like a bunch of young punks who just came from a show at The Smell. Vinny Golia returned for some funkified cold fusion with a youthful ensemble culled from his CalArts students. (Did we actually catch Golia dancing a little onstage?!). Nels Cline practically stomped a hole in the stage floor as he and saxist Tim Berne and three-armed drummer Jim Black went for the apocalyptic orgasm in an entirely improvised set that included Berne’s siren-like wails that he muted by sticking an empty Arrowhead water bottle into the bell of his horn.
Wadada
(photo courtesy of Myles Regan)

Wadada Leo Smith, who also backed Mr. Grimes on Saturday and who likes to stand at the edge of his bands like a character in the margins of an old MAD magazine, led his Golden Quartet in a groove-tinged set with some powerful players, including hot keyboardist Vijay Iyer (whose own current Solos CD is getting rapturous buzz) and the bewitching John Lindberg, who ran his bass through a pedal and created an otherworldly and elongated sound I can only regrettably call “bowelly.” (This made the L.A. Times jazz critic Chris Barton laugh -- although thank god he didn't mention it in his review of the show.) With their serpentine interplay and clean, well-lighted songs, the quintet led by saxophonist Ravi Coltrane (second son of John and Alice) and trumpeter Ralph Alessi tucked us into bed and kissed us on the cheek.

Ravi Coltrane/Ralph Alessi Quartet
(photo courtesy of Myles Regan)

The next night at Culver City's Royal/T Cafe was more of a cozy, family affair that mixed musical improvisation with multimedia flash and culinary wizardry courtesy of visiting chefs Paul Canales and Kelsey Bergstrom. (Indeed, Carol Kim's live video feeds of musicians and kitchen staff heightened the similarities between food and music—and further proved to me that chefs are the new DJs.) There was a metal tub packed with ice and stacked with bottles of Rahsaan Roland Kirk Dark Lager. There were silver multi-storied dishes of farmer’s market green beans and grissini dip. There were tablecloths, for god’s sake. All accompanied by the strangest dinner music we’ve ever heard, a true ebbing-and-flowing blast of West Coast airs anchored by the leadership of bassist Mark Dresser and pianist Myra Melford, who played a white mini-grand besmirched with subway graffiti, and brought to the brink by the butoh dance master Oguri, who squeezed himself between the banquet tables like that Tooms guy from The X Files. The Brothers Cline took a brief duo interlude during Dresser's "Rasa" that made one marvel at the talented womb they both were sprung from—and how ageless both seem when they are playing together. (Nels' recent collaborator and bride-to-be Yuka Honda was almost invisible behind Melford's piano, hunched over a tiny keyboard-sized piece of electronics called a Tenori-on.) The second set veered almost shockingly into verboten blues territory, with violinist Jeff Gauthier and Mark Dresser chasing each other in mad-stringed brotherhood. (I’m not sure of this, but some loud female voice kept yelling out “Mark Dresser! Yeah! Play it! Wooo!” during his solo, and I swear to God it might have been Ms. Melford, whom I’ve heard utter few words in person.) At the end of this wonderful evening, both Rocco and Jeff were spent but smiling. What do they know that we don’t?

Drawing by Deborah Drooz on my notebook
while I was in the Men's Room at the Royal/T

Check out the Ford performances on YouTube's Angel City Jazz TV page.