Moment's Notice
Reviews of Recent Media
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Sophie Agnel
Song
Relative Pitch RPR1217
Sophie Agnel is an improvising pianist whose work may be spare or dense, but seems always to be both adventurous and precise, a cultivated attentiveness to the possibilities of the particular instant and circumstance. It’s been apparent in numerous recordings through the years and becomes more apparent with each release. From its initial moments, Song will present itself as a mystery. The title is a kind of in-born spirit, no conventional song, though the opening and concluding piece (“Song 1” and “Song 7”) will also embrace a literal song, sung by Mauricette Millot, a soprano whose appearances also bring some pre-recorded accompaniment.
“Song 1” begins as an orientation to disorientation, a storm of percussive noise that definitely includes interior piano sounds, but which might go further with electronic distortion as well as the distant voice of Millot. The sustain pedal is of critical importance to the music, accumulating layers of lower and mid-register chords and clusters and the repetition of the briefest of patterns, collecting, assembling and overlaying them together in a manner that might suggest Terry Riley’s idea of the “time-lag accumulator.” The mystery that presents as depth and echo at the outset transforms in “Song 2” into the multiple detailing of single notes of prepared piano, sounds modified by compound preparation of a string, creating complex buzzes that suggest electronically augmented sound.
“Song 3” is a rhythmic compound of damped and prepared strings, while “4,” at just over 11 minutes, is the most extended work here, as well as the most developed, complex, and varied. Agnel creates a compound percussion music that matches interior play and delicate hammering with complementary and contrasting keyboard forays, creating a richly orchestral music with the resources of a single musician. While Agnel exploits every sonic resource of the piano, she also seems to press beyond, including sounds that might be whistles or bowed metal, suggesting something like the mechanical birds in Yeats’ “Byzantium,” accompanied here by the lightly drummed surface of the piano body.
“Song 5,” a work of genius and stark brevity, suggests a string orchestra; “6” begins as something like an abraded cello before continuous sweeping sounds that will ultimately give way to an instant of conventional piano timbre, then high whistles, muffled bass tones, then some brilliant overlay of playing and sweeping, as if a domestic collective had been engaged to give the piano a thorough cleaning.
The ultimate “Song 7,” none too long, returns the charmingly skittering, artful voice of Mauricette Millot, along with a semblance of a male chorus with baroque touches, all combined with strongly rhythmic piano accompaniment and scatters of voice before concluding the program with two somber alternating and pedalled chords.
This is less a conventional solo piano recording than a dream, an act of mystery and imagination in which the idea of song becomes an experience of profound reverie, to be sought out and absorbed, a world in which quotidian experience surrenders to spirit, at once antithetical and wondrous.
–Stuart Broomer
Pierre Borel
Katapult
Umlaut Records UMFR-LP03
Marseille-based saxophonist, drummer, experimental filmmaker, and co-founder of Umlaut Collective Pierre Borel seems to pop up everywhere, collaborating in ad hoc groupings with a wide range of European free improvisers or working in ensembles like Die Hochstapler, Lumpeks, Sven-Åke Johanssen’s Stumps, and Umlaut Big Band. Like all of his projects, Katapult is an ambitious endeavor. Starting as a solo saxophone project, Borel began to add various percussion instruments, leading to the idea of experimenting with the possibilities and inherent challenges of improvising in real-time on both saxophone and drums in tandem. What could easily devolve into gimmick or an exercise in multi-dexterous facility instead transcends the sheer physicality of the undertaking, delivering a set of improvisations that meld saxophone and drums into a cohesive whole.
The set starts out with the spare reed pops and reverberant tom of “Kurze Pause Zum Rauchen.” Conventions are inverted as the saxophone functions more as percussive counterpoint to the tuned tonalities of the open drum patterns. Two extended improvisations, “Sol Si Ré Tchak Boom” and “Ré Si Sol Boom Tchak,” follow, their names referring to Solsirépifpan, a French one-man orchestra from the early 19th century. Here, Borel intones a motif on sax, responds with drums, then ingeniously weaves the two threads together into an abstracted self-dialogue. The intersections of cycling sax phrases and coursing percussion belie the fact that this is a juggling act. Without knowing the details of the recording, one would never guess that one musician was playing both simultaneously.
Both improvisations build on the insistent repetition and transformation of simple threads into increasingly complex patterns and then backing them out with focused creativity. The second piece, in particular has a mesmerizing concentration, building from a simple melodic kernel to long-held reed notes shaded with compact percussive gesture and hummed overtones. Four minutes in, the density of the drumming wells as Borel weaves in fragmented reed intervals. An unwavering concentration carries through the piece as the velocity and densities of sound ebb and flow, slowly winding things down to a quiet finish. “For J.C,” dedicated to Jerome Cooper, is a fitting ending and insightful homage, eliciting the dedicatee’s multi-limbed layers of polyrhythms and keening chirimía lines. Borel has waited over two decades before recording a solo project. Katapult was well worth the wait.
–Michael Rosensstein
Patrick Brennan + Jason Kao Hwang + Cooper-Moore + On Ka’a Davis
KnCurrent
Deep Dish DD-106
It should be no surprise, when a Patrick Brennan album is in the offing, that the title, KnCurrent, encapsulates an evocative set of sonic signifiers. Streams of simultaneity grace the soundstage when Brennan’s alto, Cooper-Moore’s diddley-bo, Jason Kao Hwang’s electric violin and On Ka’a Davis’ guitar engage each other, and, most interesting, themselves, in fits, starts and waves of ever-evolving dialogue.
Spontaneous manifestation keeps interest high. We’re plunged unceremoniously but titillatingly into an amorphous notion of the dialogic as Cooper-Moore and Davis’ salvos, inaugurating “slip apophatica,” eschew steady pitch and warp temporal perspective. Only upon Hwang’s gradual emergence do the major-second dyads unifying everything clarify themselves, Cooper-Moore gliding and growling ascent beneath it all. Brennan listens. Only at 2:31 does he enter with an expansion of the centers the others have been exploring. The slow build and staggered entry is typical of the album, where, as often as not, the quartet fragments into duets, trios and the occasional solo. “Dne Wol” exemplifies the latter, a superb vehicle for the diddley-bo to demonstrate a good portion of its multivalent timbral ebb and swell. To hear Brennan stretch, look no further than “polyneuroceptive”’s street-wise blues and funk, the diddley-bo suddenly taking on a percussive role, bumping and shuffling its way along the groove it creates. Brennan pushes, darts around and slams against that foundational pulse, leaping register and dynamic thresholds in his syntax of typically brief phrases, pithy interrogatives and exclamations. Even that long trill at 3:45 hangs headlong over the backdrop of polyrhythmic interactions, acknowledging but refusing to allow them sway.
Then, there is the self-talk, the interaction with instrument and electronics that renders each soloist an ensemble. As the lusciously sparse “ṣumud صمود” progresses toward ensemble energy, Hwang’s use of delay morphs his violin into a call-and-response chamber group. His absolutely exquisite solo concluding the piece, one of the album’s finest moments, is a study in sustained restraint as overtones arc and descend toward silence. On the intriguingly and dialogically titled “must be “Who Say,”” Davis’ guitar effects proffer an upper-register melody that ghosts whatever he’s playing, peeking out of each fundamental with its own series of resonant slides and minuscule growls. What occurs as the upper-register material takes over defies verbiage even as it rends the concentric veils of pitch and rhythm, skewed repetitions only partially obscuring each tone as it seeks, in vain, to establish an identity. Cooper-Moore inhabits similarly ambiguous realms as his solo opening “tewatatewenní:io” slithers forward like a bass counterpart to Blind Willy Johnson’ slide guitar. Each stroke of the strings provides a layer of pointillism that guides the evolving melody from above, a bass aria salted and peppered with hints of accompanying ghost percussion all emanating from one instrument.
No one reading these pages will need any introduction to these musicians, and their feats of instrumental prowess should engender no surprise. It’s the amalgamation, the way each musician reacts to the other’s implied ensemble, that raises this creative foray to dizzying heights. “polyneuroceptive” concludes with one of these relatively rare occurrences. The creative streams form a river of celebratory utterance as each player inhabits a space opened up by layered exchange. Mode, groove, and timbre coalesce at these moments bursting with implication. The album builds toward and away from them. From end to end, such occasional instances are foregrounded, mysteriously, at the most unexpected but crucial moments, and, just as suddenly, they dissolve, leaving only memories of concurrence in convergence.
–Marc Medwin
Raven Chacon
Voiceless Mass
New World 80848
Raven Chacon is the first Native American composer to win the Pulitzer Prize for music, and the present disc’s centerpiece is the premier recording of Voiceless Mass (2021), the work that garnered the award for him. Present Music, the ensemble for whom it was composed, also performs Biyein (2011) and Owl Song (2021), the entire collection obviously a point of definition for the composer combining his diverse interests in electronic and acoustic sounds through a long-cultivated language of space and socio-politically informed introspection.
Eric Smigel’s liner notes prove invaluable for an understanding of the various forces at work in Chacon’s complex but concise musical syntax. As is New World’s wont, the essay is extensive and musically detailed. Elucidating the mass, Smigel writes that its commission “offered Chacon a valuable opportunity to address critical issues concerning the legacy of the Catholic Church and the atrocities committed against Indigenous peoples – particularly the residential schools, forced assimilation, and abuse of Indigenous youth – and Chacon was eager to evoke this history directly within the walls of the sanctified institution.” He goes on to quote Chacon: “Voiceless Mass considers the futility of giving voice to the voiceless, when ceding space is never an option for those in power.” This poignant statement goes a considerable distance toward analogizing the sounds on offer, from the gentle percussion opening and demarcating the piece to the harnessed thunder of the drone underpinning much of the otherwise transparent soundscape, suffusing it with a dimly dark energy over which continuous illumination holds sway. The organ of the Cathedral of St. John the Evangelist, the space for which Voiceless Mass was composed, provides much of that drone and much more besides, imbuing each of its shifting registers with the often restrained but firm breath-sounds that complement the many oscillating “voice” sounds afforded by strings and winds in keening interaction. Yet, while it is music of reproach, the lesson is that of wisdom as melodies slide in and out of focus over, and combining to form, a continually evolving harmonic backdrop which rays of hope occasionally illuminate. The moment at 13:26, impossibly high-register organ in tandem with a return of that crystalline percussion conjuring shades of Messiaen’s 1992 vision of Paradise, is among the most beautiful of this immensely but quietly powerful work. The gradual dynamic increase, sweeping glissandi and slow fade are of particular import in a piece nearly devoid of them.
Beyond obviously doffing the proverbial hat toward Debussy and the Spectralists, Chacon’s sparse soundworld owes a debt to George Crumb, the heart of whose mysterious and ghostly universe of familiarized unfamiliarity imbues the other two works on offer. Mode and timbre are variables in the complex equation as tones slide in and out of focus, but the mystery remains, isolated to occurrence of ceremonial import. The staggering harmonic sustain beginning at 6:11, augmented by Ariadne Grief’s whistle and birdcall vocalizations, brings the music and its multiple historical and sonic contexts into focus even as its inner timbres slither and pulse along their axes. Grief’s voice inhabits mythological realms, shape-shifting as the liners explain, as growl, coo, keen, and yip conjure nature spirits with magical control and vivid directness. The music’s many repetitions are those of the dance, often stately, undergirding a vibrant intersecting series of traditions in tandem informing each utterance and phrase. Biyan lives in a similar space where song and repetition merge, but its slightly more extraverted sounds evoke a more raucous aspect of nature as strings gliss across the sound-stage and winds transgress the preconceived boundaries of decorum too often associated with their “Classical” rhetoric. Again, a low-register invocation, pulsed rather than droned, anchors and simultaneously pushes all into archetypal realms.
More than anything else, it could be the evocation of archetype that gives Chacon’s music its magic. Yes, electronics and processing are obviously integral to the project’s execution, and, though spectacular, the resulting sonics do not account for the clarity of vision with which each compositional gesture makes its mark. Each sound defies easy categorization while remaining somehow so direct, intuitively familiar, whether in a musical or purely experiential context. Melody, harmony, and rhythm are always present and somehow elusive as the world of natural things serves as a point of imitation. This is music borne of the patience that comes from listening, and it is the most complete statement to date of Chacon’s expanding compositional lexicon.
–Marc Medwin
Stanley Cowell
MUSA – Ancestral Streams
Strata-East SES-19743-2
Music Inc.
Live at Slugs’ Volume I & II
Strata-East SES-1972-25
Charles Rouse
Two is One
Strata-East SES-19746-25
Pharoah Sanders
Izipho Zam (My Gifts)
Strata-East Dolphy Series 2 SES-19733-25
The resurgence of Strata-East is certainly welcomed, particularly if this bundle of reissues signals ongoing releases of titles issued on Charles Tolliver and Stanley Cowell’s iconic label. However, the seemingly on-cue ballyhoo of the mainstream jazz press is a bit overblown. It’s not like the entire catalog has been out of circulation for decades. Domestically, both volumes of Tolliver’s Live at Slugs’ were included in the 3-CD Tolliver Mosaic Select (2006) and Pharoah Sanders’ Izipho Zam (My Gifts) was part of Mosaic’s The Complete Clifford Jordan Strata-East Sessions (2013). Additionally, Cowell’s Musa – Ancestral Streams was issued in Japan in 1996, and there were three CD reissues of Charles Rouse’s Two in One in Europe and Japan during the ‘90s. Dedicated listeners have obtained them by now. This reissue program is presumably targeted for the elusive wider audience that Strata-East had for a minute, which begs the question: are these four titles the best to lead with? Not quite.
Certainly, the Tolliver and Cowell are bona fide classics that speak of an era whose vibrancy and optimism are needed now more than ever. The early 1970s was a time when the Black Nationalism of the previous decade began to mainstream in a way that preserved the core values of self-determination. Tolliver’s Music Inc. did so in a muscular way, the red-lining intensity of the trumpeter’s compositions like “Drought” and “Spanning” leaving no doubt about the strength of the message – or the messengers. By commencing the two volumes of Live at Slugs’ with such thrillingly intense performances, Tolliver created a capacious space where supple compositional design and well-honed lyricism could be heard of a piece with audacious athleticism. His quartet with Cowell, Cecil McBee, and the lamentably undervalued Jimmy Hopps (after revisiting this collection, go back and pay close attention to his work on Roland Kirk’s The Inflated Tear), should be a Wikipedia entry for small ensemble interplay, as they continuously volley sparks with insight and energy.
Whereas Music Inc.’s impact was immediate and nearly concussive, Musa – Ancestral Streams took root in a more inconspicuous manner. It was not lost in the crowd of solo piano recordings of the early 1970s, but its secondary status among them is arguably attributable to the label’s limitations in market penetration. However, more importantly, Cowell’s album conclusively dispelled the notion that DIY was exclusively a strategy of the avant-garde. Certainly, the pianist had placed himself out of the political mainstream by naming his first album Blues for the Viet Cong in 1969, when the country remained in the throes of the fever dream Nixon had recently acquired from LBJ; but his music even on that recording spoke to a jazz lineage as much as anything. Musa further maps the relationships between McCoy Tyner’s modal thunder, Les McCann’s hallelujahs, and the acrobatics of mid-century masters. What elevates Cowell’s approach above pastiche is his deft touch in giving themes and forms a human dimension, making material personable, animate, and emotive. It may be simply part and parcel of being part of an ancestral stream, but very few pianists perfected this as Cowell did on Musa.
Despite the qualities of the Sanders and Rouse albums, there are several titles that would have made this inaugural batch of titles even stronger, beginning with Jordan’s In the World, M’Boom’s Re: Percussion and Billy Harper’s Capra Black. In 1969, Sanders had yet to perfect the recipe that resulted in Karma, Jewels of Thought, and the other Impulse titles that placed him in the front ranks of post-Coltrane jazz throughout the 1970s. It was also too early for him to front a large ensemble. Leon Thomas absolutely shines on “Prince of Peace,” but it feels like a rehearsal for the later “Hum Allah ...,” one that Sanders sat out. “Balance” begins with the type of vigorous theme employed on Black Unity and elsewhere, but its focused, swaggering energy is too quickly jettisoned, and the large ensemble’s subsequent conflagrations are almost reduced to a din in the mix (though this proves he could cut through anything, Sonny Sharrock fared better on Tauhid). The title track is built on one of Sanders’ finest themes, an ascending, enlivening line; but the back and forth between its reiterations and scorched-earth ensemble improvisations wears a bit thin by the end of this nearly half-hour performance – Sanders’ refinement of this gambit is central to the success of his later albums.
The title Two in One speaks to the dual nature of the album, facilitated by LP sides presenting respective aspects of the ideas circulating in the early ‘70s. The first three tracks are funk-infused and jazz radio-friendly. There are tricky meters and knotty lines, but the locked-step tandem of Stanley Clarke and drummer David Lee keeps the grooves simmering, allowing Rouse, Calo Scott (!), and guitarists George Davis and Paul Metzke sufficient blowing room. The title track better serves Rouse’s legacy. Co-written by Rouse and Sir Roland Hanna, the title track is literally two pieces joined together, the first a comparatively expansive post-bop workout, the second a cooking blues. The addition of Airto Moreira further locates the music in the early 1970s. The album closes with the curious “In His Presence Searching,” a flashback to the mid to late ‘60s East-meets-West experiments, enhanced by Rouse playing bass clarinet. When the reverential opening theme gives way to a percolating odd-meter sprint, Clarke, Scott, Rouse (on tenor) deliver engaging solos. Give Rouse props for taking risks, but if this is a masterpiece ...
–Bill Shoemaker
