A visitation with Don Cherry's spirit

Those are the very attributes of Communion, which Cherry recorded with a quartet (Barbieri, tenor sax; Henry Grimes, bass; Blackwell, drums) that seems as busy as a band twice as big, and Symphony, (Barbieri, Grimes and Blackwell with Berger on vibes as well as piano, J.F. Jenny Clarke playing second bass, and Pharoah Sanders playing an amazing piccolo part) that seems transparent, for all the collective improvisation in which its personnel reveled.

Especially nice little touches from the band Berger assembled (which has performed in Europe and would like to convene again; it's an project with shifting personnel) included: his own "arranger's piano" not meant to impress but to serve; Wessel's guitar swings from country twang to digital effects; Helias' hardwood tone and clear, fast figures; Stewart's tirelessly upbeat oom-pah; Haynes' determination to play what he hadn't pre-planned; Apfelbaum's security with the material and willingness to wrestle with it; Ingrid's warmth and quietly fitting lyrics, Tabal's seamless beat. The program was varied and fresh, with unexpected interpretations ("Manhattan Cry" stripped down from a roar, as it was recorded, to its ballad essence) and sudden switchups like one of Cherry's unruly quirky lines delivered by the ensemble quick as a wink with nary a stumble. 

I miss Don Cherry and wish there was a biography of him, because he was a fascinating characgter. He was part Choctaw Indian from Oklahoma, and from an early age loved the trumpet playing of Clifford Brown. He was drawn to fabrics and textiles, using tapestries by his Swedish wife, Moki, for stage dressing or his own clothes whenever he could. I've heard stories of him roller-skating around Los Angeles in the '50s, of him spelunking into sacred Native American caves to play clay ocarinas, of how appeared daily under the cell windows of Angela Davis to serenade her on wood flutes during one of her incarcerations. In the early '70s he held two weeks of concerts in a geodesic dome in the Louisiana Museum of Modern Art in Denmark and in the '90s, not in the best of shape, he dropped into East Village dives to play with all comers. He is survived by musical children, including keyboardist David Ornette Cherry, his step-daughter Neneh Cherry and youngest son, Eagle-Eye. 

ESP Disks has released three volumes of Don Cherry's band with Barbieri and Berger live at Montmarte, 1966 -- they're preparing the repertoire for Symphony for Improvisers, rough but eager get it right. These recordings, and the vast majority of his others -- with Old and New Dreams, with Johnny Dynani, with the Mandingo Griot Society, Trilok Gurtu with Tamma -- are enduring gifts. 

Berger recalled Cherry between songs with both awe and rue. The musicians, together, reveled in what he'd wrought. The audience comprised musicians and aficionados who knew him and were slow to leave the hall after the gig because his sound had been conjured. Maybe Don Cherry's ghost was about. I don't often think that, but this time I did.