George Moore, who runs Dave Brubeck’s office, sent this message:

 

If you are suffering from bruised or broken ribs, PLEASE WAIT TO OPEN THIS LINK.

 

Then, rummaging around on the internet, I found this companion piece of video.

Now, no matter what kind of day you were having, you’ll have a better one.

I’m not sure why it took me so long to find out about the Industrial Jazz Group, but life is full of unintentionally delayed gratification. I’m also not sure why it took me so long to come across Amedei chocolate, Norma Winstone, the writing of James Salter or the psychic rewards of gardening.

In any case, Andrew Durkin–the Industrial Jazz Group’s leader, pianist and composer– intrigued me with an e-mail message asking if I would be willing to hear a CD by his band. So that the disc would not disappear into an impenetrable landscape of stacks of unbidden review copies, never to be seen again, I asked him to send it with a note reminding me to listen right away. What turns out to be the fifth CD by this whimsical, musical, fifteen-piece band showed up with the reminder. I listened right away, give or take a few days. Within moments, I was grinning, then laughing, then shaking my head at the complexity of the music and the skill with which the IJG performed it.

The humor is both subtle and slapstick, the musicianship consistently impressive. The band’s comprehensive web site reflects the wackiness of the music but also practices modern marketing by linking to a company store offering T-shirts, mugs, a mouse pad, a thong and a one-piece baby garment. Maybe that’s the industrial aspect of the band.

On the site, Durkin writes that he doesn’t see the value of lists of influences but admits to being under the sway of Frank Zappa, Duke Ellington and Charles Mingus. Unopposed to lists, I will point out that he might also have mentioned Stravinsky, Archie Shepp, Spike Jones, Carla Bley, Raymond Scott, Satie, the AACM, Charles Ives and the Marx Brothers. The CD that arrived is called — don’t ask me why — LEEF. According to the nearly unreadable
information on the CD envelope (cleverly printed in white on yellow) it was recorded “mostly live” in concert in Amsterdam. The singer, Jill Knapp, is excellent. I presume that it is she whom we see cavorting in the promotional video to which you will find a link on this page.

Fair warning: a couple of the tracks have language that is less shockingly foul than boringly and repetitively foul. It gives the kids a chance to talk dirty in public and doesn’t last long. (Perhaps I should have mentioned Lennie Bruce in that list of possible influences.)

But it’s the music that matters most. The music is good.

Bob Florence was best known for his big band arranging, as his Grammy award, thirteen Grammy nominations and two Emmys attest. He died last Thursday at home in Thousand Oaks, California, five days short of his 76th birthday. Florence was also a superb pianist and favorite
accompanist of singers. In recent years, in a pan-generational surprise, he hit it off with the adventurous young trumpeter Ingrid Jensen. Florence and Jensen discovered an affinity in a jazz festival after-hours session and, after that, played whenever they could manage to get together. Unfortunately, they seem not to have recorded.

Of the many albums Florence made with his Limited Edition big band, I find myself going back most often to the one called Serendipity. His empathy and supportiveness as an accompanist are evident in Flight of Fancy, a CD of Alan and Marilyn Bergman songs that he shared with the singer Sue Raney. As a solo pianist, Florence offered a sensitive touch and an arranger’s sense of harmony and placement of chords. His CD Another Side is evidence. Florence was natural, easy-going and inspirational as a music educator. He went out of his way to help school children learn what jazz is made of. The All About Jazz web site, has an excellent, uncredited, appreciation of Florence. There is an extensive obituary in his hometown paper, The Ventura County Star.

Rifftides reader John Altman writes from London:

 

Got an email from the British Film Academy (BAFTA) offering AN EVENING OF CHARLIE PARKER. At last, I thought, the elusive video from Canadian TV with Brew Moore and Paul Bley I’ve been hearing about for years. Opened the email and it was publicising AN EVENING OF CHARITY POKER! Oh well, guess I need new glasses after all!! Proves that the eye sees exactly what it wants to see.

 

Many of the same letters. So close

 

 

 

It doesn’t take much to make me miss New York City. Bill Cunningham of The New York Times is particularly good at it. The other day, I gave you a hint of what spring is like where I am now. Cunningham’s latest photo essay takes us to a special part of New York. Thanks to Rifftides reader Mack Parkhill for calling it to our attention.

Correspondent John Birchard patrols the jazz precincts of the US capital city for Rifftides.

13th Annual Women In Jazz Festival

Kennedy Center, Washington, DC

Second Night

May 16, 2008

Review by John Birchard

Pianist Helen Sung, who won last year’s Kennedy Center Mary Lou Williams Women in Jazz competition, led off the Friday night event. Heading a quartet that included saxophonist Steve Wilson, bassist Richie Goods and drummer Donald Edwards, Sung
presented a package of three compositions by Thelonious Monk, intriguingly re-arranged. She took the third piece, “Bright Mississippi”, at a blistering tempo that showed off the leader’s impressive keyboard technique.

A pair of originals completed Sung’s program. Sung began her “Shall We Tango” with an out-of-tempo introduction that emphasized the seductive tango rhythm but in an impressionistic way. Steve Wilson was effective in his solo, as was bassist Goods. An attractive composition called “Songbird” was the set closer, incorporating Latin rhythm with more of Sung’s engaging style at the keyboard.

Next up was the singer Sheila Jordan, who was presented the 2008 Mary Lou Williams Women in Jazz Award for her contributions to the music over the years. She joins such other artists as Jane Iran Bloom, the late Patti Bown, Toshiko Akiyoshi, Marian McPartland and Melba Liston as winners of the award. Jordan described herself as “seventy-nine-and-a-half” years old, but “feeling fourteen.”

Jordan eased into “Lucky to Be Me” by improvising on the lyric to thank the Kennedy Center and Billy Taylor, artistic director for jazz at the Center, for honoring her. Her
intonation is a little shaky these days, but she overcomes it by hitting the notes she’s capable of and half-talking the rest. She was joined on stage by a stellar trio – Steve Kuhn on piano, David Finck on bass and the drummer Billy Drummond, a group certainly capable of carrying a set by themselves. Jordan was engaging and funny in her between-songs commentary, a sort of stream-of-consciousness series of ad libs that delighted the Terrace Theater audience. Following the Ivan Lins melody, “The Promise of You”, Jordan had fun with Bobby Timmons’ “Dat Dere”. Her tribute to Miles Davis began with her own seemingly improvised lyric about Miles’ ballad playing and segued into “It Never Entered My Mind”.

Jordan then introduced from the audience her former student Theo Blackman, who joined her on stage to sing “Every Time We Say Good-bye”, which Jordan followed with a slow, heart-felt reading of “For All We Know”. The two embraced and exchanged kisses, their obvious rapport with each other generating a warm bath of applause.

Jordan closed her set with a blues that featured more apparently spontaneous lyrics including thanks to her accompanists, the Kennedy Center, her late friend Shirley Horn–a Washington native–and the audience for supporting live music. What Sheila Jordan may have lost over the years in vocal equipment, she has more than made up for in stage presence and infectious personality. It was good to be reminded of those who labor in the shadows of little recognition, but who deserve far greater appreciation. Sheila Jordan is surely one of them.

Topping off the evening was drummer Sherry Maricle and her all-woman quintet Five Play. When I first heard Maricle, perhaps fifteen years ago, her playing reminded me of Mel Lewis. Nowadays, if I had to suggest a drummer after whom she has patterned herself, it would be Buddy Rich. Maricle
is all about hard-driving energy and technique. Her band lit into a Horace Silver-sounding original to kick off the set. The tune showed the group’s strengths: tight, well-rehearsed ensembles, strong solos by the side persons and a kicking Maricle tying the chart together.

Five Play includes Janelle Reichman on tenor sax and clarinet. Reichman has a sound somewhat similar to Zoot Sims and abundant chops to handle fast tempos that reminded this listener of Sal Nistico. The trumpeter Jamie Dauber produced a bright, brassy sound and a plunger technique that would qualify her as a prime candidate for the Ellington band. Tomoko Ohno holds down the piano bench with strong chops and a two-handed solo style that emphasizes the bluesy aspects of a tune. The bassist Noriko Ueda plays firm time and her solos showed imagination and technique. An additional member of the cast is the Portuguese-born singer Marie Amadon, who impressed with her readings of “Old Devil Moon” and “Comes Love.”

Departing from her mostly up tempo choices, Maricle introduced a walking “Cry Me a River” that featured Janelle Reichman on clarinet. Reichman’s tone on the instrument is liquid and mellow, somewhat akin to that of Eddie Daniels, which is meant as a compliment. The evening came to a climax with a speed reading of the feminist anthem made famous by Helen Reddy, “I am Woman (Hear me Roar)”, taken at a tempo designed to separate the women from the girls. Everyone offered heated solos and Sherry Maricle rounded out the performance with a high-energy solo. The term “flag waver” came to mind as she had the audience on their feet – and not just to hustle to the exits.

Rifftides Washington, DC correspondent John Birchard is attending one of the city’s major music festivals. Here is his report on the first night.

13th ANNUAL THE KENNEDY CENTER MARY LOU WILLIAMS WOMEN IN JAZZ FESTIVAL

May 15, 2008

Review by John Birchard

They tried to find a longer name for the festival. The above is the best they could come up with. But that’s the Kennedy Center… big, bulky and institutional. Still, once you get inside that huge marble box, some nice things take place, like Women in Jazz.

This year’s fest began with Grace Kelly. Not the Princess of Monaco, of course, but the
ridiculously talented young saxophonist from Boston. Kelly, an Asian American celebrating her 16th birthday (yes!), led a quintet made up of drummer Terri Lynne Carrington, another woman who made her mark early; pianist Doug Johnson, bassist Evan Gregor; and trumpeter Jason Palmer.

Kelly led her band through a program of mostly originals, demonstrating her rapidly maturing style on alto and a penchant for latin rhythms and sophisticated melodies that incorporate interesting twists and turns. She played curved soprano on one number, showing off a rounded, pleasing tone. The only two standards in the program were a fresh approach to Gershwin’s “Summertime” and a lovely reading of Monk’s “Round Midnight” in which she played alto accompanied only by bassist Gregor. All of her bandmates performed well, especially Palmer, whose taste and imagination kept his impressive chops under control in the service of the music. It was a thoroughly satisfying set.

Before last night, I had never heard of the singer Catherine Russell. It’s my loss. She is the daughter of the late Luis Russell, who served as Louis Armstrong’s band director back in the 30s, and the bassist/singer Carline Ray. Catherine is a wonderful, strong singer with
a particular interest in old-timey songs like “My Man’s an Undertaker (He’s Got a Coffin Just Your Size”), “The Joint is Jumpin'” and Hoagy Carmichael’s “New Orleans”.

She was accompanied by a fine trio of swing-oriented musicians – pianist Mark Shane, guitarist Matt Munisteri who contributed several tasty and soulful solos, and bassist Lee Hudson. Russell’s repertoire is choice, from “I’m Lazy That’s All” associated with Pearl Bailey to “I’m Just a Sucker for a Broken Nose” and her own original “Lucy”, about various addictions. Her set was full of delightful surprises and when she closed out roaring with “Kitchen Man”, she had earned the cheers of the capacity crowd.

Rounding out the evening was the Japanese pianist Keiko Matsui, whose music is a far piece from Catherine Russell’s. It’s a combination of electric instruments (keyboards, bass, guitar), heavy percussion (a two-man battery), and a mix of Latin rhythms and New Age harmonies. The program was built completely on Ms Matsui’s original compositions, which this listener found to be repetitive, but which the audience applauded enthusiastically.

Her band was tight and expert in the repertoire. Steve Reid was especially effective surrounded by a collection of percussion items all of which he used. Keiko Matsui has abundant technique and is attractive and personable. I was bored by the performance, but the audience ate it up, so who’s wrong here?

I took a break from writing this morning and went for a ride with my friend Bianchi Vigorelli (pictured).
Here in the lee of the Cascades, it was the first truly hot day of the year. Melted snow is rushing off the mountains, filling the rivers to the tops of their banks, running them fast and muddy, carrying along the occasional downed tree and drowned animal. The Yakima and the Naches are not at official flood stage, but they’re getting close. If I lived in one of the low-lying areas nearby, I’d be making evacuation plans.

Along the river banks, in the parks and through the towns, dogwoods, magnolias, apple trees and profusions of flowers are in full bloom. Large numbers of redwing blackbirds and cedar waxwings (pictured) 
have materialized — and platoons of people in shorts and tank tops. For the most part, I found it more edifying to watch the birds. The ride–a twenty-miler–was a warmup for a longer round trip on Sunday through the Yakima River Canyon, which will be free of motorized traffic that day. A few of the hills are long and challenging enough to be character builders, but for the most part it’s a leisurely cruise with a few hundred cyclists of all ages. Great fun. I wish that you could join us.

Have a good weekend.

After David Remnick took command as editor of The New Yorker in 1998, he curtailed the late Whitney Balliett’s contributions to the magazine, relegated him to writing about celebrities like Barbra Streisand and eventually dropped the pre-eminent jazz writer altogether. Characteristically, Balliett kept quiet about the slight, but he was hurt and humiliated. In their fury, some of his devoted readers unsubscribed and never forgave Remnick. The editor himself is a gifted writer. The Balliettomanes may be somewhat mollified by Remnick’s piece about a voluble eccentric dedicated to making people understand and appreciate jazz. The first sentence of Remnick’s profile of Phil Schaap in the May 19th issue of The New Yorker is almost as long as a Charlie Parker solo and perfectly captures Schaap’s magnificent fixation.

Every weekday for the past twenty-seven years, a long-in-the-tooth history major named
Phil Schaap has hosted a morning program on WKCR, Columbia University’s radio station, called “Bird Flight,” which places a degree of attention on the music of the bebop saxophonist Charlie Parker that is so obsessive, so ardent and detailed, that Schaap frequently sounds like a mad Talmudic scholar who has decided that the laws of humankind reside not in the ancient Babylonian tractates but in alternate takes of “Moose the Mooche” and “Swedish Schnapps.”

The article illuminates Schaap’s obsessive-compulsive persona, his exhaustive–and exhausting–knowledge of jazz, and the status of the music American culture owes so much and appreciates so little. To read Remnick’s profile of Schaap, go here. At the bottom of the online pages is an audio player, giving you the opportunity to listen to Schaap ruminating his way through a substantial portion of one of his broadcasts.

(Chet) was so sweet when he played, so mysterious. Somehow he was able to express the question mark of life with so few notes. In Italy, we’re more sentimental, and we felt that very much. –Enrico Pieranunzi

Well, if I could play like Wynton (Marsalis), I wouldn’t play like Wynton –Chet Baker