Other Steve
October-24th-2003, 11:11 PM
Leave it to Dave Douglas not to take on any project halfway -- or even in a conventional sense, for that matter. After receiving a commission to compose a setting of a text by the poet Stanley Kunitz which would share a concert program with settings by Milton Babbitt and Charles Wuorinen, Douglas found himself inspired to take on a number of texts by a variety of poets and writers. As his band took the bandstand on Tuesday night, he mentioned, with an air of self-deprecation, that it had certainly taken him long enough to start pondering the idea of setting text to music. (He also thanked the roughly three-quarters capacity crowd for skipping the World Series game that evening, noting that there was a TV in the Vanguard's kitchen and joking that the Yankees were currently down 11-0.)
Before I go any further, I should confess to unfamiliarity with half of the writers and all of the texts that Douglas included in his "Word" project. That means I can't really address the lyrics themselves to any deep degree. What I can say, though, is that as a general rule, Douglas avoided facile text painting, the idea of creating music that tries to literally depict what the words say. Instead, the lyrics directed the mood of each piece -- Kunitz discursive and freely rambling (I'll let Dave explain why when we get there), Kerouac taut and comedic, and so on.
The set opened with "Final Notations," a brisk, uptempo setting of a poem by Adrienne Rich. The rhythm section of pianist Andy Bey, bassist James Genus and drummer Clarence Penn punched out a deep, driving pocket over which the frontline of Douglas, saxophonist Myron Walden and trombonist Roswell Rudd blew a funky melody. As Bey began to pour forth that inimitable melted chocolate voice, Douglas gently carressed his lines with soft commentary, then offered a brash, demonstrative solo. Walden did the same for the second verse. Bey wailed a bridge, then Rudd blew the first of several rude, plunger muted solos, filling the room with his sound as well as his sheer exuberance. (Small wonder: When's the last time the boneman played this particular shrine?) The rhythm section doubled time, then dissolved into free discourse, with Bey proving a surprisingly impressive and impressionistic soloist in a purely instrumental context. As the rhythm section suddenly reasserted the beat for the final stretch, Bey chanted, "It will become your will" over and over, as if it were a mantra.
"The Progress," Douglas's setting of Gwendolyn Brooks, was a lightly swinging triple-time ballad vaguely reminiscent of Arthur Blythe's "Faceless Woman," with something of that song's keening quality. Douglas drew piquant harmonies from a frontline of trumpet, bass clarinet and trombone, though Walden's sound on the bigger horn was thinner and grainier than most. Dave's blazing solo again marked the high point of the performance.
The third tune, "Still Breathing Sea Slugs," was probably the oddest offering of the evening; the verse came from 17th century Japanese poet Basho. ("We'll play this one for Matsui," Douglas quipped.) The tune was a bumptuous miniature with a rhythmic line that changed direction on a dime; solos were terse and economical. Strangest of all was the friction created between the line and its delivery; not even Bey's gorgeous tone could make the words "sea slugs" sound comfortable in a lyrical setting.
Jack Kerouac's "Arms Folded to the Moon Among the Cows," on the other hand, was perfect for Douglas's idiom. One of the poet's so-called "Western haikus," its quirkiness and brevity inspired solos of like spirit. The faux urbane setting had something of the quality of Steve Beresford's straightfaced kitsch. Rudd uncorked another roof-raising solo, then Bey soloed with a Monkish sense of space and angularity, unflappable as Genus and Penn fractured time behind him.
Next came the Stanley Kunitz-inspired song, "The Tides," which had actually been premiered at the Guggenheim Museum on an all-Kunitz program Sunday and repeated on Monday. Douglas said that he'd thought Kunitz would prove a no-brainer, since the poet had written so effectively about music. But when Douglas read the music-related poems, he felt that they were "so special and so complete" that there was nothing he could add. Instead, he decided to set a portion of the poet's introduction to an anthology of his work; submitted to him for approval, Kunitz was reportedly delighted by the idea. The horns vacated the bandstand, leaving Bey to deliver the free-verse ballad in a trio setting. The music moved deliberately over a stealthy chord progression, evaporating into freedom when the lyrics turned to matters concerning God and eternity (which, I suppose, might have been the one exception to the text-painting comment I made at the onset).
Giving Bey's vocal chords a break, the band played a rollicking version of Herbie Nichols's "House Party Starting," most likely a testament to Rudd's presence on the bandstand. The trombonist was at his most gut-busting and ribald here, mugging eagerly for the enthusiastic crowd. Walden followed with narcotic slurs and sways, rising to an edgy buzz. Only Bey seemed less than comfortable, apparently reading an unfamiliar chart. His performance, one would think, could only improve as the week went on.
Douglas called a final tune, only to have Bey admit that he hadn't brought that chart to the stand. The trumpeter volunteered to fetch it from the kitchen, and set Genus off on an unaccompanied solo to pass the time. Moments later, Douglas returned, motioning Penn to kick off a simmering funk beat that alternated between 6 and 7 (or perhaps 4 + 2 + 4 + 3). The tune was "Something There," featuring a typically vague, epigrammatic text by Samuel Beckett, who's probably never rocked harder. The riffs were terse and abbrieviated, like Beckett's lines themselves. The hornmen blew similarly quick solos; Douglas traded flares with Walden, then Penn exploded into a burst of flying meters and stuttering beats, while never for a moment misplacing the pocket. At the tune's climax, Bey finally allowed himself to scat and wail wholeheartedly, riding his range from deep baritone to falsetto with no break, just endless swoops of glorious vocalism.
--
After the set, Douglas confirmed that he'd like to record these songs, and plans to compose more to go along with them. (However, his next RCA release, due early next year, is by the quintet that recorded The Infinite, with special guest Bill Frisell.) He also took a moment to good-naturedly admonish a writer who asked if this had been the debut of his newest band. "No! It's just some music," Douglas said. "I hate that... I'm always the guy with all the bands."
Reminded that he did, in fact, have a rather high number of working ensembles, Douglas revealed that the weeklong 40th birthday celebration earlier this year at the Jazz Standard had in fact marked the end of many of those bands; we're unlikely to ever hear the Tiny Bell Trio again, for instance -- at least, not until 2013, when Douglas hits 50.
As my girlfriend and I left the club, we were treated to a genuinely touching scene: Lorraine Gordon, the fierce ruler of the Vanguard, visibly and genuinely moved by the presence of Roswell Rudd in her club. May it not be the last time.
(Remaining performances of Dave Douglas's "Word" are tonight, tomorrow night and Sunday night.)
Before I go any further, I should confess to unfamiliarity with half of the writers and all of the texts that Douglas included in his "Word" project. That means I can't really address the lyrics themselves to any deep degree. What I can say, though, is that as a general rule, Douglas avoided facile text painting, the idea of creating music that tries to literally depict what the words say. Instead, the lyrics directed the mood of each piece -- Kunitz discursive and freely rambling (I'll let Dave explain why when we get there), Kerouac taut and comedic, and so on.
The set opened with "Final Notations," a brisk, uptempo setting of a poem by Adrienne Rich. The rhythm section of pianist Andy Bey, bassist James Genus and drummer Clarence Penn punched out a deep, driving pocket over which the frontline of Douglas, saxophonist Myron Walden and trombonist Roswell Rudd blew a funky melody. As Bey began to pour forth that inimitable melted chocolate voice, Douglas gently carressed his lines with soft commentary, then offered a brash, demonstrative solo. Walden did the same for the second verse. Bey wailed a bridge, then Rudd blew the first of several rude, plunger muted solos, filling the room with his sound as well as his sheer exuberance. (Small wonder: When's the last time the boneman played this particular shrine?) The rhythm section doubled time, then dissolved into free discourse, with Bey proving a surprisingly impressive and impressionistic soloist in a purely instrumental context. As the rhythm section suddenly reasserted the beat for the final stretch, Bey chanted, "It will become your will" over and over, as if it were a mantra.
"The Progress," Douglas's setting of Gwendolyn Brooks, was a lightly swinging triple-time ballad vaguely reminiscent of Arthur Blythe's "Faceless Woman," with something of that song's keening quality. Douglas drew piquant harmonies from a frontline of trumpet, bass clarinet and trombone, though Walden's sound on the bigger horn was thinner and grainier than most. Dave's blazing solo again marked the high point of the performance.
The third tune, "Still Breathing Sea Slugs," was probably the oddest offering of the evening; the verse came from 17th century Japanese poet Basho. ("We'll play this one for Matsui," Douglas quipped.) The tune was a bumptuous miniature with a rhythmic line that changed direction on a dime; solos were terse and economical. Strangest of all was the friction created between the line and its delivery; not even Bey's gorgeous tone could make the words "sea slugs" sound comfortable in a lyrical setting.
Jack Kerouac's "Arms Folded to the Moon Among the Cows," on the other hand, was perfect for Douglas's idiom. One of the poet's so-called "Western haikus," its quirkiness and brevity inspired solos of like spirit. The faux urbane setting had something of the quality of Steve Beresford's straightfaced kitsch. Rudd uncorked another roof-raising solo, then Bey soloed with a Monkish sense of space and angularity, unflappable as Genus and Penn fractured time behind him.
Next came the Stanley Kunitz-inspired song, "The Tides," which had actually been premiered at the Guggenheim Museum on an all-Kunitz program Sunday and repeated on Monday. Douglas said that he'd thought Kunitz would prove a no-brainer, since the poet had written so effectively about music. But when Douglas read the music-related poems, he felt that they were "so special and so complete" that there was nothing he could add. Instead, he decided to set a portion of the poet's introduction to an anthology of his work; submitted to him for approval, Kunitz was reportedly delighted by the idea. The horns vacated the bandstand, leaving Bey to deliver the free-verse ballad in a trio setting. The music moved deliberately over a stealthy chord progression, evaporating into freedom when the lyrics turned to matters concerning God and eternity (which, I suppose, might have been the one exception to the text-painting comment I made at the onset).
Giving Bey's vocal chords a break, the band played a rollicking version of Herbie Nichols's "House Party Starting," most likely a testament to Rudd's presence on the bandstand. The trombonist was at his most gut-busting and ribald here, mugging eagerly for the enthusiastic crowd. Walden followed with narcotic slurs and sways, rising to an edgy buzz. Only Bey seemed less than comfortable, apparently reading an unfamiliar chart. His performance, one would think, could only improve as the week went on.
Douglas called a final tune, only to have Bey admit that he hadn't brought that chart to the stand. The trumpeter volunteered to fetch it from the kitchen, and set Genus off on an unaccompanied solo to pass the time. Moments later, Douglas returned, motioning Penn to kick off a simmering funk beat that alternated between 6 and 7 (or perhaps 4 + 2 + 4 + 3). The tune was "Something There," featuring a typically vague, epigrammatic text by Samuel Beckett, who's probably never rocked harder. The riffs were terse and abbrieviated, like Beckett's lines themselves. The hornmen blew similarly quick solos; Douglas traded flares with Walden, then Penn exploded into a burst of flying meters and stuttering beats, while never for a moment misplacing the pocket. At the tune's climax, Bey finally allowed himself to scat and wail wholeheartedly, riding his range from deep baritone to falsetto with no break, just endless swoops of glorious vocalism.
--
After the set, Douglas confirmed that he'd like to record these songs, and plans to compose more to go along with them. (However, his next RCA release, due early next year, is by the quintet that recorded The Infinite, with special guest Bill Frisell.) He also took a moment to good-naturedly admonish a writer who asked if this had been the debut of his newest band. "No! It's just some music," Douglas said. "I hate that... I'm always the guy with all the bands."
Reminded that he did, in fact, have a rather high number of working ensembles, Douglas revealed that the weeklong 40th birthday celebration earlier this year at the Jazz Standard had in fact marked the end of many of those bands; we're unlikely to ever hear the Tiny Bell Trio again, for instance -- at least, not until 2013, when Douglas hits 50.
As my girlfriend and I left the club, we were treated to a genuinely touching scene: Lorraine Gordon, the fierce ruler of the Vanguard, visibly and genuinely moved by the presence of Roswell Rudd in her club. May it not be the last time.
(Remaining performances of Dave Douglas's "Word" are tonight, tomorrow night and Sunday night.)