it’s getting mountainy here

That there’s no sign of life does not have to mean that there’s no life at all. Just the opposite. Life may be exuberant in seemingly lifeless circumstances. Take mountains for example: rocks, scant vegetation, secluded places, dead silence. But boy, there’s a lot to life in it, I can tell you. Just came back form the Tatras, and it was life, life, life, all the way, no doubt about that. I strongly recommend.
I bet it’s the same with this blog. People don’t write but that doesn’t mean that nothing’s happening in their lives. It’s summer, after all. Their experiences must have been at least as full of life as mine.

Blow, then plant a bomb

Warning: this is a personal episode, and a sentimental one at that. I vividly remember those moments in the mid-90s when the late Trevor Manwearing (then in charge of jazz and avant rock at London’s Harmonia Mundi) would introduce me to all sorts of weird sounds from all over the globe, musics that have been resonating until now. In one stack there was a disc that immediately became a milestone in my musical journeys – the very first of Masada Quartet, released on an obscure Japanese label, with nine more installments to follow. A revelation it was. Then I embarked on an on-and-off affair with Zorn.
Some of the most haunting melodies from Masada songbook inevitably resurfaced at last Friday’s concert. They have naturally become heavier and denser in their electric form. Take Idalah-abal, for example, which illustrates perfectly that even subject to radical reworking Masada is an adaptable living project whose longevity is well secured. The original jazz conversation on Alef between saxophone and trumpet, beautifully rendered and poignant, had that East European feel, elsewhere so recognisable in Komeda’s work. Later, Bar Kokhba version revealed its atmospheric, mourning undertones, while its Circle Maker incarnation happily married Jewish folklore with Spanish zest. And now, driven by two drummers, Idalah-abal’s guitar brings a maelstrom in which Zorn’s squalling, spasmodic saxophone nearly drawns. Where does this music belong, in its present shape, played in Warsaw 2009? I truly don’t know, but feel reluctant to shun it. It’s still the same thrilling music spawned by the same maverick that once took my breath away.

listen

Dress down, blow, then plant a bomb

Summer parties and true music making have one thing in common – they are both about blowing off steam. If these two happen to come together, the effect could be incendiary. Yet, speaking of steam, it is the type of steam engine that determiners its volume, power and quality. In this respect, last Friday’s Zorn Fest (feast!) in Warsaw was quite a different event from the simultaneously happening and much hyped Collective Farting in the Open, down at the seaside.
Those in the know expected a lot, but even they couldn’t have hoped for more – tons of genuine, pure, uplifting musical steam, vented so effortlessly, with a smile throughout, on the audience spanning three generations of adventurous listeners, by three generations of adventurous players. What a line-up! It’s silly to judge by appearances. but I couldn’t help thinking, ‘How plain-looking these guys are!’ Four hours later I replaced plain-looking with modest, in the deepest of its meaning, ‘How humble!’ Meanwhile, here’s colonel Zorn himself (alto saxophone), in combat slacks, at 55, could be just regaining his mental equilibrium after a fiasco Afghan operation. Here’s Anthony Braxton (alto saxophone), Zorn’s former, now long retired, maths teacher. Next comes Anthony’s neighbour Milford Graves (drums), a subway ticket inspector. Devilishly moustached Bill Laswell (bass quitar), isnt’t he that notorious crack dealer?, completes the Quartet.
All but Zorn leave for the Dreamers set. Bespectacled Marc Ribot (guitar), sits obediently in front of colonel Zorn like a disillusioned English teacher. Joey Baron (drums), a bold, grinning kid that never grows up is up for some mischief. Kenny Wollesen (vibraphone), a swot, has just left his room in Harvard. Trevor Dunn (bass guitar) a bit of a wimp, feels more secure keeping away from the colonel. And Jamie Saft (piano, organ), a grandson of a Chasid from Tykocin, sporting, like his grandad, an impressive beard. Or is he a ZZ Top devotee? Then comes Cyro Baptista (percussion), an intimidating Brazilian ice-cream man, doing his best to lure the crowd on the beach.
They all get reshuffled for Electric Masada, when Ikue Mori (laptop electronics), a quiet Japanese nurse joins the all-male pack in case some bloodshed.
(more on music soon)