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.
